lenin the head banger

Kremlin papers reveal Lenin the head banger

Lenin, one the most powerful leaders of the last century, was a problem child who slammed his head on the ground to demand attention, claims a new biography.
    Details of Lenin’s troubled early life were discovered in the handwritten memoirs of his elder sister Anna, which had been censored after his death and stored in sealed vaults under the Kremlin.
    The disclosures will further unravel the official account promoted by the communist government, which portrayed him as a saintly purist, far removed from the weaknesses and foibles of ordinary men.
    The memoirs reveal that the young Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, later known as Lenin, had short, weak legs and a large head that made him top heavy and caused him to fall over. He was unable to walk until he was three. When he fell over he would bang his head on the ground in frustration. “The wooden structure of the house made it into an echo chamber and the floors and walls resounded as the little fellow went on crashing his head on the carpet — or even the floorboards,” wrote Anna, who was six years older.
    Lenin’s parents were deeply concerned that he would end up mentally retarded. As well as his headbanging habit, Lenin had boisterous and destructive tendencies which upset his cultured family. “It was such obsessive behaviour that the family were very worried,” said Robert Service, author of the biography which will be published later this month.
    “He was very noisy and extremely disruptive as a child.”
    At three, he stamped all over his brother’s collection of theatre posters. His parents gave him a papier-mâché horse for his birthday but he twisted its legs off one by one. After Lenin’s death in 1924, anything that might have been perceived as even mildly critical was censored. As the Communist party developed the cult of Lenin, personal details vanished. His sister abandoned the drafts of her memoirs, which contained frank details of his personal life that she knew would not pass the censor. They remained locked in the Kremlin until discovered by Service after the fall of the communist state in 1991.
    “What has been brought out is how spoilt the little brat was by all the women around him,” said Dominic Lieven, professor of Russian history at the London School of Economics. “This family correspondence gives you an awful lot of little insights into the hatreds which boiled up inside him, as well as the strength of his personality.”
    Service has played an important role in uncovering the Kremlin’s secrets since he was granted access to its archives. Three years ago he revealed that Lenin kept his mistress in the Kremlin alongside his rejected wife.

— Tom Robbins, The Sunday Times (UK), 12 March 2000

great domains are still out there

Registrant:
larvatus prodeo

7576 Willow Glen Road
Los Angeles, California 90046
United States

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Domain Name: ABORTIONISTA.COM
Created on: 21-Aug-11
Expires on: 21-Aug-12
Last Updated on: 21-Aug-11

Administrative Contact:
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larvatus prodeo
7576 Willow Glen Road
Los Angeles, California 90046
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(323) 363-1860

Technical Contact:
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larvatus prodeo
7576 Willow Glen Road
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de l’économie dans l’amour et dans la haine

Nos femmes prennent tout notre argent pour rester avec nous, tandis que nos putes en prennent un peu pour nous quitter. Lesquelles font donc la meilleure affaire?


Frans de Geetere, Une prostituée et son client, les années 1930s

Nous répétons après Samuel Johnson, qu’un second mariage est le triomphe de l’espoir sur l’expérience. Mais même si on ne peut pas se plonger deux fois de suite dans la même rivière, aucune force de la nature ne lui interdit pas de pisser à chaque fois dans le même égout. De même la facilité de faire renaître une vieille haine contraste avec la difficulté de renouveler une vieille amitié. À cet égard, nos amours sont plus proches des égouts que des rivières.


Basile Poukireff, L’Union mal assortie, 1862

mais où sont les viandes d’antan?

—for Michael Wong

A college student was walking past a butcher’s shop. His appetite whetted by the display of thick and juicy, well marbled prime steaks in its window, the hungry scholar entered the shop and inquired about their price. “Ten dollars a pound”, said the elderly butcher. The youth assessed his finances, which barely sufficed to purchase hamburger at one tenth the price, and beat a hasty retreat.

Over the next thirty years, his appetite for fresh meat never abated. He studied and worked hard and traveled far and wide to rise in the world, all so that he could afford to consume the finest viands. And so, upon belatedly returning to his college town on a business trip, he drifted towards the old butcher shop next to the campus. To his surprise, the quaint boutique was no more, supplanted by a high-rise that housed a fashionable supermarket. He approached the meat counter and asked for a thick slab of prime steak. “Sorry”, said the pierced and tattooed metrosexual meat expert, “we only carry organic, grass-fed Angus beef.”

The businessman surveyed dainty pink slices artfully arrayed in the brightly lit cooler. They were nothing like the corn-fed prime cuts glowing in his mind’s eye. He looked around and saw himself surrounded by trim and chatty whippersnappers lining up for healthful foodstuffs under the guidance of their appropriately gendered and similarly aged companions. He recalled his trophy girlfriend barely half his age, delicately nibbling on exotic delicacies that suited her size zero figure. He pondered the time he spent at the gym to stay ahead of her contemporaries nibbling at his heels. And he realized that under the laws of supply and demand, the likes of the prime meat of his youth had long since been shat out into the sewer.

odi et amo

λέγει που Ἡράκλειτος ὅτιπάντα χωρεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει,” καὶ ποταμοῦ ῥοῇἀπεικάζων τὰ ὄντα λέγει ὡςδὶς ἐς τὸν αὐτὸν ποταμὸν οὐκ ἂν ἐμβαίης.”

Though you cannot step twice in the same river, no force of nature debars you from pissing in the same sewer time after time.
Likewise the ease of rekindling an old hatred contrasts with the difficulty of renewing an old friendship.
In this regard, love affairs are more akin to sewers than rivers.

der stand der dinge

28 October 2010, 19:44 p.m. around 4759-4799 Prospect Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90027, heading east in a red 2005 Cadillac CTS-V, about to turn left on N. Vermont Ave following an LA Metro 180/181 bus, followed by a Toyota sedan. All windows in my car are down, Nick Cave’s “John Finn’s Wife” blaring out. A stocky tattooed skinhead runs up to the driver’s door and reaches inside:
—Let me in, let me in, they’re going to shoot me!
—What do you think I’m going to do with this?
(This is my SIG P49 with its hammer cocked and safety off, held across my chest aimed at his sternum.)
—Let me in, let me in!
I thrust the gun into the window:
—Don’t repeat yourself. Fight or run.
The spaz staggers back and slows down long enough for me to follow the Metro bus up Vermont.

Lesson taught: An unarmed carjacker in Hollywood goes home empty-handed.
Lesson learned: Pack a big gun. I’d rather drive away than shoot an unarmed man. To that end, I wouldn’t have wanted to back up my commands with anything smaller than a service pistol.

the next round


The last time my father stood next to me, he was ringing your doorbell and telling you that we loved you. The next day you scraped our child out of your womb.

Leonardo da Vinci, Feto umano nell’utero, 1511

That was nearly five years ago. Now you complain that I am harming you. You have failed at forcing the issue. You are begging me to desist. But I am not doing anything wrong. Nor am I harming you. If you want me to do your bidding, you must understand my reasons and convince me of your understanding. If you can feel remorse, we may benefit from conversation. If you stand on your rights, we have nothing to discuss.
    You offer my survival in some good memories. You offer kindness and a possible friendship. But how you remember me is your business. Your kindness last screeched at me amid 57th Street. Neither of us is good at friendship. I am sorry to hear about your father’s recent death. I offer you my condolences and appreciation of your effort to be responsible. But your responsibility is impossible without remorse. You will be responsible for people who love you; you are sorry if you have hurt me; you are deeply sorry for the baby; but you obsess about your reputation. You will say anything to forget our catastrophe. Is that what you call making peace with the past? You seem to be susceptible to shame. Think of it as your medicine meant to elicit remorse in regard to our common history.
    There are two innocent victims in our story. Neither of us is one. But my guilt is not an issue in what you want from me. Refusal is my right. You have two ways of getting past it: either persuade me that satisfying you is the right thing to do or offer me something I want in return. You want to move on. You claim that my account deters you from doing so. It does nothing of the sort. I am nowise deterred by Usenet libel claiming that I fucked a dog. You are displeased with my versiculi. But pleasure is not your right. And I am nowise obliged to concern myself with whatever pleases you.
    You need to be jarred from complacency. You have cancer of the soul. Your anguish is its symptom. I live with your disparagement. You could likewise live with my diagnosis. Your discomfort stems from recognizing its truth. You suffer from a spiritual malignancy. Seek to cure the disease, not to palliate the symptom.
    I mean to be therapeutic for both of us. I could be wrong. But you haven’t begun to persuade me of my error. As to your offers, I doubt that you have anything I want. But it doesn’t hurt to try. This is not an issue of sexual deviance. Your love of pain was entertaining. Its frustration of your own aims did not stand between us. Nor am I concerned with your failure to live up to your role models of Sex in the City, that bevy of time-worn bags traipsing around Manhattan in search of a steady regimen of penetration. You relate to women even more tenuously than you do to men. You could have friends through interest in people for their own sake, or through interests shared with other people. Neither of us is good at caring for people. But you also lack concerns that might ally you with others. You fail at concentration. Your attractions are notional. You imagine yourself in life and work without realizing any role. You have dabbled in marriage and yearned after motherhood, just as you have dabbled in design and yearned after commerce. You avoid sustained effort. You must work for a living, and you are content with the minimum of work that will keep you alive. Millions of others live like that. Unlike them, you refuse to make peace with mediocrity. You admire the drive towards betterment but fail to keep up on its path. Things get too complicated. Progress is too much to bear. It’s fun to whine about aimlessness and regret childlessness. It’s a drag to create a business or stay the course to become a mother.

Johanna Schwarzbeck, AFTER ABORTION, 1993

You might look up Johanna. She is your kindred soul, supplementing sex in the city with syringes. Even closer to your home comes a movie about a Chinese woman who seeks to reverse the effects of aging by consuming her own foetus. The only side effect of her success is a fishy body odor. George Orwell observed that “in the West we are divided from our fellows by our sense of smell”. As an exile from ideology, I prefer to divide myself from the advocates of class struggle and gender privilege. Tyranny stinks. I accept the attribution of foetal cannibalism to domination by the Chinese Communist regime. The party rules you to this day. In your doctrinary moods, you always had issues with my material comforts. But the roots of your resentment may be more ancient. Think of Euripides’ Medea, the tale of a woman who kills her own children in order to punish their father Jason for trying to start a new family. Medea addresses grieving Jason at verse 1396, which David Kovacs translates as: “Your mourning has yet to begin. Wait until old age.” The Greek original is twice as concise:

Μήδεια: οὔπω θρηνεῖς: μένε καὶ γῆρας.
Medea: [not yet adv] [sing a dirge, wail verb 2nd sg pres ind act]: [await, expect verb 2nd sg pres imperat act] [and conj] [old age noun sg neut acc]

You may have fancied yourself unwittingly, Medea to my Jason. Perhaps you deserve to address me as ψευδόρκου καὶ ξειναπάτου, breaker of [my] own oath and deceiver of a stranger. For my part, I broke nothing and deceived no one. Perhaps you fear running out of chances upon reaching your fifth decade. For my part, every day brings new beginnings. Your dirge is unripe. Oupô thrêneis: mene kai gêras.
    Perhaps Latin will suit you better than Greek. In his speech for Aulus Cluentius in 66 B.C., Cicero recalls a certain Milesian woman convicted of a capital crime for an abortion that she brought on by medicines, having been bribed to do so by those who stood to inherit the father’s estate in the absence of his unborn child. And rightly so, says he, inasmuch as she had abolished the hope of the father, the memory of his name, the supply of his race, the heir of his family, a prospective citizen of the republic. But as the great orator wrote to Atticus seventeen years later, in the midst of a civil war that doomed his republican cause, ut aegroto, dum anima est, spes esse dicitur. It is said that for a sick man, there is hope as long as there is life. Set aside the rest of the story, from Pompey’s flight from Italy to the ensuing display of Cicero’s hands and head on the Rostra in the Forum. You may yet redeem your errors. If you could save three lives, you would restore the balance. Let me know how it goes. If you can take my help, I will give it.

amours de voyage

     cum suis vivat valeatque moechis,
quos simul complexa tenet trecentos,
nullum amans vere, sed identidem omnium
ilia rumpens;

nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem,
qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati
ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam
tactus aratro est.

     Memoria teneo Milesiam quandam mulierem, cum essem in Asia, quod ab heredibus secundis accepta pecunia partum sibi ipsa medicamentis abegisset, rei capitalis esse damnatam; nec iniuria quae spem parentis, memoriam nominis, subsidium generis, heredem familiae, designatum rei publicae civem sustulisset.
I recall that, when I was in Asia, a certain Milesian woman was convicted of a capital crime, because she had brought on abortion by medicines, having been bribed to do so by the heirs next in line; and rightly so, inasmuch as she had abolished the hope of the father, the memory of his name, the supply of his race, the heir of his family, a prospective citizen of the republic.

 — for Rachel Yumei Wang    



City bustle. Fading light.
You’ll have company tonight.
At your service, all your men.
They will make you whole again.

Rig your hopes and tell you lies.
Bust a nut between your thighs. 
Fart and snore and pay no heed
While dreams dwindle and recede.

Others not so long ago
Lit you up and made you glow,
Nights fulfilled you, but the dawn
Found you wan and woebegone.

Lest your gloom ensued in spawn
Its conclusion got withdrawn:
Scrape the foetus from within,
Glom more solace for your skin.

City bustle. Fading light.
You will sleep alone tonight.
One good woman, no good men.
Love can’t make you whole again.

Amours de voyage I have allowed myself to call them, as distinguished from the love we may have for localities wherein our everyday lot is cast.”

— Vernon Lee, Genius Loci, 1898

selected mementoes of true love responding to hard-earned cash

    A recent Wikipedia controversy concerns claims of Blixa Bargeld, the leader of pop music ensemble Einstürzende Neubauten, having married Erin Zhu for money that she earned under her father and ex-boyfriend Min Zhu, thoroughly degraded in the wake of his recent banishment as an executive and director of WebEx, an Internet conferencing company that he had co-founded. The attached emails shed light on these events.
    At the time these emails were written, Erin Zhu described Michael Zeleny to all and sundry as her best friend, encouraged him to read her amorous correspondence, and sought out his advice in connection with wooing her illustrious beloved. Copies of these emails remain on file as public record. They can be found in the Santa Clara Superior Court case files of Zeleny v. Zhu & WebEx, Zelyony v. Zhu, and Affeld v. Zhu, all settled by the defendants in 2004. Erin Zhu has authenticated them under oath in her depositions taken in these cases.


Erin Zhu and Blixa Bargeld

    Erin’s narratives lend themselves to fascinating sound bites that shed light on the juncture between victimology and starfucking:

I was not born and raised a nice girl — after all I am my father’s daughter, and I inherited so much from him, his murderous rage, his overwhelming ambitions, his sarcastic contempt, his sadistic streak.
I will not be a monster like my father; I am determined and sure of that much.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 25 Nov 99 20:14:42 PST

She then explains the monstrosity:

the summer when I was fourteen, my father suddenly changed his tune when my mother left for an extended visit to China. he took off my clothes, praised my naked form held up to a bathroom mirror, and devoured my body with his lust.
I wanted to die; I tried to kill. I did not succeed in either.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 27 Dec 99 13:40:45 PST

Shortly after presenting her childhood rape claims against Min Zhu Erin accepts her parents’ offer of fraudulent settlement. The next day she informs her beloved:

I have always identified myself with creative, bohemian, fringe elements of society, yet I was driving to a local office of a major investment bank the other day to meet a vice president from their “private wealth management” division.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 21 Mar 00 04:14:11 PST

The next week, Erin signs the settlement papers. The same day she tells Blixa Bargeld how she made her fortune:

What happened? I sold the technology for the main business I was working on to a Hollywood-backed Internet entertainment site that is going public in a couple of months. As with all such deals, since what I actually get is primarily in their stock, the final price is highly variable and still unknown at this time, I won’t have much cash probably until the end of the year, and it’s unlikely that what I built will actually see the light of day since they bought me out to eliminate competition. But even so, even after paying off the legal teams and the investors and the huge amount that goes to taxes, assuming the stock market and economy does not completely crash this year, I will have enough left to never have to work for money again.
— Erin Zhu to Blixa Bargeld, 30 Mar 00 20:17:31 PST

And she never did. Erin Zhu married Blixa Bargeld soon after her financial disclosures. As described in the referenced lawsuits, the newlyweds celebrated their nuptials by maxing out the credit card that Isaak Zelyony had loaned to Erin to tide her over while she was waiting for her blood money from Min Zhu. Since then, Einstürzende Neubauten has credited her as their executive producer and webmaster.
    The Mounties always get their man.

Received: from 204.68.24.39 by www0j for [209.79.189.211] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Mon Dec 27 21:40:45 GMT 1999
Date: 27 Dec 99 13:40:45 PST
From: Eryn Zhu
To: Blixa Bargeld
Subject: loneliness
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kills the soul, they say.

what can they know of it, I wonder, they who have never lived
in my skin, listened to my thoughts, dreamed in my mind? yet
they are able to write about loneliness with such conviction,
such empathy, that even from the distance of the printed page
I am touched by the spirit of their words, and find my own
loneliness eased by the distant sharing.

such are the powers of the word, the thought rendered concrete,
so that even without its original human context, displaced by
the passage of time, flattened into the rigid form of text,
ghosts of strangers from bygone eras can whisper in my ear and
remind me more acutely of my ties to the rest of humanity than
all the flesh and blood people I live amongst.

once upon a time when I still lived in China, I wanted to be a
writer; the cultural and linguistic uprooting and the demands
of practicality managed to put an end to that soon after.
perhaps I will want to be a writer again. perhaps I will try
to write. I have always been more comfortable in the realm of
pure thoughts and words than anything material; the result of
many years of living in my head and feeling detached from my
body, I suppose.

in my occasional forays into philosophy I’d always been
fascinated by the eternal questions around the mind and truth:
the mind body duality, the question of other minds, the
paradox of the liar, etc. I have never felt a great deal of
necessary connection between my mind and my body; never mind
the question of which body part(s) the essential “I” may or
may not live in, it seems a purely accidental fact that I
even come bundled with this physical shape. yet I suspect
that I would cease to exist if this body died… the other
questions are somewhat easier to resolve: I can escape
solipsism because I have met enough people out there who do
not think in a way that I understand at all; I can deal with
the liar paradox by turning to the meta-theories of mathematics.

I have never been particularly comfortable with my body.
since I was a child my parents told me that I was plain,
that my face deviated in too many ways from the Chinese
standards of beauty. when I reached puberty I was told that
I’d have to rely on my brains to make my way in the world,
since I’d never get anywhere based on my looks. so I wore
my brother’s castoff clothes, sympathized with the ugly
stepsisters, and never dreamed of handsome princes on white
horses.

the summer when I was fourteen, my father suddenly changed
his tune when my mother left for an extended visit to China.
he took off my clothes, praised my naked form held up to a
bathroom mirror, and devoured my body with his lust.
I wanted to die; I tried to kill. I did not succeed in either.
instead I learned to disassociate my mind, to build walls in
my head so that I do not feel.

I live with the residuals to this day: a lingering discomfort
with my body; the need to retain control, and an inability to
stop thinking, even in the most intimate situations; a body
that cannot feel pleasure with anybody I did not completely
trust. The latter has been remarkably effective in protecting
my virtue: the few attempts I’d made at casual sex ended as
spectacular failures.

maybe this helps explain why I did not expect to sleep with
you in New York; and why I said that I did not, generally
speaking, trust men. trust makes me vulnerable, a condition
I react badly to because I have been scarred before. until
you touched me, I did not think that I would trust you: my
body is a drawbridge to my soul and I am not in the habit of
granting entry to strangers.

I don’t quite know why an exception was made for you; that’s
one reason why I keep writing, I suppose, and why I want to
know you better.

I don’t know how meaningful it is to you, that you are one of
only a few people in the world that I trust, and none of them
my own family.

I hope you will not give me cause for regret.

perhaps I’ve said too much already?

Erin

____________________________________________________________________
Get your own FREE, personal Netscape WebMail account today at http://webmail.netscape.com.

Received: from 204.68.24.51 by www0v for [209.79.189.211] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Fri Nov 26 04:14:42 GMT 1999
Date: 25 Nov 99 20:14:42 PST
From: Eryn Zhu
To: Blixa Bargeld
Subject: memories
X-Mailer: USANET web-mailer (M3.3.1.96)
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Crossing the busy streets of Hong Kong the other day, my mother
held on to my hand, a gesture that reversed roles we’d played
so long ago. She trusts me, her estranged and prodigal daughter,
to guide her safely around the reckless vehicles, I think to
myself, and am strangely touched by the thought. I had never
been particularly close to my mother; growing up she had always
openly favored my brother, and had little patience or affection
for me. It was only after I’d left home and became a grown
woman that she started making overtures of friendship. To think
that we had to come half a world away to renew the tenuous ties
of blood between us…

It surprises me still, how much I want her to at least accept me
and approve of what I do, even after all these years when I told
myself that I did not care.

She and I sat in the dark watching the glittering Hong Kong
skyline, and spoke of our disparate rememberances of the past.
Left unspoken between us was the fact that neither of us could
think of any happy memories of my childhood. She told stories
of me as a baby; I told her small pieces of triumph from my
more recent past; the long years that stretched between age three
through sixteen went untouched, bypassed with a shake of the
head and mutterings of “there were historical reasons”…

Eventually she wanted to know if I was going to find myself a
nice boy, preferably Asian of course. I did not have the words
to tell her what I thought: I lived with a nice boy, mama;
when I found myself more lonely in his arms than without I told
him to leave… He was too nice for me, mama; I could not even
tell him what I really thought for fear of damaging him. I was not
born and raised a nice girl — after all I am my father’s daughter,
and I inherited so much from him, his murderous rage, his
overwhelming ambitions, his sarcastic contempt, his sadistic streak. Sure,
talk to my friends and acquaintances and they will tell you, I
am a nice person, considerate of other people’s feelings, loyal to
my friends, generous with my money and assistance, though somewhat
anti-social and a persistent loner. Little do they know the degree
of control I maintain to lock away the undesirable impulses; it is
after all better for me to turn away and seek refuge in my books and
my work than take it out on real live people.

I will not be a monster like my father; I am determined and sure of
that much. I also cannot, I discovered, live with a man who does not
have a basis for understanding why I wake up with violent nightmares
and the constant restraint I exercise to not hurt him. And I do not
want anyone that reminds me of my father, of course… So I keep to
myself a great deal, and give my mother a vague little response about
how I am in no hurry.

You asked me once why I wrote to you; I’ve met very few people in my
life that can understand the contradictions in my head. That I am
aware of, and am drawn to, many dark areas of the human psyche,
but am sufficiently rational and responsible to be a good person.
That I have faith in basic human decency, even though I did not come
to that by way of innocent naivete or blind religious compliance.
And I thought that perhaps there was a slim chance that you might
understand, that communication might be possible despite the vast
ocean of differences between us. That would be worth far more to me
than any sort of physical intimacy. Does this make any sense?

I think I’ve said enough for now.

yours,
Erin

Received: from 204.68.24.50 by www0u for [207.214.220.88] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Tue Mar 21 12:14:11 GMT 2000
Date: 21 Mar 00 04:14:11 PST
From: Eryn Zhu
To: Blixa Bargeld
Subject: me, myself, and I
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Forgive me for returning to the format of a monologue about
my life and state of mind.

It is 3:30 in the morning, I’ve recently awaken after a couple
of hours of sleep with a vague feeling of dread, and know from
experience that I must keep myself awake until this state passes
or else my slumber would be disturbed by fullbown nightmares.
The curse of memory, of the past clinging to life in the hours
when the unconscious rules supreme.

In my late teens I was forced to re-evaluate almost everything
I thought to be self-evident about myself and my life because
of some choices I had made; but I was a poor student then,
my head filled with dreams of Platonic ideals, and many decisions
were easy.

The past several months, I have felt the need to reconsider the
distance between my present reality, my perception of myself,
and the possibilities for the future. The gap between reality
and perception is perhaps the most troublesome. It exhibits
itself in small things, for example in my conscious appreciation
of sleek wide open modern architectural styles of steel,
concrete, glass, and wood, but at home I find myself most
comfortable when I have a cozy area to curl up with a book. Or
the fact that I have always identified myself with creative,
bohemian, fringe elements of society, yet I was driving to a
local office of a major investment bank the other day to meet
a vice president from their “private wealth management” division.
Or for that matter, me thinking that I might like to settle down
into comfortable couplehood, while in fact turning away several
possibly realistic boys and finding myself attracted to someone
completely unsuitable.

So: I will be taking the occasion of my upcoming birthday to
contemplate an alignment between perception and reality — to
figure out not just who I want to be, but who I should be, and
to impose that over all relevant aspects of my life, in both
action and desires. Whether it’s my Asian need for spiritual
exercise, or an unrequited manifestation of dialectical
materialism, I cannot say.

Perhaps it is only the brightness of the full moon high in the
heavens, which for the Chinese has always been a bringer of
melancholy meditations and homesickness.

regards,
Erin

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Received: from 204.68.24.81 by ww181 for [63.202.80.134] via web-mailer(M3.3.1.96) on Fri Mar 31 04:17:31 GMT 2000
Date: 30 Mar 00 20:17:31 PST
From: Eryn Zhu
To: Blixa Bargeld
Subject: backwards glance
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Dear Blixa,

Thank you for your note.

I’m back at home. Signed the papers, drank a glass of
champagne, sold out successfully.

What happened? I sold the technology for the main business
I was working on to a Hollywood-backed Internet
entertainment site that is going public in a couple of
months. As with all such deals, since what I actually
get is primarily in their stock, the final price is
highly variable and still unknown at this time, I won’t
have much cash probably until the end of the year, and
it’s unlikely that what I built will actually see the
light of day since they bought me out to eliminate
competition. But even so, even after paying off the
legal teams and the investors and the huge amount that
goes to taxes, assuming the stock market and economy does
not completely crash this year, I will have enough left
to never have to work for money again.

It feels very strange to be sitting here on the last day
of my 25th year waiting for that fact to actually sink in.
It is a problem with the modern economy that I don’t even
have anything more concrete than sheets of paper to make
it feel more real.

I am sorry I have been so touchy and on edge recently;
this entire process has been very wearing on my nerves.

And I miss you.

Erin

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