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{ let it be } bio : emily is a 20-year old young lady who lives in one of her favorite cities in the world, los angeles, california. she attends the university of california, los angeles (commonly known as ucla), is now a third year student and now lives in los feliz. major: mass communication studies, minors: human complex systems and music history (ooOOooOoo). she is a freaky little thing, in the best possible way. she enjoys (among many other things), every and all types of music, movies and digital editing, theatre, singing/pretending she's going to start a band, fine arts (especially painting and sculpture), video games (console), mucking about with her computer/digital graphics, acting silly, riding horses, literature, writing, musicals, science fiction, and the color green. she is quite friendly, lovable, and nice when you get to know her (although that is a bit clique), and above all things, em (also known as 'emily') is incredibly ECLECTIC. she is also quite fond of lists of things, so you can be sure she'll find some time to put a bunch of them up here at some point in between all of her other eclectic activities. email : emeliz@ucla.edu aim : w i l d eggplant fan listings :
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1.26.2005
From: The Man Who Fell to Earth (Walter Tevis), one of my favorite books. This is the last chapter. Chapter One Nathan Bryce had first discovered Thomas Jerome Newton through a roll of caps. He rediscovered him through a phonograph record. He found the record as accidentally as he had found the caps, but what it meant - at least in part - was much more immediately evident than the meaning of the caps had been. This happened in October of 1990, in a Walgreen drugstore in Louisville, a few blocks from the apartment where Bryce and Betty Jo lived together. It was seven months after the time of Newton's tiny farewell address on television. Both Bryce and Betty Jo had saved the larger part of their World Enterprises salaries, and it was not really necessary that Bryce work for a living, at least not for a year or two. He had, however, taken a job as consultant to a manufacturer of scientific toys - a job which he felt, with a certain satisfaction, brought his career in chemistry full circle. He was on his way home from work one afternoon when he stopped in the drugstore. His purpose was to buy a pair of shoe-laces, but he paused at the doorway when he saw a large metal basket of phonograph records beneath a sign that read, Closeout 89c. Bryce has always been a bargain-hunter. He thumbed through a few of the record tags, toyed for a moment with one or two, and then encountered an amateurishly turned-out one that, by its title, immediately startled him. Sinc ethe time that phonograph records has become small steel balls, the manufacturer ordinarily packed them in little plastic boxes fastened to a large plastic tag. The tag displayed the arty picture and the usually ridiculous commentary that the old-fashioned quadraphonic albums has carried. But the tag on this one was merely of cardboard, and there was no picture. In an inexpensive attempt at the required artiness, the record's title made use of the trie device of lower case printing throughout. It read: poems from outer space. And, on the reverse side of the card: we guarantee you won't know the language, but you'll wish you did! seven out-of-this-world poems by a man we call 'the visitor'. Without any hesitation at all Bryce took the record to the trial booth, put the ball in its channel, and turned on the switch. The language that came out was weird indeed - sad, liquid, long-vowelled, rising and falling strangely in pitch, completely unintelligible. But the voice, without question, was that of T. J. Newton. He turned the switch off. At the bottom of the record card was printed: recorded by 'the third renaissance', twenty-three sullivan street, new york... The 'third renasissance' was in a loft. Its office staff consisted solely of one person, a dapper young Negro with an enormous moustache. This perosn was, fortunately, in an expansive mood when Bryce dropped into his office, and he readily explained that 'the visitor; of the record was a rich nut named Tom something-or-other who lived someplace-or-other in the Village. This nut, it seemed, had approached the recording outfit himself and has underwritten the cost of making and distributing the record. He might be found at a coffee-and-booze house around the corner, a place called The Key and Chain... The Key and Chain was a relic of the old coffee-houses that had gone out in the seventies. Along with a few others it had managed to survive by installing a bar and selling cheap liquor. There were no bongo drums and no announcements of poetry readings - their era had passed away a long time before - but there were amateurish paintings on the walls, cheap wooden tables placed at random around the room, and what few customers there were studiously dressed like bums. Thoman Jerome Newton was not among them. Bryce ordered himself a whisky and soda at the bar and drank it slowly, resolved to wait for at least several hours. But he had only begun his second drink when Newton came in. At first Bryce did not recognize him. Newton was slightly stooped and he walked more heavily than before. He had on his usual dark glasses, but now he carried a white cane, and he was wearing, of all absurdities, a grey fedora hat. A fat uniformed nuse led him by the arm. She took him to an isolated table in the back of the room, seated him, and left. Newton faced towards the bar and said, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Elbert.' And the bartender said, 'I'll be right with you, dad.' Then the bartender opened a bottle of Gordon's gin, put it on a tray over to Newton's table. Newton produced a bill from his shirt pocket, handed it to him, smiled vaguely, and said, 'Keep the change.' Bryce watched him intently from the bar while he groped for the glass, found it, and poured himself a half tumbler full of gin, and added to this a generous dash of bitters. He used no ice and did not stir the drink but began sipping it immediately. Abruptly Bryce began to wonder, almost in panic, what he was going to say to Newton, now that he'd found him. Could he rush over form teh bar, clutching his whisky-and-soda, and say, 'I've changed me mind in the past year. I want the Antheans to tak eover, after all. I've been reading the newspapers, and not I want the Antheans to take over.' It all seemed so ridiculous not that he was actually with the Anthean again - and Newton seemed, now, like such a pathetic creature. That shocking conversation in Chicago seemed to have taken place in a dream, or on another planet. He stared at the Anthean for what seemed a long time, rememebering the last time he had seen the Project, Newton's ferry boat, beneath the Air Force plane that had carried him, together with Betty Jo and fifty others, from the site in Kentucky. For a moment, thinking about this, he almost forgot where he was. He remembered that fine big absurd ship they had all been building down in Kentucky, remembered the pleasure he had taken in his work on it, the way he had, for a time, been so absorbed in solving those problems of metals and ceramics, of temperature and pressure, that he had felt his life was actually involved in something important, something worth-while. Probably by now parts of the ship were beginning to rust - if the FBI hadn't already sealed the whole thing in thermoplastic and sent it off to be filed in the basement of the Pentagon. But whatever had happened, it certainly would not have been the first means of possible salvation to get the official treatment. Then, in the modd that his line of htining had put him in, he thought what the hell, stood up, walked over to Newton's table, sat down and said, his voice calm and deliberate, 'Hello, Mr. Newton.' Newton's voice seemed qually calm. 'Nathan Bryce?' 'Yes.' 'Well,' Newton finished the drink in his hand. 'I'm glad you came. I thought that maybe you would come.' For some reason the tone of Newton's voice, possibly the casual unconcern in it, rattled Bryce. He found himself suddenly feeling awkward. 'I found your record,' he said, 'The poems.; Newton smiled simly. 'Yes? How did you like them?' 'Not very much.' He had been trying for boldness in saying that, but felt as though he only managed to be pettish. He cleared his throat. 'Why did you make it anyway?' Newton remained smiling. 'It's amazing how many people don't think things out,' he said. 'At least that's what a man with the CIA told me.' He began pouring himself another drink of gin, and Bryce noticed that his hand trembled while he did it. He set the bottle down shakily. 'The record is not of Anthean poems at all. It's something like a letter.' 'A letter to whom?' 'To my wife, Mr. Bryce. And to some of the wise people at my home who trained me for... for this life. I've hoped it might be played on FM radio sometime. You know, only FM goes between planets. But as far as I know it hasn't been played.' 'What does it say?' 'Oh, "Good-bye". "Go to hell." Things of that sort.' Bryce was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. For a moment he wished he had brought Betty Jo with him. Betty Jo would be marvellous for restoring sanity, for making htings understandable, even bearable. But then Betty Jo happened to believe that she was in love the T.J. Newton, and that might even be more awkward than this. He remained silent, not knowing what in the world to say. 'Well, Nathan - I suppose you won't mind if I call you Nathan. How that you've found me, what do you want of me?' He smiled beneath the glasses and the ridiculous hat. His smile seemed as old as the moon; it was hardly a human smile at all. Bryce suddenly felt embarrassed, at the smile, at Newton's grave, tired, terribly weary tone of voice. He poured himself a drink before answering, inadvertently clinking the bottle mouth against the glass. Then he drank, looking hard at Newton, at the flat, unreflecting green of Newton's glasses. He held the clear plastic drinking glass between two hands, elbows on the table, and said, 'I want you to save the world, Mr. Newton.' Newton's smile did not change, and his reply was immediate. 'Is is worth saving, Nathan?' He had not come here to exchange ironies. 'Yes,' he said. 'I think it's worth saving. I want to live out my life, anyway.' Abruptly Newton leaned forward in his chair towards the bar. 'Mr. Elber,' he called, 'Mr Elbert.' The bartender, a small man with a sad, pinched face, looked up from his reveries. 'Yeah, dad?' he said gently. 'Mr. Elber,' Newton said, 'are you aware that I'm not a human being? Do you know that I'm from another planet, Anthea by name, and that I came here on a space ship?' The bartender shrugged. 'I've heard that,' he said. 'Well I am and I did,' Newton said, 'Oh, I did indeed.' He paused, and Bryce stared at him - shocked not by what Newton had said, but by a childish, adolescent, silly quaility in his voice. What had they done to him? Had they only blinded him? Newton called ot the bartender again. 'Mr. Elbert, do you know why I came to this world?' This time the bartender did not even look up. 'No, dad,' he said, 'I haven't heard.' 'Well, I came to save you.' Newton's voice was precise, ironical, but there was a hint of hysteria in it. 'I came to save you all.' Bryce could see the bartender smile a private smile. Then, still behind the bar, he said, 'You'd better get with it, dad. We need saving fast.' Then Newton hung his head, whether in shame, despait or fatigue Bryce could not tell. 'Oh, yes indeed,' he said in what was almost a whisper. 'We need saving fast.' Then he looked up and smiled ay Bryce. 'Do you see Betty Jo?' he asked. That caught him off guard. 'Yes...' 'How is she? How is Betty Jo?' 'She's all right. She misses you.' And then, 'As Mr. Elbert said, "We need saving fast." Can you do it?' 'No. I'm sorry.' 'Isn't there a chance?' 'No. Of course not. The government knows all about me...' 'You told them?' 'I might have; but it wasn't necessary. They seem to have knowns for a long time. I think we were naive.' 'Who? You and I?' 'You. I. My people back home, my wise people...' He called out softly, 'We were naive, Mr. Elbert.' Elbert's reply was as soft. 'That a fact, dad?' He sounded genuinely concerned, as if he really believed, for a moment, what Newton was talking about. 'You came a long way.' 'Oh, I did indeed. And on a small ship. Sail on, sail on, and on... It was a very long trip, Nathan, but I spent much of the time reading.' 'Yes. But I didn'ty mean that. I meant you've come a long way since you've been here. The money, the new ship...' 'Oh I've made a lot of money. I still make a lot. More than ever. I have money in Louiseville and money in New York and five hundred dollars in my pocket and a medicare pension from the government. I'm a citizen now, Nathan. They made me a citizen. And perhaps I could draw unemployment insurance. Oh, World Enterprises is a going concern, without my running it at all, Nathan. World Enterprises.' Bryce, appalled by the strange way that Newton looked and talked, found it difficult to keep his eyes on him, so he looked down at the table instead. 'Can't you finish the ship?' 'Do you think they'd let me?' 'With all your money...' 'Do you think I want to?' Bryce glanced up at him. 'Well, do you?' 'No.' Then, suddenly, Newton's face fell into its older, more composed, more human appearance. 'Or, yes, I suppose I do want to, Nathan. But not enough. Not enough.' 'Then what about your own people? What about your family?' Newton smiled that unearthly smile again. 'I imagine they'll all die. But, then, they'll probably outlive you.' Bryce was surprised at his own words. 'Did they ruin your mind when they ruined your eyes, Mr. Newton?' Newton's expression did not alter. 'You don't known anything at all about my mind, Nathan. That's because you're a human being.' 'You've changed, Mr. Newton.' Newton laughed softly. 'Into what, Nathan? Have I changed into something ew, or back into something old?' Bryce did not know what to say to this, and he kept silent. Newton poured himself a small drink and set it on the table. Then he said, 'This world is doomed as certainly as Sodom, and I can do nothing whatever about it.' He hesitated. 'Yes, a part of my mind is ruined.' Bryce, searching for protest, said, 'The ship...' 'The ship is useless. It had to be finished on time, and now there isn't enough time. Our planets won't be close enough to one another for seven more years. They are already moving apart. And the United States would never let me build it. If I built it they would never let me launch it. And if I did launch it they would arrest the Antheans who returned on it, and probably blind them. And ruin their minds...' Beyce finished his drink. 'You said you had a weapon.' 'Yes, I said that. I was lying. I don't have any weapon.' 'Why should you lie...?' Newton leaned forward, putting his elbows carefully on the table. 'Nathan. Nathan. I was afraid of you then. I am afraid now. I have been afraid of all manner of things every moment I have spent on this planet, on this monstrous, beautiful, terrifying planet with all its strange creatures and its abundant water, and all of its human people. I am afraid now. I will be afraid to die here.' He paused, and then when Bryce still said nothing, began to talk again. 'Nathan, think of living with the monkeys for six years. Or think of living with the insects, of living with the shiny, busy, mindless ants.' Bryce's mind, for several minutes, had been becoming extremely clear. 'I think you're lying, Mr. Newton. We aren't insects to you. Maybe we were at first, but we aren't now.' 'Oh yes, I love you, certainly. Some of you. But you're insects anyway. However, I may be more like you than I am like me.' He smiled his old, wry smile. 'After all, you're my field of research, you humans. I've studied you all my life.' Abruptly the bartender called to them, 'You fellows want clean glasses?' Newton drained his. 'By all means,' he said, 'bring us two clean glasses, Mr. Elbert.' While Mr. Elbert was sopping the table with a large orange rag Newton said, 'Mr. Elbert, I've decided not ot try to save us, after all.; 'That's too bad,' Elbert said. He set the clean glasses on the damp table. 'I'm sorry to hear that.' 'It is a pity, isn't it?' He groped for the newly placed gin bottle, found it, poured. Pouring gin, he said, 'Do you see Betty Jo often, Nathan?' 'Yes. Betty Jo and I live together now.' Newton took a sip from his drink. 'As lovers?' Bryce laughed softly. 'Yes, as lovers, Mr. Newton' Newton's face had become impassive, with the impassivity that Bryce had learned was a mask for his feelings. 'Then life goes on.' 'Well, what in the name of heaver fo you expect?' Bryce said. 'Of course life goes on.' Suddenly Newton began to laugh. Bryce was astonished: he had never heard him laugh before. Then, still trembling with the fag end of laughter, Newton said, 'It's a good thing. She won't be lonely now. Where is she?' 'At home in Louiseville, we her cats. Drunk probably.' Newton's voice was steady again. 'Do you love her?' 'You're trying to be stupid,' Bryce said. He had not liked the laughter. 'She's a good woman. I'm happy with her.' Newton smiled now, gently. 'Don't misunderstand my laughing, Nathan. I think it's a fine thing, the two of you. Are you married?' 'No. I've thought about it.' 'By all means marry her. Marry her and go off on a honeymoon. Do you need money?' 'That's not why I havn't married her. But I could use some money, yes. Do you want to give me some?' Newton laughed again. He seemed greatly pleased. 'By all means, yes. How much do you want?' Bryce took a drink. 'A million dollars.' 'I'll write you a cheque.' Newton groped in his shirt pocket, pulled out a cheque book, set it on the table. It was from the Chase Manhattan Bank. 'I used to watch that show about the million dollar cheque on television,' he said. 'Back home.' He pushed the cheque towards Bryce. ;You fill it out and I'll sign it.' Bryce took his Woolworth ballpoint pen from his pocket and wrote his name on the cheque and then the figures $1,000,000. Then he wrote out, carefully, One Million Doillars. He pushed the book across the table. 'It's made out,' he said. 'You'll have to direct my hand.' So Bryce stood up, walked around the table, placed the pen in Newton's hand and held it while the Anthean wrote out, Thomas Jerome Newton, in a clear, steady hand. Bryce put the cheque in his billfold. 'Do you remember,' Newton said, 'a motion picture, shown on television, called A Letter to Three Wives?' 'No.' 'Well I learned to write English long-hand from a photograph of that letter, twenty years ago on Anthea. We had clear reception, from several channels, of that motion picture.' 'You have good clear handwriting.' Newton smiled. 'Of course I have. We did everything extremely well. Nothing was overlooked, and I worked very hard to become an imitation human being.' He turned his face up towards Bryce's as if he could actually see him. 'And of course I succeeded.' Bryce, saying nothing, returned to his seat. He felt that he should show sympathy, or something, but he felt nothing at all. So he remained quiet. 'Where will you and Betty Jo go? With the money?' 'I don't know. Maybe to the Pacific, to Tahiti. We'll probably take an air-conditioner with us.' Newton was beginning to smile the moon smile, the unearthly Anthean smile, again. 'And stay drunk, Nathan?' Bryce was uneasy. 'We might try that,' he said. He did not really know what he was oging to do with a million dollars. People were supposed to ask themselves what they would do if someone gave them a million dollars, but he never had asked himself that. Maybe they would, indeed, go to Tahiti sand stay drunk in a hut, if there were any huts in Tahiti anymore. If not, they could stay at the Tahiti Hilton. 'Well I wish you Godspeed,' Newton said. And then, 'I'm glad I could do something with the money. I have an awful lot of money.' Bryce stood up to leave, feeling tired and a little drunk. 'And there's no chance...?' Newton smiled up at him even more strangely than before; the mouth beneath the glasses and hat was like an awkwardly curved line in a child's drawing of a smile. 'Of course, Nathan,' he said. 'Of course there's a chance.' 'Well,' Bryce said. 'I thank you for the money.' Because of the dark glasses Bryce could not see Newton's eyes, but it seemed to him as though Newton were looking everywhere. 'Easy come, easy go, Nathan,' he said. 'Easy come, easy go.' Newton began to tremble. His angular body began to lean forward and the felt hat fell silently on to the table, showing his chalk-white hair. Then his Anthean head fell on to his spindly Anthean arms and Beyce saw that he was crying. For a moment Bryce stood quiet, staring at him. Then he walked around the table and, kneeling, laid his arm across Newton's back and held him gently, feeling the light body trembling in his hands like the body of a delicate, fluttering, anguished bird. The bartender had come over and when Bryce looked up the bartender said. 'I'm afraid that fellow needs help.' 'Yes,' Bryce said. 'Yes, I guess he does.' My hand hurts now from typing. " But the fool on the hill / Sees the sun going down / And the eyes in his head / See the world spinning round " ems thought these thoughts @ 5:14 PM ...right now, over me
1.04.2005 Borrowed from Parisa's blog 1. Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion. 2. Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony. 3. The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq. 4. A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation. 5. Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton. 6. The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speecheswhile slashing veterans' benefits and combat pay. 7. If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex. 8. A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and money. 9. Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy. Providing health care to all Americans is socialism. 10. HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart. 11. Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools. 12. A president lying about an extramarital affair is an impeachable offense. 13. A president lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy. 14. Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet. 15. The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record is none of our business. 16. Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness and you need our prayers foryour recovery. 17. You support states' rights, which means Attorney General John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter initiatives they have the right to adopt. 18. What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s is irrelevant. Gah, it'd be funny if it weren't so true.. Color= Class on Thursday, bleck... " Now everybody do the propaganda / And sing along in the age of paranoia " ems thought these thoughts @ 9:46 PM ...right now, over me
1.03.2005 Hello all, I'm finally working on my website again, although not once I move back to school because all the files and software are on my computer at home. But enjoy what's there now and I'll try and work on it whenever I come home. :) Eggplant Moon Color: It's quite rainy here... " Who knows how long I've loved you / You know I always will / Though I wait a lonely lifetime / If you want me to, I will " ems thought these thoughts @ 10:14 AM ...right now, over me
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