Letter to Laetitia:
What were we going to call this.


dear_laetitia_part_03

I think that story needs a little more time than I want to give right now but we see if we can't do an abridged version, the you won't need to get Cole's notes. Did you ever. I never did. Either read them book or don't.

But to the Freedom, or was it Reality Fighters.

This is the new world here. Bill Gates has finally got his satellites up before anyone else could. It is for most people perfect. They can go online and telephone any time they want as long as they accept the advertisements. And to make it worse, you can't pay to have a handy or a computer, they are all online and everything that is created on the computers belongs to Mega Soft. No one can survive without, I didn't tell you about the eclipse. It was pretty cool. It got dark.

Anyway, so if I go on later, I do, if not, the Reality Fighters take it to a civil war. Reality against the advertising business. Good luck guys.


_bunnie stop_


I don't know how long I was in the bath but it was at least an hour. I could have told you 6 different stories if you had been in their with me. I'm going to remember one now. I was thinking about how Nietzsche said, he took it from Zarathustra I believe, don't ask me where he got it from, maybe the Jose Wombat quote of the day or something like it. It's something like the reincarnation thing but a little wackier. And the more one learns about computers, the more one can get pretty paranoid if one takes too many drugs before seeing Matrix. I recommend to not bother.

There they built a world simulation, you lived in a fantasy land and were supported by a machine. It still is Science Fiction but must barely. It may be inevitable. There is enough computer space to live in a program. It will one day be possible to down load your brain and live in a virtual world, one could almost do it by actually keeping the brain alive and throwing the rest out. This is not science fiction.

Walt Disney is hoping to come back to life. I'm sure he isn't doing anything now but before he died, he thought he'd like to come back.
He'd flip his lid if he came back in 50 years. Who wouldn't?

The things is, there will be more going on in the virtual world that the real world will no longer be attractive.

Everywhere will be advertisement for the comforts of the virtual world and if you want to sell your body, you can afford a great program that will give you eternal youth and all the hot babes you want. Of course people will want the virtual world. They already do, we seem to still be here somewhat but not everyone and no one I've ever met is 100% here. WE are fantasy crazy.

When this life support brain download thin is in order, it will be too hard to resist.

"Get hooked into Bill's life support virtuality machine and live forever. If you lose your memory, it is saved in another system and can be rebooted anytime there is a glitch. Every year, a back up of your life is made so you never loose more than one year's memory when you crash."

Some people will want to start a new life without memory. We all know that feeling; feeling like we know exactly what is going to happen. It is just a thread to the memory of having did the same thing only 8,000 years ago.

Of course there will be much more options. One can write one's own program so you can be and do whatever you want. Be god. Women live just to serve your every wish and they can all play Scat not quite as good as you can.

That sort of thing. You can make a program to relive all evolution.
"Experience life from the time you leave the ocean until you become Bill, the apedemy (is that a word) of evolution."

"That's fucked."

"Don't say that too loud."

"Everywhere you look there are ads for eternal life in virtual reality."

"I can remember when Laura what's her name was far out."

"Or when we didn't have computers."

"Ya."

They would wonder what to do. Why fight it really. If they all want to go in, let ‘em. That's our future. That is why big business is poisoning the planet. Reality will be such a mess that virtual reality will be the only alternative.

"Fuck you all!"

"They will hear you."

"Who cares, they think they've already won, they know everyone will want to get on sometime. You can't take the chance to live in reality and run the risk of dying before you are saved to disk.


_bunnie stop_


Two days or one went by. And besides really hating vacuuming, I don't mind a little keeping the place clean. Not too clean.

Laetitia, you are lovely. I'd love to have a chat with you tonight, it's just I'm too whipped.


_bunnie stop_


Sometimes I like to play the super hero. I know almost all there is to
know and can maybe save the world with my wisdom. The condition is called megalomania. Not curable. It's balance able with manic depression. At least it seems the only two conditions I know. Usually trying to see things from both points of view and working out my world as best I can with my limited senses.

I can remember even as a child trying to understand what was behind things. What was it that made people do as they do. Why do some believe one thing and some another. Why was it when some people spoke you knew you knew that they could only lie. Or nicer said, they talk shit. What are they covering up. Do they really want to say, "I'm terrified from life and this madness."

Some people have a terrible life. It reminds me that my life is quite okay. I hope I don't need to know people are starving in lands where the dictators rid the country of all hope and resources.

I was thinking how the world keeps coming to an end since I can remember. It started when I was still in diapers. Cuban missile crisis. Idiots and bone heads promoting terror. The motivation behind terror is often not so friendly. It usually has to do with, "Stay at home, watch your fuckin' TV and shut the fuck up." At least in the well to do western world.

In other lands it means bloody hard and hopeless death.

And I don't even think I intended to go on about this. I wanted to mention the end of the world, not terrorism in the media trying to keep us scared and under cover.

Church and government has always used terror as a controlling force. There are few exceptions as long as you allow that brainwashing to a point of blind obedience is somehow also terror.

The trouble is, I can write what I want and put it on the web. And there are people who know more than I do, I mean, that would be anyone who knew anything.

The point I think I want to reach is that there is no future in terror.
Except of course for a horrendous end of the world story.

How about a different end of the world? We've heard how there were dark ages where no one knew shit. It was illegal to read. The church told you what to believe and you believed it. There was no option.

We advanced to a world of commercially manipulated media. And lest we forget, books. What are books?

The point is; the world we have now has to end. The end of the word as we know it and the start of the next new world. It isn't the first new world and I don't imagine it is the last.

In our new world, we have to reduce ignorance, greed and back stabbing. Those characteristics will kill us all. There is no more room for big rip offs. We've raped and pillaged the planet and made a hell hole for many lands, yes we, the western world, you and me did it. And someone is going to find out. Some of them already know. You can listen and hear it.

So while the fuckers jump around proclaiming the return of one god or the other, remember they are brain dead and blind. The world is not going to end. We can kill ourselves if we chose, we can blow it up if we want. Those are silly notions though that only make it harder for the next new world to clean up the mess of this full of garbage world.

So here I go out now. For a coffee and a little ride around in the daylight. And I'm going to start preaching the start of the next world because we have no choice. This one is dead.


_bunnie stop_


"What would you do if you woke up one morning and realized that all you know is one big lie perpetrated by ignorant slaves to obedience."

"Go back to sleep and try again."


_bunnie stop_


I'm trying to get myself motivated to go to the bar and have a conversation with someone. I still might. It only requires the decision that I want to more than I don't, the rest is easy.

I'm sitting in my living room listening to Dizzy and wondering if I want to smell like smoke. It's nice sometimes to smell fresh when going to bed. I'm looking pretty today though and wouldn't mind having a young woman tell me so. Ya, sure a little vain but I can afford it at my age.

I thought of a million things today and didn't make the effort to record them. Which is okay. Not all thoughts have to become inked out.

Handwritten writing.

Writing may not be written much longer. I mean, I will keep writing. I've thought about getting one of those toasters you build on a gas burner, in fact, I will this week, and toast with a gas flame rather than electric. I won't stop using my stereo or the internet, but I like the feel of hard core basic. I could, would and will have a cottage somewhere without electricity. A gas lamp, an acoustic guitar, table, chars, cot and frying pan, knife, pen and paper.

I'll have a wood stove for heating and cooking.

The place may not be so far from somewhere else and I might get to it by car. It's not that I wouldn't come back. And I probably wouldn't mind if you came with me if you didn't mind that I went off for hours on my own or wrote and said nothing.

I would be happy to give you my undivided attention sometimes.

I'm not going out tonight even if it is Saturday. I'm not against going out at night. That's something I've done a great deal of. But I'm actually more partial to the daytime.

I was thinking in the tub earlier that I would take it hard if I found out you we're in love and it wasn't with me. This could be analyzed as a slight disorder in the head regarding reality principles but I'm a writer, even if my writing isn't yet proof of it, and as a writer, I can define my own reality, see it and record it how I wish. This is a great power to have. Especially useful to get through late nights.

I would watch television without a question tonight if I had one.
Sometimes you can get lucky and find a good film on ARD or ZDF. But since the closest thing I have to a TV is two fuckin' computer that don't work properly, I won't be looking at anything but words. Which is sometimes more what I need than -

a kick in the head.


_bunnie stop_


Well my sweet, I thought I better go out even if it's a little cold and windy. Yesterday was Friday the 13th and I forgot about it. Not that I missed thinking I should have some black cats under ladders or something but Geoff did marry Kate. I was supposed to be there. It didn't happen. I haven't been to Canada since I left it.

To finish the point about outside before we maybe try a bit of an explanation about Barbaralba, I'll say I really thought to get up and go out so I sat on the balcony for half an hour watching the big tree waving in the wind, pushing the clouds by at a racing speed. The clouds were thin and broken so that the stars were plain to see being how they always seem to be millions of light years away somehow defining the vastness of it all and the insignificance of me sitting on a balcony. But in all the vastness of it, it was me sitting there observing it. Something it can't do in the same way.

When I was younger I liked to believe consciousness was the goal of life; to evolve to such a point that parts of it could appreciate itself.

I like that again. Picture it Laetitia. Billions of years of cooking from fire and ice and an array of atomic combination to give us various elements to make it possible to initiate life that would have a need to survive and the ability to evolve so that it could look at itself and say, ya, that's pretty cool what we did.

We being the team work of the elements.

Humans are billions of years of evolution initiated by the elements with the tool of life. We are just an extended ego of the elements. We have a personal identity, somewhat if the media or government hasn't sucked it out of us, so that we believe we are individuals and must look out for our survival. This is only secondary and somewhat an illusion. Perhaps it is our knowledge of our unimportance in the whole of life, the small bit of the universe which can look at itself, that makes us fear death of our personality when our elements can't go on hanging together.

We fight this fear by lying to ourselves that we are what we aren't and create lies to live by and we fight against life and refuse to accept it's brutal nature. This may be going a little Science Fiction Religion, maybe we use it in Barbaralba, I wanted some kind of a theme there anyway. Let's give it a go.

Barbaralba woke up with the memory of someone calling her name.

"Am I Barbaralba?"

No one answered because no one was around. Only the cold night filled with far away stars accompanied Barbaralba.

Shit, it's going to be like all my stories, I can see it. I'll try to avoid it.
She can have her memory anytime she wants it, she just doesn't think it matters. Okay, back we go.

"I'm glad I collected the wood before it got dark. Why am I talking to myself? Because there is no one else here I guess."

Barbaralba built a little fire and wrapped her gray blanket around her. She had lots of blankets because she knew it got cold in the desert at night.

She looked to see if the cut on her leg was still bleeding. She had used her blouse to make a wrap. If she could have gotten to a hospital, she could have gotten a few stitches and not worried about it.

"That'll leave a nasty scar."

Barbaralba wondered if it would mean the end of her carrier as a model. She made large amounts of money with her legs, she couldn't really afford to have them not be perfect.

She decided it wasn't important. It was on the inside of her right calf. It could stay out of the picture and if it got in the picture, it could be fixed on the computer.

"It wouldn't matter."

Time out. I can be glad I didn't go out now. It's pissing down. I go look at it a little and see if we can get our super heroin to do some elemental philosophy.

Too cold and windy for a little balcony session. What would be nice though is if you were on the other end of the coach reading a book, keeping your feet warm under my arms. Then everything would be perfect as long as time could go really slow.

Alas, you aren't here so I will go on writing with the hope you will soon be here, or somewhere, as long as it was you. Or is.

So what did we say about Barbaralba?

She was admiring her bandage job after she made a new one out of the left over bits of her blouse.

The fire was quite warm so she allowed the blanket to fall away from her legs. She looked at them and admired their form.

"Those are nice legs."

She had remembered that they were her legs but wondered what it meant to own legs. Everyone admired her legs. Her whole body was admired by millions but what did that matter.

How did that make sitting alone in a desert any better. She had the luck to be born beautiful not the image of beauty.

"A farmer's wife."

She wondered what that was like. If farmers still had wives or if farms where all done by machines now. She had started the Grapes of Wrath but never did get into it.

She wondered if there was anything else she'd rather be than a super model. The money was good but the whole thing seemed somewhat distorted. She could admire the work of Roden and appreciate that the human body could be pictured as beautiful and she had one of the best ones ever given out.

"Out of what?"

The stars seemed to answer her. There was nothing but the fire, her legs and the stars. She was sure she didn't come out of fire, she knew here mother.

"I am billions of years of matter and energy working up life to evolve to a point to have a part of life sit in a desert and wonder what am I doing here somewhere in this universe that I am somehow a very small part of."

She put a bit more wood on the fire and then covered herself up well. Touch her legs to feel their fine form, she decided it was good to have legs to use to walk around and it was nice that they appealed to her and it was pleasing to know they appealed to most everyone.

In the desert, it didn't matter so much what legs looked like. More important then legs was, where would her legs take her.

Since she wasn't sure where she was and couldn't see in the dark, she decided the best thing would be to sleep and look at her legs and the rest of the world, in the morning.

Just like I may do after I read something in German. Like Super heroin comics. Research.


_bunnie stop_


Barbaralba woke the next morning baking under her blankets in the morning sun. She tried opening her eyes but the blinding light made it harder to see than the dark night.

When her eyes finally adjusted enough that she could squint and see a little, she looked around. There was nothing to see in any direction but sand dunes and her airplane which was half buried in one of them.

The plane was her life long dream. Her father had been a pilot in the Chilean air force. He had afterwards made billions in oil. As is often the case, his only daughter rejected his world for a world of demonstrations against the crimes of oil companies against the environment.

He gave her millions for her alternative energy project, thinking she would stay out of trouble if she were busy.

She had managed some popularity with her team of researchers but her work was usually bought up by her father and buried in deep basements.

Her one-person plane was so light that once in the air the sun generated enough volateric energy in the wings to supply the motor with enough rotation to keep the plane in the air the day long.

She was quite proud of the, wait, she was a super model as well, sounds like a female Buckaroo Banzai.

We'll work out the details later, Laetitia.

Likely we will have to tell much less at the start. Let's move to
Barbaralba looking in the plane and discovering it was sabotaged and that it was actually a bomb that destroyed the motor. It was a very small bomb that was obviously meant to make her plane not flyable.

"Who the hell wants me dead?"

It was a bit of a blow to the ego. Most of the world wanted to get her legs wrapped around their head and someone wanted to kill her.

"Bastard"

She knew it could only have been her father. Some cartel people would have told him he had to. Alternative energies were a danger to the oil domination of the world’s riches.

"Bastards!"

She sat at the controls and cried. She knew their would be no more modeling, no more saving the world with her clean transportation company. She would never sing an opera or act in a movie.

She hadn't really wanted to sing an opera but she liked to sing and people told her she had a nice voice. She even had record companies wanting her to sign contracts. She just had no time and didn't want to have to sell her own music with her tits and legs like so many cheesy performers with next to no talent.

She felt her tears dripping on her breasts, we have to have breasts and legs here Laetitia, that's what the world wants, the men anyway. We'll try to keep hard core sex out of it. Just the sexual terror underlying not there but easy to see kind of sex that every bastard uses to sell shit.

She collected her tears with her fingertip and put them in her mouth. She took a sip of water from the bottle she had for the trip.

"Bastards!"



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. dear_laetitia_part_04



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