| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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http://del.icio.us/kfan/leslieharpold I'm just speechless. |
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access denied at work! please tell me! what happened??? oh my god. |
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all these fucking useless blogs, useless! she died. leslie died. i'm shocked, leslie did. HOW THE FUCK DID SHE DIE? this is nuts. |
No info on cause of death, however there are lots of links off that article I haven't read. |
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am i the only one who had never heard of her? did you guys know her personally? |
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yes, i did. so did agatha. i'm baffled as to why nobody has stated cause of death. befuddled and a little angry. mark, did you ever meet her? |
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she had far more talent than i think a lot of people realized. the first time we met she described how she used to be a painter, but that she lost all her paintings, hundreds of them, in an apartment fire. i remember contributing something to a film documentary she did about peoples' scars, and the stories behind them. she was, of course, actively playing scrabble here in our little underground network. her high word was QUEAZY for 108! what i remember most clearly about her was this sense of melancholy. i don't know how much of this i projected onto her, but as the blogging thing became mainstream i remember her talking wistfully about how some of her online friends and acquaintances from the mid 1990s were going on to become "rock stars," as she put it. she was talking like this in 1997 and 1998. she did not like to bring attention to herself, really, but she sensed the sharks were in the water and that the innocence was fading from the early fame she enjoyed just a year or 2 earlier. that was my interpretation of her point of view, maybe i'm full of shit, i often am, so who the hell knows. we all look at things our own way and her point of view seemed poignant to me. |
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She touched and inspired so many. Her death is such a very real loss. |
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she was a smoker, right? so perhaps it was bronchitis --> pneumonia? of all the things i've read on those worthless piece of shit blogs, what mark posted above is totally spot on. not just about leslie, but about the few people who were part of the web 1.0 generation. lots of people linked to my website back in those days, and somewhere along the way it began to feel as if i was somehow supposed to feel honored by it. but i remember when i first found out that leslie linked to my website from hers. *that* felt like an honor, but i can't say exactly why. on the other hand, i also remember her posting something very mean on these boards once, directed at me. it was true, but it was a mean thing to say. she didn't use her real name naturally, but i knew it was her. knowing that she's from grosse pointe, michigan also helps explain some impressions i always had of her but never could and still can't accurately verbalize. |
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oh my god. levi and literary kicks. blast from the past. levi and god were and probably still are good friends. |
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ahhh. his photo is on that page too. |
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thanks for your posts on this. those blogs told me nothing except that people were inspired to post vague and rather colorless pieces in response to her death. they told me little to nothing about the person or her influence. you guys posted things that are lively, personal, and expressive. thanks. |
The blogs seemed to be just people attempting to outdo each other with how lyrically they could spread the wax on her coffin. |
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this one is the best. http://www.flaunt.net/ but that's shawna. god, i've been away for so long. it's weird to realize i miss everyone, and they're mostly all still doing it. |
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in December of 2006" "sudden passing" are the exact code words we used to disguise what my father did. if you did that to yourself, Leslie, then fuck you. your finest hour was yet to come, so fuck you you selfish whoring cunt. I didn't know it at the time but you're part of the reason I never fit in or even *got* the whole web 1.0 scene. You were getting publicity headshots and going the famous route, I just wanted to be among poets and artists. Not starlets. You were fat and unbelievably bitter and if you took it that far as to take yourself away from us then fuck you. Eat my cock, which I will now ftp up to you. Up because I still like you. My rosy tomatoes pop squirting from your awful rosy grave, YOUR HANDY VOLUME ROLLED INTO AN URN GOOD FUCKING NIGHT AND WE'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW YOU SELFISH GREEDY FUCK Lucifer Sansfoi Varlet Sansfoi Omer Perdieu I.B.Perdie Billy Perdy I'll unwind your guts from Durham to Dover and bury em in Clover-- Your psalms I'll 'ave engraved in your toothbone-- Your victories nilled-- You jailed under a woman's skirt of stone-- Stone blind woman with no guts and only a scale-- Your thoughts and letters Shandy'd about in Beth (Gaelic for grave). Your philosophies run up your nose again-- Your confidences and essays bandied in ballrooms from switchblade to switchblade --Your final duel with sledge hammers-- Your essential secret twinned to buttercups & dying-- Your guide to 32 European cities scabbed in Isaiah --Your red beard snobbed in Dolmen ruins in the editions of the Bleak-- Your saints and Consolations bereft --Your handy volume rolled into an urn-- And your father and mother besmeared at thought of you th'unspent begotless crop of worms --You lay there, you queen for a day, wait for the "fen- sucked fogs" to carp at you Your sweety beauty discovered by No Name in its hidingplace till burrs part from you from lack of issue, sinew, all the rest-- Gibbering quiver graveyard Hoo! The hospital that buries you be Baal, the digger Yorick, & the shoveler groom-- My rosy tomatoes pop squirting from your awful rotten grave-- Your profile, erstwhile Garboesque, mistook by earth- eels for some fjord to Sheol-- And your timid voice box strangled by lie-hating earth forever. May the plighted Noah-clouds dissolve in grief of you-- May Red clay be your center, & woven into necks of hogs, boars, booters and pilferers & burned down with Stalin, Hitler & the rest-- May you bite your lip that you cannot meet with God-- or Beat me to a pub --Amen The Almoner his cup hath no bottom, nor I a brim. Devil, get thee back to russet caves. |