There is a photograph. It is of a vulture waiting for a sundanese girl, crouched on the ground, as if in prayer, to die. It has been passed around the world millions of times, you cannot see it without being affected; it's creator killed himself, although there is debate as to whether the picture was the cause or not.
There is a theory. In quantum theory, the act of observing a particle determines whether it is decayed or not. The act of placing attention on something changes the item being attended.
Our attention, a biological process documentable in the cortex, changes the world simply by being directed. I did a paper on "The Effects of Neural Plasticity on Deaf Persons over time", in which I noticed that congenitally deaf people had two points of attention, which they could control seperately. Typically people only have one, which is defined primarily by memory. We remember what we payed attention to but what we recall later. Even subconsciously, we pay attention to something. If you daydream, you will still show a preferential treatment in recall towards what the main focus of your attention was.
It is, unfortunatly, not only what your eyes are pointing at; this is demonstrated by a simple experiment. Fix your eyes on the period at the end of this sentance. Now, read the words around it, without moving your eyes. It should be possible, since even blind people, or people without eyes, are capable of fixing their attention.
This is, unfortunatly, also the extent of our knowledge about this elusive process. The actual mechanics of attention are unknown. People, even without seeing, can tell when someone is watching them, with a disturbingly high accuracy rate. Is it pheromones? It is unlikely to be eye contact. Perhaps electromagnetic disruptions. There are computors now that respond to thoughts; you focus your attention on a sliding bar with two lights on it and imagine pulling the lights apart, and they move. What is the nature of the process at work here?
I think it is likely to be electromagnetic disruptions. This, however, makes me wonder, can a computor pay attention to something? If it can, how will this affect our views of "humanity"? Will a computor be human? My personal beliefs regarding sentience and the nature of humanity is that if you apply a personal moral code, with guidelines, then you are human. This shows a higher understanding of one's actions, the motivations, consequences, and ethical ramifications therein. If a computor becomes able to pay attention, and thus become self-aware, for it is only a matter of time before a source of attention turns to itself, will it be classified as human? Perhaps an animal first?
This is not a fully-developed idea, as I have been busily training people, but this was too interesting not to write on.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Fiction Work #21
I'm standing on the dark wooden steps, bright blue sky above me, trying to imagine where things went so wrong.
I recall being sold, not really a big deal, I had known it would happen. Somehow I never thought it would really occur, however, so my goodbyes held the flavor of unreality, devoid of the realization that I would literally never see them again. Sweet family, I replayed our last moments through my head a thousand times, searching for new truths as a tounge searches for raspberry seeds deep in toothy crevasses. We spoke on paper infrequently, but it was hollow and unfamiliar.
Not even the voice of my mother was allowed to come the many kilometers across the border from Austria to France.
They even took my name from me.
No longer could I be a child, I was alone in a den of vipers and I needed to be cunning and full of guile. I failed at even that; so full of sweetness and sugar. It was a small piece of luck that my husband (whom I met days later) seemed rather taken with me, if unsure what to do with me. Unable to treat me as a wife for reasons my pretty head didn't understand, he resorted to doting on me in a permanent courtship.
I was without a purpose. Bred solely to forge an alliance between two huge countries. Once a child secured that link, I was aimless; a pretty slip of art in a symbol of wealth. However, what a price that child came at. The windows would never recover, as would my relationship with courtiers.
Scared of my husband's growing intensity with the war he was financing (again, a permanent courtship over full involvement) I engrossed myself with mindless hedonistic pursuits, sure he would follow me, and in becoming happy, I would find myself fulfilled with the ultimate goal of being a good wife and a good daughter.
He once commented on my shoes; I bought hundreds.
He admired my dinner parties; they became legendary.
"I prefer your hair up."; it never touched my shoulders again.
Despite my machinations, he found me unintellegent, and did not confide in me. I sought to educate myself, but was hampered by the lack of early learning so critical to higher learning later. Indeed, my life became wrapped tight by the cords that had been weaved in my youth. I further dropped into meaningless pursuits, but my poker game improved.
I was unable to understand this swelling sense of desperation, this urgency within myself. I only knew that I desired to please him, to make this strange war-like behavior stop. How little I knew how grave my plight would become. My slightest nod, or even lack thereof, became a herald of chaos on black wings, unseen, hidden behind my huge skirts.
The penultimate blow came from a hideous diamond necklace that I did not desire, yet was gifted from an oblivious dunce. The people of France villified me, and my spirit finally broke. I felt trapped. Surrounded on all sides by unfamiliar and unfriendly faces.
I could sense the fall coming, heavy and dark, like the blood red opera curtain that announced "la fin". I was in denial, as I had been about my Goodbyes, and it seemed whatever the outcome, I was to have no hand in it.
The death of my husband crippled me, but it was the death of my dear little girl-friend that affected me the worst. Her lightness and razor-sharp quips had been the toast of many of my parties, and I could not imagine someone wishing her harm.
My "trial" was a farce; accused of everything and anything, I fought to save myself only where the reputation of my son was concerned. In my vehmenency and desperation, I stole the hearts of many mothers, all who had come to crucify me. This was a small consolation as the judge passed sentance.
This is all a dream, the cakes, shoes, dresses, parties, flowers, mansions, and other extravagencies, a million miles away, as I watch the steel blade, crusted, held up by a scratchy robe straining against the massive weight of the wedge. The smell of blood is eveywhere; I am familiar with it, but it calls up the worst moments of my life, and I nearly faint. Even in these last moments, I think of my reputation, of the reputation of Austria, of my late husband, everything I have struggled for, in my way, as best I could. I grit my teeth, calling up reserves of strength I never knew I had, thinking of my best times, of the way his hair shone in the light, of the tea parties in the garden, of my favorite purfume, of my children.
And I show them how a Queen, how Marie Antoinette, Maria Antoina, dies with dignity; on this bright blue morning.
I recall being sold, not really a big deal, I had known it would happen. Somehow I never thought it would really occur, however, so my goodbyes held the flavor of unreality, devoid of the realization that I would literally never see them again. Sweet family, I replayed our last moments through my head a thousand times, searching for new truths as a tounge searches for raspberry seeds deep in toothy crevasses. We spoke on paper infrequently, but it was hollow and unfamiliar.
Not even the voice of my mother was allowed to come the many kilometers across the border from Austria to France.
They even took my name from me.
No longer could I be a child, I was alone in a den of vipers and I needed to be cunning and full of guile. I failed at even that; so full of sweetness and sugar. It was a small piece of luck that my husband (whom I met days later) seemed rather taken with me, if unsure what to do with me. Unable to treat me as a wife for reasons my pretty head didn't understand, he resorted to doting on me in a permanent courtship.
I was without a purpose. Bred solely to forge an alliance between two huge countries. Once a child secured that link, I was aimless; a pretty slip of art in a symbol of wealth. However, what a price that child came at. The windows would never recover, as would my relationship with courtiers.
Scared of my husband's growing intensity with the war he was financing (again, a permanent courtship over full involvement) I engrossed myself with mindless hedonistic pursuits, sure he would follow me, and in becoming happy, I would find myself fulfilled with the ultimate goal of being a good wife and a good daughter.
He once commented on my shoes; I bought hundreds.
He admired my dinner parties; they became legendary.
"I prefer your hair up."; it never touched my shoulders again.
Despite my machinations, he found me unintellegent, and did not confide in me. I sought to educate myself, but was hampered by the lack of early learning so critical to higher learning later. Indeed, my life became wrapped tight by the cords that had been weaved in my youth. I further dropped into meaningless pursuits, but my poker game improved.
I was unable to understand this swelling sense of desperation, this urgency within myself. I only knew that I desired to please him, to make this strange war-like behavior stop. How little I knew how grave my plight would become. My slightest nod, or even lack thereof, became a herald of chaos on black wings, unseen, hidden behind my huge skirts.
The penultimate blow came from a hideous diamond necklace that I did not desire, yet was gifted from an oblivious dunce. The people of France villified me, and my spirit finally broke. I felt trapped. Surrounded on all sides by unfamiliar and unfriendly faces.
I could sense the fall coming, heavy and dark, like the blood red opera curtain that announced "la fin". I was in denial, as I had been about my Goodbyes, and it seemed whatever the outcome, I was to have no hand in it.
The death of my husband crippled me, but it was the death of my dear little girl-friend that affected me the worst. Her lightness and razor-sharp quips had been the toast of many of my parties, and I could not imagine someone wishing her harm.
My "trial" was a farce; accused of everything and anything, I fought to save myself only where the reputation of my son was concerned. In my vehmenency and desperation, I stole the hearts of many mothers, all who had come to crucify me. This was a small consolation as the judge passed sentance.
This is all a dream, the cakes, shoes, dresses, parties, flowers, mansions, and other extravagencies, a million miles away, as I watch the steel blade, crusted, held up by a scratchy robe straining against the massive weight of the wedge. The smell of blood is eveywhere; I am familiar with it, but it calls up the worst moments of my life, and I nearly faint. Even in these last moments, I think of my reputation, of the reputation of Austria, of my late husband, everything I have struggled for, in my way, as best I could. I grit my teeth, calling up reserves of strength I never knew I had, thinking of my best times, of the way his hair shone in the light, of the tea parties in the garden, of my favorite purfume, of my children.
And I show them how a Queen, how Marie Antoinette, Maria Antoina, dies with dignity; on this bright blue morning.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Felicitous Feline
Oh for fingertips
and a fat-lipped smile
my cat, my self,
the bed, and I
With mischief, wit,
and knavery
my half-waked state she
plagues to taunt me
Acute aware
of my lament,
(Of dormant time
too quickly spent)
She looks at me
askance to say,
"Haven't you had
enough sleep today?"
and a fat-lipped smile
my cat, my self,
the bed, and I
With mischief, wit,
and knavery
my half-waked state she
plagues to taunt me
Acute aware
of my lament,
(Of dormant time
too quickly spent)
She looks at me
askance to say,
"Haven't you had
enough sleep today?"
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Fiction work #20
There is a line. From my clenched fist, down my arm, across my shoulders, up my other arm to my folded elbow. The ends of this line wish to touch, to bend; they pull together like there is a spring between them but I hold them apart, creating a vacumn, into which I put an arrow. This bar of steel, wood, and feather sits, still, in the cradle of this vacumn, waiting, poised for flight. A bead of sweat has reached it's capacity and now rolls down between my shoulder blades to join it's comrades in the liner of my warm jacket. My hip is itchy. It has been so for the last thirty minutes. I long to scratch it, but doing so would ruin the shot I have waited a week for. My mind has waited so long, my body can wait now.
My attention is focused on my quarry, who is big enough that I am allowed a glimpse into what mammoth hunters from days of yore felt. I can see his breath in the air, coming from his shaggy throat. He doesn't know I'm here.
Picking his way with almost glacial speed, determined not to miss a single morsal, so scarce in this weather, he moves closer. A step, a smell, a pause, a smell, a step. For the last hour, not a muscle has twitched on this forest cow that I was not aware of.
As the pivotal second draws closer, I put myself, my heart, all my focus, into the arrow, double checking the wind, the time, the temperature, ground height, altitude. My aim is perfect, straight to his heart, the barb will kill him instantly. Those antlers will be a prize trophy, everything else I will either consume, use, or feed to the dogs; not a scrap wasted. That is my gift to this noble beast. He will lay down his life that I, the greater predator, may eat, and I respect his sacrifice, for we are all part of the circle of rebirth
FRAAAAAAAP
The moose just farted. I bark out a laugh, so involuntary, and the animal bolts. I release my shot helplessly off mark then just laugh and laugh.
What the hell else can you do?
I pack up my kit and go home; the giggles are fatal to my trade. I'll get something tomorrow. For now, there's supper.
I think I'll have beans.
My attention is focused on my quarry, who is big enough that I am allowed a glimpse into what mammoth hunters from days of yore felt. I can see his breath in the air, coming from his shaggy throat. He doesn't know I'm here.
Picking his way with almost glacial speed, determined not to miss a single morsal, so scarce in this weather, he moves closer. A step, a smell, a pause, a smell, a step. For the last hour, not a muscle has twitched on this forest cow that I was not aware of.
As the pivotal second draws closer, I put myself, my heart, all my focus, into the arrow, double checking the wind, the time, the temperature, ground height, altitude. My aim is perfect, straight to his heart, the barb will kill him instantly. Those antlers will be a prize trophy, everything else I will either consume, use, or feed to the dogs; not a scrap wasted. That is my gift to this noble beast. He will lay down his life that I, the greater predator, may eat, and I respect his sacrifice, for we are all part of the circle of rebirth
FRAAAAAAAP
The moose just farted. I bark out a laugh, so involuntary, and the animal bolts. I release my shot helplessly off mark then just laugh and laugh.
What the hell else can you do?
I pack up my kit and go home; the giggles are fatal to my trade. I'll get something tomorrow. For now, there's supper.
I think I'll have beans.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Wicker Basket
The first indicator that this night was going to suck was when I decided to leave my friend's house, instead of sleeping over. I just felt too terrible to be entertaining, and wasn't interested in watching "Jackass".
The night had gone, I believe, from bad to worse when we realized, my sister, her fiance, and I, that we had missed the last bus of the night. My sister and I had little "big city" experience, so we broke down, pooled our resources, and caught a cab. Too tired to enjoy my first taxi ride, I stared gloomily out the window and tried to ignore the sounds of happiness next to me.
As I gazed insensibly, a man ran into my view. What a perfect metaphor for mankind's current state, I thought, watching this man hurtle down the center line of the road, surrounded by stationary cars and ashphalt. I dubbed him "Apollo", for the Greek God who stole his father's chariot to ride across the sky, dragging the sun with him. I made a little story for him, speculating why he was running (fitness, drunkness, humor, women) but none quite seemed to fit his free sprint yet determined gait.
He made it about twenty feet from my window when POW, he was mowed down by a shiny red grand am, who I cannot believe did not see him. (Later my sister insisted he was chased by a large, angry, man, but this doesn't fit my romanticised notion)
I remember covering my face with my hands, and I remember he was in a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans, but I do not remember the trip home after that point. I think about him sometimes.
Strange days.
The night had gone, I believe, from bad to worse when we realized, my sister, her fiance, and I, that we had missed the last bus of the night. My sister and I had little "big city" experience, so we broke down, pooled our resources, and caught a cab. Too tired to enjoy my first taxi ride, I stared gloomily out the window and tried to ignore the sounds of happiness next to me.
As I gazed insensibly, a man ran into my view. What a perfect metaphor for mankind's current state, I thought, watching this man hurtle down the center line of the road, surrounded by stationary cars and ashphalt. I dubbed him "Apollo", for the Greek God who stole his father's chariot to ride across the sky, dragging the sun with him. I made a little story for him, speculating why he was running (fitness, drunkness, humor, women) but none quite seemed to fit his free sprint yet determined gait.
He made it about twenty feet from my window when POW, he was mowed down by a shiny red grand am, who I cannot believe did not see him. (Later my sister insisted he was chased by a large, angry, man, but this doesn't fit my romanticised notion)
I remember covering my face with my hands, and I remember he was in a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans, but I do not remember the trip home after that point. I think about him sometimes.
Strange days.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Fiction post # 19
I remember the worst night of my life so vividly that I could direct the live action movie, should anyone ever give enough of a crap to watch it. It was only two years ago, back when I was younger, and dumber. I thought I could handle anything. What an idiot I was...
I turned the ignition key again and the iconic "Rrrr-rrr-rr" echoed through the deserted, lamp-lit streets. There was no sense trying again. I was stuck. It was two in the morning, on a frozen Tuesday night, in an unfamiliar part of town with a broken down car. Probably a busted alternator. I pounded the steering wheel for a bit to make myself feel better, then sniffed up my tears, and exited the car for the first house with lights on.
Mustering all my courage, trying not to think of what could go wrong, I rapped my knuckles on the brown, standard-issue door of the house at 10837- 55th avenue(So the chipper brass numbers showed, the police report would indicate, later, that this was inaccurate). After a few minutes filled with bizzare and suspect thumps, it swung open to reveal a big man in loose jeans and a sweatshirt.
"What?" He had terrible breath, reeking of booze. I noticed his mouth was wet.
"Hi. Um." I could feel my hands hide in my sweater- a nervous reflex of mine, "I'm so sorry. My car's dead and I need to get home, can I borrow your phone?"
He took his time scanning me up and down, and I knew what he saw; Shortish, slender, brown-haired, twenty-something college-chick, probably just off a late night study session. I fiddled with my hair. I hate when people stare at me.
He grunted a "Yah. Sure." and gestured to a cream rotary phone on a side table. It was close enough to the door that I figured I'd be fine should anything happen. I mean, I could run fast, right? Right?
I could feel him moving around as I made my call; He was big. 'Roid-monkey big. It was at this point that I started to doubt that this was a good idea. I relayed my name, address, and car details steadily, but my hands shook as I hung up the receiver.
He came up behind me, I could feel the floor flex through my heels, and put his hand on my shoulder, so heavy it weighed me down, asking, "How about a drink while you wait?"
I regret my answer. During my time in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think about how stupid I had been, and cursed myself for casually answering,
"Sounds good."
We sat at his kitchen table, snorking back whiskey, in view of the living room window, waiting for the truck to arrive. After a few shots (few? maybe several...) he got up and stood next to my chair, rubbing his hands on his visibly stained shirt.
"Well, I think that's enough for you..."
He wrapped his hands around my bicep, tried to pick me out of my seat, but I resisted. I just needed to wait until I saw the truck. His face reddened and he tried to jerk on my elbow, nearly dislocating it, but as he yanked I saw the truck out of the side of my vision. He had size on me but I knew he'd had a few and as he reached for my shirt, I stood up and drove the side of my firm hand into his neck in a chop. He flinched and his eyes bulged; "What th?" he began, but I was in full flight now, ramming my knee into his solar plexus. It forced the wind out of him and he went down like a sack of shit while I whipped out my cuffs.
"Michael Botada? You're wanted for crimes including grand theft larceny and arson."
I shackled his beefy wrists behind his back, too tightly for him to even wiggle, since I knew his type; they liked fighting, and if he got up, he'd have his weight over me and I wouldn't even have surprise anymore. His face grew crimson as he cussed at me, spouting entrapment and false arrest. I love these bottom-barrel, legal-knowledged types. I drove my boot into his knee.
"You little bitch! This is police brutality! I'll sue your badge off for this!"
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Oh I ain't the 5-0, boyo. I'm a gen-u-ine bounty hunter, and your name is 'Mortgage Payment' now. So shut up." I walked over his body, out the front door, where my team was waiting in the blue truck I had called for.
"Hey guys. Got 'im."
They went to work "taggin" him to bring in for payment, and I enjoyed a quiet smoke outside. He was the biggest catch I'd netted in my professional career that far. He brought quite a fair amount of prestige too; I was honored with the national hunter's award that chirstmas.
Oh, why was it the worst night of my life? I had a little more whiskey then I'd care to admit, and broke my leg on a hidden pothole ten minutes later; had to spend 4 months in rehab for the compound fracture, and missed my sister's wedding. Life's funny, ain't it?
I turned the ignition key again and the iconic "Rrrr-rrr-rr" echoed through the deserted, lamp-lit streets. There was no sense trying again. I was stuck. It was two in the morning, on a frozen Tuesday night, in an unfamiliar part of town with a broken down car. Probably a busted alternator. I pounded the steering wheel for a bit to make myself feel better, then sniffed up my tears, and exited the car for the first house with lights on.
Mustering all my courage, trying not to think of what could go wrong, I rapped my knuckles on the brown, standard-issue door of the house at 10837- 55th avenue(So the chipper brass numbers showed, the police report would indicate, later, that this was inaccurate). After a few minutes filled with bizzare and suspect thumps, it swung open to reveal a big man in loose jeans and a sweatshirt.
"What?" He had terrible breath, reeking of booze. I noticed his mouth was wet.
"Hi. Um." I could feel my hands hide in my sweater- a nervous reflex of mine, "I'm so sorry. My car's dead and I need to get home, can I borrow your phone?"
He took his time scanning me up and down, and I knew what he saw; Shortish, slender, brown-haired, twenty-something college-chick, probably just off a late night study session. I fiddled with my hair. I hate when people stare at me.
He grunted a "Yah. Sure." and gestured to a cream rotary phone on a side table. It was close enough to the door that I figured I'd be fine should anything happen. I mean, I could run fast, right? Right?
I could feel him moving around as I made my call; He was big. 'Roid-monkey big. It was at this point that I started to doubt that this was a good idea. I relayed my name, address, and car details steadily, but my hands shook as I hung up the receiver.
He came up behind me, I could feel the floor flex through my heels, and put his hand on my shoulder, so heavy it weighed me down, asking, "How about a drink while you wait?"
I regret my answer. During my time in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think about how stupid I had been, and cursed myself for casually answering,
"Sounds good."
We sat at his kitchen table, snorking back whiskey, in view of the living room window, waiting for the truck to arrive. After a few shots (few? maybe several...) he got up and stood next to my chair, rubbing his hands on his visibly stained shirt.
"Well, I think that's enough for you..."
He wrapped his hands around my bicep, tried to pick me out of my seat, but I resisted. I just needed to wait until I saw the truck. His face reddened and he tried to jerk on my elbow, nearly dislocating it, but as he yanked I saw the truck out of the side of my vision. He had size on me but I knew he'd had a few and as he reached for my shirt, I stood up and drove the side of my firm hand into his neck in a chop. He flinched and his eyes bulged; "What th?" he began, but I was in full flight now, ramming my knee into his solar plexus. It forced the wind out of him and he went down like a sack of shit while I whipped out my cuffs.
"Michael Botada? You're wanted for crimes including grand theft larceny and arson."
I shackled his beefy wrists behind his back, too tightly for him to even wiggle, since I knew his type; they liked fighting, and if he got up, he'd have his weight over me and I wouldn't even have surprise anymore. His face grew crimson as he cussed at me, spouting entrapment and false arrest. I love these bottom-barrel, legal-knowledged types. I drove my boot into his knee.
"You little bitch! This is police brutality! I'll sue your badge off for this!"
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Oh I ain't the 5-0, boyo. I'm a gen-u-ine bounty hunter, and your name is 'Mortgage Payment' now. So shut up." I walked over his body, out the front door, where my team was waiting in the blue truck I had called for.
"Hey guys. Got 'im."
They went to work "taggin" him to bring in for payment, and I enjoyed a quiet smoke outside. He was the biggest catch I'd netted in my professional career that far. He brought quite a fair amount of prestige too; I was honored with the national hunter's award that chirstmas.
Oh, why was it the worst night of my life? I had a little more whiskey then I'd care to admit, and broke my leg on a hidden pothole ten minutes later; had to spend 4 months in rehab for the compound fracture, and missed my sister's wedding. Life's funny, ain't it?
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thought unthinkable #2
Too much a coward to decant him, I instead content myself to watch him floating, nude, yet shameless, in the very gel that feeds his body and his lungs. Every time I imagine opening it, setting him free, bringing him to conscious life, it seems so hollow, so contrived. For such a momentous occasion, what ceremony could exist? What would I say? What would I wear?
His house stands, waiting for him. Architecture and house-building were revoluntionized a few decades after a heat-malleable plastic was created. Soon someone could change any and all aspects of their domicile with a hot-air blower. Walls began to consist of three layers: Outside, a durable, heat-insensitive plastic that also provided plumbing, middle, a malleable metal sheet that conducted all forms of electronic signal, and an inner plastic that was extremly malleable and could be pulled separate from the walls to make bowls, tables, beds, anything. Some people still bought hard fixtures, for a time, citing their "classic nature", but even these were standardized to the new system. Moving lights, toilets, bath and appliances became a five to ten minute job; simply unplug, smooth over the old hole, plug in somewhere else.
The earliest form of this plastic was only available in a bright orange, but soon any color, pattern or texture was made available. The orange remained the least expensive, leading to the rise of the phrase, "Peach cheap".
Computors evolved to the point where they could read thoughts, and rearranging a house became as easy as daydreaming. Tiny projectors made color-changing instant.
As human bodies became more efficient, they outgrew the need for plumbing, and the plastic was made to conduct electricity. The materials required to build a house (no furniture) was reduced to a block the size of a person.
Other forms of waste were eliminated as well. Everything fell into one of two categories: Consumable or reusable. Anything that was not a consumable was legislated to be composed of the same plastic, thus when one were finished with an object, it could be molded into something new, or simply added to the walls.
"Throwing things out" became a children's game, then a legend, then un-known.
An unusual side-effect is that theft only dropped a minor amount. Only the rise of the collective unconscious finally stopped it altogether. Scientist agreed it was because the main psychological component for theft was control over another person, to take what they had, to control their need-fulfilment. Another joke among the emerging collective minds was for one person to "steal" another person's things.
I had a dream while I slept last month. He had come awake, alone, and hated me; he approached me, breathing heavily, and as he exhaled on me, my skin flaked off, tiny wisps of metal revealing a soft pink flesh that could be cut and would sag. I felt so naked, so open, like a sideshow to the world. As he stood over my weak frame, bent double as I had never known how to stand on spindly bone joints, he said to me,
"Now you are human. Like you have cursed me to be."
I awoke cold all over, my ribcage covered in a tepid sweat. Would he hate me for making him mortal when I did not need to?
Will he realize, I wonder, how beautiful I find him?
His house stands, waiting for him. Architecture and house-building were revoluntionized a few decades after a heat-malleable plastic was created. Soon someone could change any and all aspects of their domicile with a hot-air blower. Walls began to consist of three layers: Outside, a durable, heat-insensitive plastic that also provided plumbing, middle, a malleable metal sheet that conducted all forms of electronic signal, and an inner plastic that was extremly malleable and could be pulled separate from the walls to make bowls, tables, beds, anything. Some people still bought hard fixtures, for a time, citing their "classic nature", but even these were standardized to the new system. Moving lights, toilets, bath and appliances became a five to ten minute job; simply unplug, smooth over the old hole, plug in somewhere else.
The earliest form of this plastic was only available in a bright orange, but soon any color, pattern or texture was made available. The orange remained the least expensive, leading to the rise of the phrase, "Peach cheap".
Computors evolved to the point where they could read thoughts, and rearranging a house became as easy as daydreaming. Tiny projectors made color-changing instant.
As human bodies became more efficient, they outgrew the need for plumbing, and the plastic was made to conduct electricity. The materials required to build a house (no furniture) was reduced to a block the size of a person.
Other forms of waste were eliminated as well. Everything fell into one of two categories: Consumable or reusable. Anything that was not a consumable was legislated to be composed of the same plastic, thus when one were finished with an object, it could be molded into something new, or simply added to the walls.
"Throwing things out" became a children's game, then a legend, then un-known.
An unusual side-effect is that theft only dropped a minor amount. Only the rise of the collective unconscious finally stopped it altogether. Scientist agreed it was because the main psychological component for theft was control over another person, to take what they had, to control their need-fulfilment. Another joke among the emerging collective minds was for one person to "steal" another person's things.
I had a dream while I slept last month. He had come awake, alone, and hated me; he approached me, breathing heavily, and as he exhaled on me, my skin flaked off, tiny wisps of metal revealing a soft pink flesh that could be cut and would sag. I felt so naked, so open, like a sideshow to the world. As he stood over my weak frame, bent double as I had never known how to stand on spindly bone joints, he said to me,
"Now you are human. Like you have cursed me to be."
I awoke cold all over, my ribcage covered in a tepid sweat. Would he hate me for making him mortal when I did not need to?
Will he realize, I wonder, how beautiful I find him?
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Fine wine Tuesday
A cold has invaded my head, marching across my gray matter like gambolling purple fluffs. Everything above my shoulders is stuffed like cotton in an aspirin bottle, everything below, loose joints like elastic banded wood 2 x 4's.
My eyes feel pushed from behind, tight against their lids, and I've prayed a million times for something to happen to free up tomorrow. (Volunteering 2- 5, PAL-restricted 6-10, work 12- 8)I want someone to create an extra twelve hours in the day, tuck me into bed, comb my hair, and tell me I'm still a beautiful little amazon. Because I know I look terrible.
Oh no, that was no ploy to fish for compliments; I know I do. The first PAL-restricted course was taught today by the same man who taught me the PAL- non-restricted. He's seen me before, twice, for four hours, about three weeks ago, amid about 30 other students. I walked in today, first thing he says? "You look awful. You sick?"
Sometimes I think I'm hard to read, and other times I'm sure there's a neon sign above my head, "Michelle is talkative today because blah, blah, blah."
The feeling I am experiencing can be reproduced by burping up cheesesteak, and thinking of lane changing with no power-steering in philly on a drizzly Thursday while the radio plays a song with only acoustic guitar. Actually, it's best if you imagine an off-duty clown in a Bogart trench loping along the sidewalk, too.
Seriously though, I like Haiku. I like the concept, the execution, and the result.
This place gets even weirder when I'm sick. Two chairs lined up in a cubicle, and all I can think is, "Brokeback time!". I pause to discreetly adjust my underwear and turn to find a plastic skeleton, his hand over his mouth in mute, hallowe'eny horror.
When my cold gives me chills, my body becomes a huge pacemaker, pounding it's electric shock heartbeat through my ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, and elbows.
I become a giant, fake-blood filled plastic I.V bag on the shelf at the Edmonton Space and Science center.
Someone's flowery, magnetic wedding announcement makes me weep, until I see it was last year, which means it's over, which makes me happy, cause now it's a marriage, which means work that I'm not doing! HAHA!
Shaudenfreudean
electric pacemaker haiku
philadelphia
Don't think the images, feel them. Far too people experience what life feels like. Breathe it through your nose, resting on your palate like wine. Taste the world through your skin. Like a grand piano, a merlot, and a box of chocolate...
Grab some kleenex and go here:
http://www.phables.com/archive/20070625.html
My eyes feel pushed from behind, tight against their lids, and I've prayed a million times for something to happen to free up tomorrow. (Volunteering 2- 5, PAL-restricted 6-10, work 12- 8)I want someone to create an extra twelve hours in the day, tuck me into bed, comb my hair, and tell me I'm still a beautiful little amazon. Because I know I look terrible.
Oh no, that was no ploy to fish for compliments; I know I do. The first PAL-restricted course was taught today by the same man who taught me the PAL- non-restricted. He's seen me before, twice, for four hours, about three weeks ago, amid about 30 other students. I walked in today, first thing he says? "You look awful. You sick?"
Sometimes I think I'm hard to read, and other times I'm sure there's a neon sign above my head, "Michelle is talkative today because blah, blah, blah."
The feeling I am experiencing can be reproduced by burping up cheesesteak, and thinking of lane changing with no power-steering in philly on a drizzly Thursday while the radio plays a song with only acoustic guitar. Actually, it's best if you imagine an off-duty clown in a Bogart trench loping along the sidewalk, too.
Seriously though, I like Haiku. I like the concept, the execution, and the result.
This place gets even weirder when I'm sick. Two chairs lined up in a cubicle, and all I can think is, "Brokeback time!". I pause to discreetly adjust my underwear and turn to find a plastic skeleton, his hand over his mouth in mute, hallowe'eny horror.
When my cold gives me chills, my body becomes a huge pacemaker, pounding it's electric shock heartbeat through my ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, and elbows.
I become a giant, fake-blood filled plastic I.V bag on the shelf at the Edmonton Space and Science center.
Someone's flowery, magnetic wedding announcement makes me weep, until I see it was last year, which means it's over, which makes me happy, cause now it's a marriage, which means work that I'm not doing! HAHA!
Shaudenfreudean
electric pacemaker haiku
philadelphia
Don't think the images, feel them. Far too people experience what life feels like. Breathe it through your nose, resting on your palate like wine. Taste the world through your skin. Like a grand piano, a merlot, and a box of chocolate...
Grab some kleenex and go here:
http://www.phables.com/archive/20070625.html
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Fiction #18
There is a choice to be made:
My integrity? My belief that I am a good man, whose actions lead to good outcomes?
Or human life?
It matters little, now, to curse the safety failure that has led to this moment, where a million tonnes, literally, of responsibility comes crashing onto my shoulders. My hand is on the switch, it is foreign to me, as if disconnecting the arm at the joint could ease the burden.
My mother taught me to be a good man.
She could not forsee this; No-one could.
Which is why I am unprepared. My careful facade of training and thought is dissolved and I am my core; An animal - Man, and I am alone with my choice.
Perhaps I should begin.
This morning I went to bed. I woke up this evening, tucked my little girl into bed, kissed my wife good night, then packed my lunchtin and went to work in a 6 x 6 booth in the middle of nowhere.
I work for a railroad company, running an integral checkpoint. I have railroad crossings, timing sheets, some mechanical stuff, and a large switch that controls an emergency track diverter about a mile up.
This is the scene in which this Shakespearean tragedy will play out.
With me to decide; Antagonist or Protagonist?
From my booth today, I saw five men enter the main tunnel, I am unsure of their purpose. I could only identify them from the lights they carried. They were swift, and soon I could not see their lights anymore. When a train began to approach, I was annoyed. I would have to divert the train, signal it to stop, back it up (trains take a damn long time to stop) then wait till they clear to resume the course. The tunnel is twenty miles long, so I was sure they were still in there.
As my hand gripped the switch to divert, I saw, to my growing horror, a person on the diversion track, obviously stuck between the rails. Should I divert the train, the person would be killed. Should I fail to, the five men will be killed.
My mind rails against this disgusting unfairness! I should not even have to make this choice! It is four hours to my next scheduled train; I do not know where this one hails from, and we are allowed, even encouraged, to sleep between trains, to promote alertness. I should be asleep! Then I would not know this, would not stare this evil in the face, but I do and the knowledge sits on my brain like a gargantuan toad.
To save five men, I must kill another.
Blood on my hands, but to watch five men die?
I wish to close my eyes, to pretend it is not happening, but I cannot avert them. I must confront this abyss, and see who I am. To take direction. To not let anyone die without consideration. This decision must be made. Must be owned.
I will hug my wife and child when I return home, on stress leave. For now, there are the men, the tracks, the switch, and the blackness chewing on my soul.
*****
A side note: This is my 200th post. I wanted to make it something happy, but it is deep instead. Please give this thought experiment due consideration, and thank you for reading! I hope things will only improve from here!
My integrity? My belief that I am a good man, whose actions lead to good outcomes?
Or human life?
It matters little, now, to curse the safety failure that has led to this moment, where a million tonnes, literally, of responsibility comes crashing onto my shoulders. My hand is on the switch, it is foreign to me, as if disconnecting the arm at the joint could ease the burden.
My mother taught me to be a good man.
She could not forsee this; No-one could.
Which is why I am unprepared. My careful facade of training and thought is dissolved and I am my core; An animal - Man, and I am alone with my choice.
Perhaps I should begin.
This morning I went to bed. I woke up this evening, tucked my little girl into bed, kissed my wife good night, then packed my lunchtin and went to work in a 6 x 6 booth in the middle of nowhere.
I work for a railroad company, running an integral checkpoint. I have railroad crossings, timing sheets, some mechanical stuff, and a large switch that controls an emergency track diverter about a mile up.
This is the scene in which this Shakespearean tragedy will play out.
With me to decide; Antagonist or Protagonist?
From my booth today, I saw five men enter the main tunnel, I am unsure of their purpose. I could only identify them from the lights they carried. They were swift, and soon I could not see their lights anymore. When a train began to approach, I was annoyed. I would have to divert the train, signal it to stop, back it up (trains take a damn long time to stop) then wait till they clear to resume the course. The tunnel is twenty miles long, so I was sure they were still in there.
As my hand gripped the switch to divert, I saw, to my growing horror, a person on the diversion track, obviously stuck between the rails. Should I divert the train, the person would be killed. Should I fail to, the five men will be killed.
My mind rails against this disgusting unfairness! I should not even have to make this choice! It is four hours to my next scheduled train; I do not know where this one hails from, and we are allowed, even encouraged, to sleep between trains, to promote alertness. I should be asleep! Then I would not know this, would not stare this evil in the face, but I do and the knowledge sits on my brain like a gargantuan toad.
To save five men, I must kill another.
Blood on my hands, but to watch five men die?
I wish to close my eyes, to pretend it is not happening, but I cannot avert them. I must confront this abyss, and see who I am. To take direction. To not let anyone die without consideration. This decision must be made. Must be owned.
I will hug my wife and child when I return home, on stress leave. For now, there are the men, the tracks, the switch, and the blackness chewing on my soul.
*****
A side note: This is my 200th post. I wanted to make it something happy, but it is deep instead. Please give this thought experiment due consideration, and thank you for reading! I hope things will only improve from here!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Unfinished
I didn't even think about it. I just did it one day.
Got behind the wheel of the world's ugliest Volkswagon Jetta and went. Placed myself like a black crowbar into the crevice of the road and wrenched the sky open.
This life doesn't feel weird to me. It feels like I escaped from a kidnapping, back to a life I hadn't met yet.
I volunteer to stay alive. Soup kitchens, food banks, shelters. I weight less than a gnat's spit, but I don't mind.
You think I'm running from something? Not from, nor to. Just running.
Got behind the wheel of the world's ugliest Volkswagon Jetta and went. Placed myself like a black crowbar into the crevice of the road and wrenched the sky open.
This life doesn't feel weird to me. It feels like I escaped from a kidnapping, back to a life I hadn't met yet.
I volunteer to stay alive. Soup kitchens, food banks, shelters. I weight less than a gnat's spit, but I don't mind.
You think I'm running from something? Not from, nor to. Just running.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Nomadic #5
The witch and I have settled near a river about a month's walk from where I left the tribe last. She said it would be easier on me to give birth in a place that is familiar. A silly notion, that. The heartbeat of this land is in my feet; I have never been here, but I know it's every inch.
She has set about being my midwife, and since the custom in my tribe demands every able woman to assist an expectant mother, I accept her goodwill. I suppose we are a tribe now. However, willing though she is, she is also inept.
The hot afternoon has urged me to rest my newly curved body, and my strength has waned with my appetite, but we must eat, and so I watch her in the river.
Her skirt hiked up, hair soggy, she wades in the shallow areas until she spots a fish, at which point she lunges, throwing herself upon it with a terrific splash. With only two handfuls of mud for her efforts, she re-sets herself, wiggling her fingers in malicious delight and anticipation.
If I was a fish, I would be terrified by her shining eyes, and lolling red tounge. Fish are simple, however, and only see her shadow as a warning of her attack. I allow this debacle to continue, thoroughly amused, before waddling to the bank.
"Come here please." She slogs over, briefly obedient, "I will teach you and you will learn." She scoffs, but does not retort. Calling on the wisdom of countless hunters before me, I show her. First we roll in the grass, a tricky feat for my new shape, then we wade in, neck deep, and wait. Slowly, the fish come by, pecking at the bugs and grass stuck in our clothing. Eventually I feel a very large trout swim lazily under my arm. Quick as a blink I slide my fingers in his gills, letting the water flood his lungs. It is only a moment, then he is mine, and big enough that it matters little when she claps her hands and dances around child-like, scaring the rest.
As we shake ourselves dry on the shore, I cannot resist a sly jab,
"You might be too dumb to catch fish." She topples over backwards in her mirth, giggling, but soon rolls upright with a jackal-ish grin, and a hand poised. At the snap of her fingers, a school of fish are pulled out of the river. They hover, twisting, writhing, contorting, suspended on invisible skewers, their silver flesh dripping perfect diamonds of water. When I choke on my own gasp, she barks a great laugh and drops them back in.
"That wasn't the POINT." She clucks.
My legs are cold and prickly. I had forgotten the most important rule of dealing with her; She will always have the last word.
I let her cook the prize, for she collects grasses that make the fish palatable to my finicky body. I always eat what she cooks, no matter how odd looking, for I had no fear she wanted to dispatch me. If she had wanted, she would have long ago. But after today, I am not sure. Perhaps she toys with me?
The next day we stood together in the water, and a second fat trout approached my belly. He began to nip at my shirt when the baby kicked him ferociously in the snout. He scooted backwards into the witch, who lifted him out of the water and squeezed the life out of him, with no joy, as I expected, but a grim neutrality. Slightly unnerved, but satisfied, I retired to the bank to allow the baby to work out his glee on my spine and ribcage. She followed me and spent the remainder of the afternoon prodding my baby with the head of the fish. We are certainly the strangest tribe ever.
Yet, and yet, I find myself growing proud.
She has set about being my midwife, and since the custom in my tribe demands every able woman to assist an expectant mother, I accept her goodwill. I suppose we are a tribe now. However, willing though she is, she is also inept.
The hot afternoon has urged me to rest my newly curved body, and my strength has waned with my appetite, but we must eat, and so I watch her in the river.
Her skirt hiked up, hair soggy, she wades in the shallow areas until she spots a fish, at which point she lunges, throwing herself upon it with a terrific splash. With only two handfuls of mud for her efforts, she re-sets herself, wiggling her fingers in malicious delight and anticipation.
If I was a fish, I would be terrified by her shining eyes, and lolling red tounge. Fish are simple, however, and only see her shadow as a warning of her attack. I allow this debacle to continue, thoroughly amused, before waddling to the bank.
"Come here please." She slogs over, briefly obedient, "I will teach you and you will learn." She scoffs, but does not retort. Calling on the wisdom of countless hunters before me, I show her. First we roll in the grass, a tricky feat for my new shape, then we wade in, neck deep, and wait. Slowly, the fish come by, pecking at the bugs and grass stuck in our clothing. Eventually I feel a very large trout swim lazily under my arm. Quick as a blink I slide my fingers in his gills, letting the water flood his lungs. It is only a moment, then he is mine, and big enough that it matters little when she claps her hands and dances around child-like, scaring the rest.
As we shake ourselves dry on the shore, I cannot resist a sly jab,
"You might be too dumb to catch fish." She topples over backwards in her mirth, giggling, but soon rolls upright with a jackal-ish grin, and a hand poised. At the snap of her fingers, a school of fish are pulled out of the river. They hover, twisting, writhing, contorting, suspended on invisible skewers, their silver flesh dripping perfect diamonds of water. When I choke on my own gasp, she barks a great laugh and drops them back in.
"That wasn't the POINT." She clucks.
My legs are cold and prickly. I had forgotten the most important rule of dealing with her; She will always have the last word.
I let her cook the prize, for she collects grasses that make the fish palatable to my finicky body. I always eat what she cooks, no matter how odd looking, for I had no fear she wanted to dispatch me. If she had wanted, she would have long ago. But after today, I am not sure. Perhaps she toys with me?
The next day we stood together in the water, and a second fat trout approached my belly. He began to nip at my shirt when the baby kicked him ferociously in the snout. He scooted backwards into the witch, who lifted him out of the water and squeezed the life out of him, with no joy, as I expected, but a grim neutrality. Slightly unnerved, but satisfied, I retired to the bank to allow the baby to work out his glee on my spine and ribcage. She followed me and spent the remainder of the afternoon prodding my baby with the head of the fish. We are certainly the strangest tribe ever.
Yet, and yet, I find myself growing proud.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Misconceptions and Plans I have abandoned as I aged
M: Good morning Everyone!
For your reading enjoyment, I have brought with me today, myself.
8: HiHI!
M:...at age eight.
8: So, like, people read this?
M: Yah, a couple. It's on the internet so anyone
8: Really? You write on the internet? Like, anything? But there's no unicorns? Who'd read it with no ponies in it?
M: I'll, uh, try to throw more in.
8: So you write as a job? That's cool. I want to be a Spice Girl, but writing's good.
M: Actually I just write as a hobby; I'm a security guard.
8: Don't you need to be, like, a ninja? Do you shoot people? Isn't it scary?
M: No, no. I mostly just make sure no-one steals my building.
8: YOUR BUILDING MOVES!?
M: Oh. No. That was a joke. See, I'm really funny when I grow up.
8: No you aren't. And you look all weird. Why are you in pants? I only like dresses. Why's your hair so short?
M: Short? It's shoulder-length. That's long enough. I had it shaved once.
8: No you DIDN'T! You're lying! Mom wouldn't let you do that!!
M: She thought it was a nice idea.
8: Nu-uh! You'd look stupid! How would you get any boys like that?
M: Well, I was dating a guy at the time
8: EEEEWWWW! REALLY? So you've, like, kissed a boy?
M: Yah, a couple.
8: So, you're married right? Cause if you kiss a boy it means you like him and you're gonna get married!
M: Not really. Nothing's worked out so far. It just hasn't been right yet.
8: But you're like, twenty-two! That's, like, a MILLION! How're you gonna have kids now?
M: Well, I'm thinking I might not.
8: But what are you gonna DOOOOO then?
M: I'm going to become a police officer.
8: That's stupid. When I grow up, I'm going to marry Blaine Biberdorf. He's a boy in my class.
M: Don't you think you should challenge yourself?
8: That is tough! He doesn't even know I'M ALIVE!!!
M: I mean there's more to life then boys. Like taking care of yourself and learning new things.
8: That stuff's boring. Besides, where am I gonna live if I don't get married, huh?
M: Well, I own my own place, so I live there.
8: Really? Like, all by yourself? Don't you get scared at night?
M: I work all night, so not really.
8: That sounds scary. But if you live by yourself you could sleep in the living room! In front of the T.V!
M: Actually I don't watch that much T.V anymore.
8: You're stupid. What do you do all day then?
M: Well, I work out a lot
8: Do you, like, work out your butt? *giggle*
M: My gluteus is included in my lower body strength routine. I do squats, leg press
8: BOOOORING. What else?
M: Taking care of the house takes a lot of time.
8: What, like, you have to clean it? All by yourself?
M: Nobody else is going to do it for me.
8: Why don't you run away? Or, like, get a maid.
M: Maids cost a lot of money.
8: You work all the time! Don't you have a lot of money?
M: I have bills too, and other things.
8: Do you ever do anything FUN?
M: My friends and I like to spend time together. They're fun.
8: Like Melanie and Amanda and Jocelyn? We're friends forever!
M: No, mostly guys I've met at the university and work.
8: WOW! You were in university!!?!
M: Yes. I've already graduated with a psychology degree.
8: Psykologee? I want to do dancing. So you must, like, know EVERYTHING, right?
M: Not quite...
8: Where's your car? We buy a porsche boxster, right? That's my favorite! I'm gonna drive it everyday and so really fast!
M: Oh. Uh. I don't have a car anymore.
8: WHAT?! I grow up to be so stupid! If you don't tell me ONE good thing about being a grown-up, I'm NEVER GOING TO GROW UP!
M: Really?
8: I MEAN IT!!!
M: Well, uh. I can drink red wine.
8: MAJOR GROSS-OUT!!! That's stuff's yuky!
M: Well, I like it now. I can eat whatever I want too.
8: Mom cooks you whatever you want?
M: No, I cook for myself now.
8: Like, everyday? That's kinda cool.
M: I'm really confident now too. People say I'm really charismatic.
8: NO DUH. You have BOOOBS.
M: What? What does that have to do with anything?
8: Boobs make you confident. People like you more when you have boobs.
M: I, uh,... where did you get that idea?
8: T.V says so! Duh!! You know, for somebody that was in university, you're kinda dumb.
M: Oh really? What else should I know?
8: You should get a HUGE house.
M: I can't really afford that.
8: That's silly. Everyone can. Barbie does.
M: Barbie's not really accurate. Not everyone lives like she does.
8: But you do wear make-up everyday right?
M: No. Not really. Only for special occasions.
8: AHHHH! NO wonder we're not married! And you wear Glasses! That's even stupidest! You should only wear contacts! Glasses are stupid!
M: Actually, glasses are cool now. They're a fashion statement.
8: Is the statement, "I'm a huge DORK"?!
M: Well, I'm proud to be a geek now.
8: AHHHHH! I GROW UP TO BE A LOSER! I'M GOING HOME!!
M: Well, at least I can buy a chocolate bar whenever I want!
8: Yah but you can't eat it cause you'll get all FAAAAAT!
M: That's WHY I WORK OUT!
8: NO! It's cause you like boys!
M: YOU'RE IMPOSSIBLE!
8: AHHHH!!! YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!
M: AHHHHHH!!!!
This has been a Michelle vs. Michelle interview. Thank you for reading.
For your reading enjoyment, I have brought with me today, myself.
8: HiHI!
M:...at age eight.
8: So, like, people read this?
M: Yah, a couple. It's on the internet so anyone
8: Really? You write on the internet? Like, anything? But there's no unicorns? Who'd read it with no ponies in it?
M: I'll, uh, try to throw more in.
8: So you write as a job? That's cool. I want to be a Spice Girl, but writing's good.
M: Actually I just write as a hobby; I'm a security guard.
8: Don't you need to be, like, a ninja? Do you shoot people? Isn't it scary?
M: No, no. I mostly just make sure no-one steals my building.
8: YOUR BUILDING MOVES!?
M: Oh. No. That was a joke. See, I'm really funny when I grow up.
8: No you aren't. And you look all weird. Why are you in pants? I only like dresses. Why's your hair so short?
M: Short? It's shoulder-length. That's long enough. I had it shaved once.
8: No you DIDN'T! You're lying! Mom wouldn't let you do that!!
M: She thought it was a nice idea.
8: Nu-uh! You'd look stupid! How would you get any boys like that?
M: Well, I was dating a guy at the time
8: EEEEWWWW! REALLY? So you've, like, kissed a boy?
M: Yah, a couple.
8: So, you're married right? Cause if you kiss a boy it means you like him and you're gonna get married!
M: Not really. Nothing's worked out so far. It just hasn't been right yet.
8: But you're like, twenty-two! That's, like, a MILLION! How're you gonna have kids now?
M: Well, I'm thinking I might not.
8: But what are you gonna DOOOOO then?
M: I'm going to become a police officer.
8: That's stupid. When I grow up, I'm going to marry Blaine Biberdorf. He's a boy in my class.
M: Don't you think you should challenge yourself?
8: That is tough! He doesn't even know I'M ALIVE!!!
M: I mean there's more to life then boys. Like taking care of yourself and learning new things.
8: That stuff's boring. Besides, where am I gonna live if I don't get married, huh?
M: Well, I own my own place, so I live there.
8: Really? Like, all by yourself? Don't you get scared at night?
M: I work all night, so not really.
8: That sounds scary. But if you live by yourself you could sleep in the living room! In front of the T.V!
M: Actually I don't watch that much T.V anymore.
8: You're stupid. What do you do all day then?
M: Well, I work out a lot
8: Do you, like, work out your butt? *giggle*
M: My gluteus is included in my lower body strength routine. I do squats, leg press
8: BOOOORING. What else?
M: Taking care of the house takes a lot of time.
8: What, like, you have to clean it? All by yourself?
M: Nobody else is going to do it for me.
8: Why don't you run away? Or, like, get a maid.
M: Maids cost a lot of money.
8: You work all the time! Don't you have a lot of money?
M: I have bills too, and other things.
8: Do you ever do anything FUN?
M: My friends and I like to spend time together. They're fun.
8: Like Melanie and Amanda and Jocelyn? We're friends forever!
M: No, mostly guys I've met at the university and work.
8: WOW! You were in university!!?!
M: Yes. I've already graduated with a psychology degree.
8: Psykologee? I want to do dancing. So you must, like, know EVERYTHING, right?
M: Not quite...
8: Where's your car? We buy a porsche boxster, right? That's my favorite! I'm gonna drive it everyday and so really fast!
M: Oh. Uh. I don't have a car anymore.
8: WHAT?! I grow up to be so stupid! If you don't tell me ONE good thing about being a grown-up, I'm NEVER GOING TO GROW UP!
M: Really?
8: I MEAN IT!!!
M: Well, uh. I can drink red wine.
8: MAJOR GROSS-OUT!!! That's stuff's yuky!
M: Well, I like it now. I can eat whatever I want too.
8: Mom cooks you whatever you want?
M: No, I cook for myself now.
8: Like, everyday? That's kinda cool.
M: I'm really confident now too. People say I'm really charismatic.
8: NO DUH. You have BOOOBS.
M: What? What does that have to do with anything?
8: Boobs make you confident. People like you more when you have boobs.
M: I, uh,... where did you get that idea?
8: T.V says so! Duh!! You know, for somebody that was in university, you're kinda dumb.
M: Oh really? What else should I know?
8: You should get a HUGE house.
M: I can't really afford that.
8: That's silly. Everyone can. Barbie does.
M: Barbie's not really accurate. Not everyone lives like she does.
8: But you do wear make-up everyday right?
M: No. Not really. Only for special occasions.
8: AHHHH! NO wonder we're not married! And you wear Glasses! That's even stupidest! You should only wear contacts! Glasses are stupid!
M: Actually, glasses are cool now. They're a fashion statement.
8: Is the statement, "I'm a huge DORK"?!
M: Well, I'm proud to be a geek now.
8: AHHHHH! I GROW UP TO BE A LOSER! I'M GOING HOME!!
M: Well, at least I can buy a chocolate bar whenever I want!
8: Yah but you can't eat it cause you'll get all FAAAAAT!
M: That's WHY I WORK OUT!
8: NO! It's cause you like boys!
M: YOU'RE IMPOSSIBLE!
8: AHHHH!!! YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!
M: AHHHHHH!!!!
This has been a Michelle vs. Michelle interview. Thank you for reading.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Suspended animation
It's tuesday again and my brain is full of pap, drek, and garbage.
I did just create the most iconic scene of my life though. Standing in my kitchen, my legs too sore to sit, in my security uniform, maowing down a tablespoon of Jif, the jar labelled "fa san au yau" (lit. peanut butter), arguing over the phone with someone a country away.
I managed to achieve one of my goals so far; I squatted over my body weight for 3 x 5 reps. Next stop? 200 lbs! I am more motivated lately since I discovered that not only DOES edmonton have a "SWAT" team, called tactical, but there are 8 squads in it, one of which seems to be composed of gorillas. I have a Plan!
Now I regret not using the washer and dryer that were readily available not 40 feet from my bedroom when I lived in High Level!!
I find it interesting that no matter how rich, how famous you get, the one problem that never goes away is other people. You could be the first man to cure hunger, poverty, and disease in one day; you are still going to get a dirty look if you accidentally tread on someone else's foot. Even Bill Gates has to fight with the drive-thru waiter at McDonalds ("Just a freakin' Big Mac!"). I suspect even Jesus had to console his mom after forgetting her birthday just once.
The moral? Learn to get along with people. Being able to connect with people, really get along with them, will help you more than an extra $50, 000 a year.
And some quotes shamlessly pilfered from my good friend Kirkie.
"The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that English is about as pure as a cribhouse whore. We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary."
-- James D. Nicoll
"I am going to have words with that boy, and he'll have gurgling whimpering sounds back."
-- Mike Plambeck
"Pivot tables in excel are... ok. You get used to them. Like treppaning."
-- Mike Plambeck
(I think he means Trefanation. Where holes are put into one's skull to relieve the demon influence)
"Universities are like the difference between a prostitute and an escort: Just because you pay them alot doesn't mean you're going to get something out of it. So it's like taking a course in philosophy."
--Corwin Dodd
"You know that fantasy about going back in time with a shotgun... The one where you raise a mighty army of savages thanks to your boom stick and force them to build you a pyramid? I think that's what it would be like to go to the US with a dictionary."
-- Ian Bailey
"Any technology distinguishable from magic is insufficiently advanced"
-- Geek's corollary to Clarke's law
"People sleep peaceably...only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
-- George Orwell
"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life."
--Winston Churchill
"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man."
-- George Bernard Shaw
"Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms should be the name of a store, not a government agency."
-- Unknown source
"You cannot reason a person out of a position he did not reason himself into in the first place."
--Jonathan Swift
"Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementia"
(roughly, There is no great genius without a tincture of madness)
—Seneca: De Tranquillitate Animi, 15.
"There are 4 boxes to use in the defense of liberty: soap, ballot, jury, ammo. Use in that order."
-- Author unknown
"Manners and civility are the grease that make the make the machinery of society go forth. Politcal Correctness puts the focus on word choice rather than intent, and is sand in the gears."
-- dosquatch (924618), on /.
I did just create the most iconic scene of my life though. Standing in my kitchen, my legs too sore to sit, in my security uniform, maowing down a tablespoon of Jif, the jar labelled "fa san au yau" (lit. peanut butter), arguing over the phone with someone a country away.
I managed to achieve one of my goals so far; I squatted over my body weight for 3 x 5 reps. Next stop? 200 lbs! I am more motivated lately since I discovered that not only DOES edmonton have a "SWAT" team, called tactical, but there are 8 squads in it, one of which seems to be composed of gorillas. I have a Plan!
Now I regret not using the washer and dryer that were readily available not 40 feet from my bedroom when I lived in High Level!!
I find it interesting that no matter how rich, how famous you get, the one problem that never goes away is other people. You could be the first man to cure hunger, poverty, and disease in one day; you are still going to get a dirty look if you accidentally tread on someone else's foot. Even Bill Gates has to fight with the drive-thru waiter at McDonalds ("Just a freakin' Big Mac!"). I suspect even Jesus had to console his mom after forgetting her birthday just once.
The moral? Learn to get along with people. Being able to connect with people, really get along with them, will help you more than an extra $50, 000 a year.
And some quotes shamlessly pilfered from my good friend Kirkie.
"The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that English is about as pure as a cribhouse whore. We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary."
-- James D. Nicoll
"I am going to have words with that boy, and he'll have gurgling whimpering sounds back."
-- Mike Plambeck
"Pivot tables in excel are... ok. You get used to them. Like treppaning."
-- Mike Plambeck
(I think he means Trefanation. Where holes are put into one's skull to relieve the demon influence)
"Universities are like the difference between a prostitute and an escort: Just because you pay them alot doesn't mean you're going to get something out of it. So it's like taking a course in philosophy."
--Corwin Dodd
"You know that fantasy about going back in time with a shotgun... The one where you raise a mighty army of savages thanks to your boom stick and force them to build you a pyramid? I think that's what it would be like to go to the US with a dictionary."
-- Ian Bailey
"Any technology distinguishable from magic is insufficiently advanced"
-- Geek's corollary to Clarke's law
"People sleep peaceably...only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
-- George Orwell
"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life."
--Winston Churchill
"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man."
-- George Bernard Shaw
"Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms should be the name of a store, not a government agency."
-- Unknown source
"You cannot reason a person out of a position he did not reason himself into in the first place."
--Jonathan Swift
"Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementia"
(roughly, There is no great genius without a tincture of madness)
—Seneca: De Tranquillitate Animi, 15.
"There are 4 boxes to use in the defense of liberty: soap, ballot, jury, ammo. Use in that order."
-- Author unknown
"Manners and civility are the grease that make the make the machinery of society go forth. Politcal Correctness puts the focus on word choice rather than intent, and is sand in the gears."
-- dosquatch (924618), on /.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Fiction post #17
I was nine years old when the first world war, known to us as the Great War, started. It was such an abstract notion to me and my brother, armies an ocean away clashing in exotic countires over a Duke I'd only ever heard of. As children it fascinated my brother and I. We made guns out of branches, gave ourselves exorbitant commissions and generally made tremendous nuisances of ourselves.
My daddy worked in a new munitions factory, having been offered better pay than his old job as a site foreman, and during dinner, over beef stew and wonderbread, he would show us casings he brought home. Once he dropped one so big it smashed one of mother's striped brown water glasses. Her mouth was tight as she mopped up the spilt milk. I think that is what initially turned her off the war, despite all our talk of grandiose adventures. That night, as I hid under the covers to read comics, I heard them arguing, and no more munitions were brought home.
The damage was done, for all mother's machinations, and my brother surprised us a week after his 18th birthday by announcing he was enlisting. His face expected praise; he was a naiive fool. Mother held his shoulders and sobbed, pressing his face into her bosom, like he was a toddler again. She eventually cried herself sick and retired to bed. My father turned on him, shouting how could he be so selfish, and he was complete idiot. My brother stood up to defend himself, but their argument bored and scared me, so I went upstairs and amused myself by dropping increasingly larger objects into the full tub.
Presently my brother sat next to me and asked if I would mind, little Rosie-dosie, if he left for a bit to save the world and I asked why couldn't I come and he laughed and said maybe when I was older and not a girl. I remember hoping I'd grow into a big man soon. Due to some confusing health classes I thought I would grow from a girl to a woman to a man. It was many years before science cleared this up.
Two weeks later my brother boarded the loud, black, train that would carry him to parts unknown. The platform was packed, so my daddy picked me up to wave good-bye. He smelled like cologne and I knew he'd dressed up. As the train groaned and ponderously lumbered away my mother used her strong Italian elbows to work her way to the front of the crowd, hand outstretched, reaching, framed by the rivets on the windows, desperately trying to hold his hand, just once more, please. The train picked up speed, there was one brief touch, then she was alone, on the platform, hair just a bit loose, swaying with the crowd.
The day the letter came, she swayed the same way. She couldn't speak, just sank onto the couch as my father snatched the white paper from her hands. It was very brief, as they always were, and heavily censored, but we understood this:
His term of service was over soon, and he had fallen in love and married a beautiful italian girl that summer.
My mother wept she was so relieved, then fumed she had not been told sooner, then fretted when she realized the letter was late, that they would be here in a month! She spent the first two weeks cleaning, then the next two cooking. Everything. When I told her he wasn't going to bring the whole army with him, she swatted me and muttered something about "healthy grandchildren".
When my brother and his wife returned home, we invited over the whole family and celebrated. They petted over how much he'd grown, wondered at his huge arms, and rejoiced over his medals. He told us about all but one of them, saying it would worry mama. He told me later; he'd pulled a friend off the battlefield, patched him up, and carried him seven miles to safety. When I pressed him, how could he do that, he rolled up his sleeve and flashed his bicep at me with a cheeky grin.
Years later, another war followed and I followed my father to the muntitions factory. On my way there, in my blue coveralls, hair tucked under a red handkerchief, an artist stopped me asking, did I think we could win the war?
I remembered my brother's confident smile, rolled up my sleeve, and announced, "We can do it!"
And the rest? Is history.
My daddy worked in a new munitions factory, having been offered better pay than his old job as a site foreman, and during dinner, over beef stew and wonderbread, he would show us casings he brought home. Once he dropped one so big it smashed one of mother's striped brown water glasses. Her mouth was tight as she mopped up the spilt milk. I think that is what initially turned her off the war, despite all our talk of grandiose adventures. That night, as I hid under the covers to read comics, I heard them arguing, and no more munitions were brought home.
The damage was done, for all mother's machinations, and my brother surprised us a week after his 18th birthday by announcing he was enlisting. His face expected praise; he was a naiive fool. Mother held his shoulders and sobbed, pressing his face into her bosom, like he was a toddler again. She eventually cried herself sick and retired to bed. My father turned on him, shouting how could he be so selfish, and he was complete idiot. My brother stood up to defend himself, but their argument bored and scared me, so I went upstairs and amused myself by dropping increasingly larger objects into the full tub.
Presently my brother sat next to me and asked if I would mind, little Rosie-dosie, if he left for a bit to save the world and I asked why couldn't I come and he laughed and said maybe when I was older and not a girl. I remember hoping I'd grow into a big man soon. Due to some confusing health classes I thought I would grow from a girl to a woman to a man. It was many years before science cleared this up.
Two weeks later my brother boarded the loud, black, train that would carry him to parts unknown. The platform was packed, so my daddy picked me up to wave good-bye. He smelled like cologne and I knew he'd dressed up. As the train groaned and ponderously lumbered away my mother used her strong Italian elbows to work her way to the front of the crowd, hand outstretched, reaching, framed by the rivets on the windows, desperately trying to hold his hand, just once more, please. The train picked up speed, there was one brief touch, then she was alone, on the platform, hair just a bit loose, swaying with the crowd.
The day the letter came, she swayed the same way. She couldn't speak, just sank onto the couch as my father snatched the white paper from her hands. It was very brief, as they always were, and heavily censored, but we understood this:
His term of service was over soon, and he had fallen in love and married a beautiful italian girl that summer.
My mother wept she was so relieved, then fumed she had not been told sooner, then fretted when she realized the letter was late, that they would be here in a month! She spent the first two weeks cleaning, then the next two cooking. Everything. When I told her he wasn't going to bring the whole army with him, she swatted me and muttered something about "healthy grandchildren".
When my brother and his wife returned home, we invited over the whole family and celebrated. They petted over how much he'd grown, wondered at his huge arms, and rejoiced over his medals. He told us about all but one of them, saying it would worry mama. He told me later; he'd pulled a friend off the battlefield, patched him up, and carried him seven miles to safety. When I pressed him, how could he do that, he rolled up his sleeve and flashed his bicep at me with a cheeky grin.
Years later, another war followed and I followed my father to the muntitions factory. On my way there, in my blue coveralls, hair tucked under a red handkerchief, an artist stopped me asking, did I think we could win the war?
I remembered my brother's confident smile, rolled up my sleeve, and announced, "We can do it!"
And the rest? Is history.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Fiction post #16
The ides of March.
The word of the day is Betrayal.
Great soaring political plans brought low by our stinking humanity.
My brow is grim on this, the day of mighty Caesar's death.
Even now, I draw breath that he has exhaled.
He must die for what he has done.
I am Brutus.
I am Cain.
I am Judas.
I am Delilah.
The traitor. Mutinous dog. Forever Villified.
Death for treason, they cry, and smack their lips, but none may judge me.
What the traitor owes the betrayed cannot compare to what the betrayed owes the traitor. We were tools. Used unjustly?
What would be trust if it was never betrayed? Without faith or risk? Nothing.
You say our hearts crawl with maggots, but our actions speak no lies. Finding no recourse through our distaste, we spoke with daggers. Let blood heal what pretty words cannot.
In every betrayal, there is a touch of disdain for the victim, that they did not see this coming. There is anger for those close to us, who allowed us to become something we hate. There is an equal measure of happiness and sadness in everything. Balance of energy. Circular.
Gain only through loss
Loss only through gain
The word of the day is Betrayal.
Great soaring political plans brought low by our stinking humanity.
My brow is grim on this, the day of mighty Caesar's death.
Even now, I draw breath that he has exhaled.
He must die for what he has done.
I am Brutus.
I am Cain.
I am Judas.
I am Delilah.
The traitor. Mutinous dog. Forever Villified.
Death for treason, they cry, and smack their lips, but none may judge me.
What the traitor owes the betrayed cannot compare to what the betrayed owes the traitor. We were tools. Used unjustly?
What would be trust if it was never betrayed? Without faith or risk? Nothing.
You say our hearts crawl with maggots, but our actions speak no lies. Finding no recourse through our distaste, we spoke with daggers. Let blood heal what pretty words cannot.
In every betrayal, there is a touch of disdain for the victim, that they did not see this coming. There is anger for those close to us, who allowed us to become something we hate. There is an equal measure of happiness and sadness in everything. Balance of energy. Circular.
Gain only through loss
Loss only through gain
Friday, March 14, 2008
Sight unseen #1
When I meet new people, or even see others close up, next to me in the theatre, on the street, I always imagine the same thing. I lean over to them, place my lips right next to the folded shell of their ear, and whisper, softly,
"I see angels."
Their eyes widen, sometimes their mouth gapes, and no matter what they say, all I can hear is the crystal shattering of world I have worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to build.
I am Boston's most sought after homicide detective. My perfectly placed slate fireplace in my immaculate trendy condo on the richest street in the city, is covered with sparkling glass trophies, marble commendations, awards from foreign countries, and the grateful thanks of a small army of people whoese personal tragedies I helped alleviate. I have been told that some people pray to have me on their lost loved one's case. When I go to a restaurant, I never need to wait for a table.
And yet, I see them. Demons too. They go about average lives, newspapers, coffees, reports, buses, squabbles, dates, vacations. I think they know I can see them; it does not seem to matter.
I remember the first time I saw one. She was incredible, even standing on a street corner, waiting to cross. A head taller than anyone around her, a classicly beautiful face, high cheeks, soft lashes framed golden eyes, her brown hair curled playfully around her exquisite jaw, the halo behind her glowing softly like a proud parent. She was athletic, with massive wings folded genteelly behind her, garbed in a wafting greecian tunic. She was so stereotypical, I thought it was a religious protest, or an advertising stunt. But when she moved, She flowed through space as through soft waters and as her eyes fell on me, I could feel her presence in my bones, her blood pounded in my temples. Her breath was in my lungs, my chest heaving as she searched me for evil. The fear of God, awesome and terrifying, huge inside my mouth. Her hand gripped the sharpened blade she weilded, fire raced from my veins to it, then nothing. The light changed. She moved away. I looked up to the overcast sky and fainted.
I awoke naked on my bed at home, smelling the rain outside. My clothes, in the hamper luckily, bore the stains of my lunch, which I must have thrown up on myself. Looking at the remains of the hastily-consumed McDonalds, I knew I would never eat such garbage again.
I also remember the first time I saw a demon. I know, too, that I will never be able to quit smoking.
There is another secret I struggle to keep. A security blanket of a vice which could ruin me as well. I'm not sure I have strength enough to write it. I am sure lancing this boil would leave me gaping open, dribbling my secret to the world.
Two weeks after the First, I was walking to work, rushing to fill the gap made by the days I had taken sick to recover, when I stopped by a homeless man to give him my change. The folded five passed from my hand to his and our eyes met. I saw in them the same hollowness, wonder and horror, as I knew he saw in mine.
Without a word, he followed me to a cafe where we lunched in silence. He lives with me now, helping out where he can, existing silently by my side, and I by his. We have not spoken, instead relying on feelings to communciate. He leaves in the morning, to do what I know not, but I rountinely receive messages from companies saying, "Thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled." Once he entered the room as I was playing one. I deleted it, but his great hot shame overwhelmed me. I believe he cannot get a job because he does not list an address. In deference to me, he struggles with this challenge, desperatly trying to climb back onto the world he fell off of without cracking the thin ice of my own world.
I do not know why we have been given this gift. I do not know if it is a gift. Perhaps we are to do something with it, but I cannot think of anything to be done about it.
A month later, after he moved in, I was waiting in the park when I saw a demon approach a small girl. He began to smell her hair. I could not finish my coffee, my book slipped unheeded to the ground. My own uselessness sucked me into a pit, freezing me to the bench I occupied. Horror drained my face. But as she skipped away I saw an angel charge in. He held a great axe, which he buried into the demon's back with a scream that shattered my elbows, and heaved my shoulders. The demon turned in kind, slashing open the angel's consecrated face. The angel responded with a kick to the abdomen that revealed the edge of the axe through the front of the demon. The black soul bled to death, but not before delivering a final blow that broke the angel's legs. In the aftermath, he looked at me, we looked at each other; he pulled himself over to the shade I sat in, and lay his head on my lap. I covertly stroked his hair, weeping silently. Eventually he rolled into a patch of flowers, which all bloomed, and seemed to sleep.
That night, I went into the guest room that my ally slept in, and bawled while he patted me awkwardly. If this has a purpose, let it be known soon.
"I see angels."
Their eyes widen, sometimes their mouth gapes, and no matter what they say, all I can hear is the crystal shattering of world I have worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to build.
I am Boston's most sought after homicide detective. My perfectly placed slate fireplace in my immaculate trendy condo on the richest street in the city, is covered with sparkling glass trophies, marble commendations, awards from foreign countries, and the grateful thanks of a small army of people whoese personal tragedies I helped alleviate. I have been told that some people pray to have me on their lost loved one's case. When I go to a restaurant, I never need to wait for a table.
And yet, I see them. Demons too. They go about average lives, newspapers, coffees, reports, buses, squabbles, dates, vacations. I think they know I can see them; it does not seem to matter.
I remember the first time I saw one. She was incredible, even standing on a street corner, waiting to cross. A head taller than anyone around her, a classicly beautiful face, high cheeks, soft lashes framed golden eyes, her brown hair curled playfully around her exquisite jaw, the halo behind her glowing softly like a proud parent. She was athletic, with massive wings folded genteelly behind her, garbed in a wafting greecian tunic. She was so stereotypical, I thought it was a religious protest, or an advertising stunt. But when she moved, She flowed through space as through soft waters and as her eyes fell on me, I could feel her presence in my bones, her blood pounded in my temples. Her breath was in my lungs, my chest heaving as she searched me for evil. The fear of God, awesome and terrifying, huge inside my mouth. Her hand gripped the sharpened blade she weilded, fire raced from my veins to it, then nothing. The light changed. She moved away. I looked up to the overcast sky and fainted.
I awoke naked on my bed at home, smelling the rain outside. My clothes, in the hamper luckily, bore the stains of my lunch, which I must have thrown up on myself. Looking at the remains of the hastily-consumed McDonalds, I knew I would never eat such garbage again.
I also remember the first time I saw a demon. I know, too, that I will never be able to quit smoking.
There is another secret I struggle to keep. A security blanket of a vice which could ruin me as well. I'm not sure I have strength enough to write it. I am sure lancing this boil would leave me gaping open, dribbling my secret to the world.
Two weeks after the First, I was walking to work, rushing to fill the gap made by the days I had taken sick to recover, when I stopped by a homeless man to give him my change. The folded five passed from my hand to his and our eyes met. I saw in them the same hollowness, wonder and horror, as I knew he saw in mine.
Without a word, he followed me to a cafe where we lunched in silence. He lives with me now, helping out where he can, existing silently by my side, and I by his. We have not spoken, instead relying on feelings to communciate. He leaves in the morning, to do what I know not, but I rountinely receive messages from companies saying, "Thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled." Once he entered the room as I was playing one. I deleted it, but his great hot shame overwhelmed me. I believe he cannot get a job because he does not list an address. In deference to me, he struggles with this challenge, desperatly trying to climb back onto the world he fell off of without cracking the thin ice of my own world.
I do not know why we have been given this gift. I do not know if it is a gift. Perhaps we are to do something with it, but I cannot think of anything to be done about it.
A month later, after he moved in, I was waiting in the park when I saw a demon approach a small girl. He began to smell her hair. I could not finish my coffee, my book slipped unheeded to the ground. My own uselessness sucked me into a pit, freezing me to the bench I occupied. Horror drained my face. But as she skipped away I saw an angel charge in. He held a great axe, which he buried into the demon's back with a scream that shattered my elbows, and heaved my shoulders. The demon turned in kind, slashing open the angel's consecrated face. The angel responded with a kick to the abdomen that revealed the edge of the axe through the front of the demon. The black soul bled to death, but not before delivering a final blow that broke the angel's legs. In the aftermath, he looked at me, we looked at each other; he pulled himself over to the shade I sat in, and lay his head on my lap. I covertly stroked his hair, weeping silently. Eventually he rolled into a patch of flowers, which all bloomed, and seemed to sleep.
That night, I went into the guest room that my ally slept in, and bawled while he patted me awkwardly. If this has a purpose, let it be known soon.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Unthinkable fiction #1
We won our battle against nature. It was fought over thousands of years, although nearing the end the major 'players' stayed the same. There were set-backs, of course, but they all paled when we triumphed. I have documented the process here.
It started, although we did not know it, when we began to replace parts of our body with technology. Limbs became new and organs were refreshed. Accidents became an inconvenience. Self-improvement was rampant. Physical competitions, such as the Olympics, became largely irrelevent. This was the first breakthrough, for it heralded in a philosophy which spoke, "to be human, not all must be organic or original".
The next paradigm shift came when we began to replace neurons with electrical connections. With this newer, more sophisticated technology for grey matter, forgetting became a quaint, out-dated, notion. We lost the art of writing. Now, not even the part that did the thinking needed to be original. Descartes was ressurected: "Something thinks, therefore I can be."
People became fully robotic. It became mundane to be entirely artificial.
Soon we discovered that with submolecular technology implanted in the body at conception, we could trick the body into making a baby to which ever specifications we liked. Development occured in vitro as usual, but under the direction of the robots, who superceded the genetic codes. People began to become more and more similar as the "assembly line" mentality took over.
Finally, we developed micro-transformers that rearranged molecules on a sub-atomic level. The flesh that was used to create a new child became an ultra-dense, super-light elemental metal that we called Thiridium. The first 'perfect' baby was born on February 12th. A noted professor said, "Humanity is a state of mind, a self-diagnosed condition."
The final paradigm shift was complete; Disease, suffering and death were eliminated. All bodies become the height of perfection.
We became aware of a growing collective unconscious. Within 200 years we all became one mind.
Only one consciousness housed in billions of identical bodies.
Slowly, superfluous bodies were shut down. People no longer reproduced. We dwindled.
Now, there is only I. I am the last of the humans, if human I be.
Should I be called as such, I am the epitomy of human-ness, the perfect average of all personalities. I am nothing that has not been felt, to some degree, by every human that e'er felt heartbeat on this planet.
And right now?
I feel bored.
In times past I would alleviate this by talking with others, but I have no social drive, nor anyone to talk with. The drive came from the desire to be normal, the motivation to be accepted, to fit in. I am in. I need no "fit".
I never age, and cannot die. I have existed for thousands of years, during which I learned everything on this planet. There is nothing novel here anymore.
Well, there wasn't.
In the face of complete madness from ennui I took the unthinkable, yet logical step.
I made an imperfect man.
The computer took all the elements of myself, then randomized a random number of variables. The only thing I know about him is that he is not me, since he has not the Consciousness. I cannot hear his thoughts. His closed mind fascinates me.
In the lab, waiting to decant him, I am delighted to discover I am experiencing fear. I am scared. Of what will happen.
It has been an unspeakable long amount of time since I did not know something. The sensation thrills me, like a new love. I have made preparations for him, created a life for him to live in, but what if he does not like it? What if he does not like me? How could he not? He must. I know as such logically. I am the perfect woman. But does he know it logically? I check the timer on the vat, only 60 more years. Perhaps I'll do some cleaning while I wait.
It started, although we did not know it, when we began to replace parts of our body with technology. Limbs became new and organs were refreshed. Accidents became an inconvenience. Self-improvement was rampant. Physical competitions, such as the Olympics, became largely irrelevent. This was the first breakthrough, for it heralded in a philosophy which spoke, "to be human, not all must be organic or original".
The next paradigm shift came when we began to replace neurons with electrical connections. With this newer, more sophisticated technology for grey matter, forgetting became a quaint, out-dated, notion. We lost the art of writing. Now, not even the part that did the thinking needed to be original. Descartes was ressurected: "Something thinks, therefore I can be."
People became fully robotic. It became mundane to be entirely artificial.
Soon we discovered that with submolecular technology implanted in the body at conception, we could trick the body into making a baby to which ever specifications we liked. Development occured in vitro as usual, but under the direction of the robots, who superceded the genetic codes. People began to become more and more similar as the "assembly line" mentality took over.
Finally, we developed micro-transformers that rearranged molecules on a sub-atomic level. The flesh that was used to create a new child became an ultra-dense, super-light elemental metal that we called Thiridium. The first 'perfect' baby was born on February 12th. A noted professor said, "Humanity is a state of mind, a self-diagnosed condition."
The final paradigm shift was complete; Disease, suffering and death were eliminated. All bodies become the height of perfection.
We became aware of a growing collective unconscious. Within 200 years we all became one mind.
Only one consciousness housed in billions of identical bodies.
Slowly, superfluous bodies were shut down. People no longer reproduced. We dwindled.
Now, there is only I. I am the last of the humans, if human I be.
Should I be called as such, I am the epitomy of human-ness, the perfect average of all personalities. I am nothing that has not been felt, to some degree, by every human that e'er felt heartbeat on this planet.
And right now?
I feel bored.
In times past I would alleviate this by talking with others, but I have no social drive, nor anyone to talk with. The drive came from the desire to be normal, the motivation to be accepted, to fit in. I am in. I need no "fit".
I never age, and cannot die. I have existed for thousands of years, during which I learned everything on this planet. There is nothing novel here anymore.
Well, there wasn't.
In the face of complete madness from ennui I took the unthinkable, yet logical step.
I made an imperfect man.
The computer took all the elements of myself, then randomized a random number of variables. The only thing I know about him is that he is not me, since he has not the Consciousness. I cannot hear his thoughts. His closed mind fascinates me.
In the lab, waiting to decant him, I am delighted to discover I am experiencing fear. I am scared. Of what will happen.
It has been an unspeakable long amount of time since I did not know something. The sensation thrills me, like a new love. I have made preparations for him, created a life for him to live in, but what if he does not like it? What if he does not like me? How could he not? He must. I know as such logically. I am the perfect woman. But does he know it logically? I check the timer on the vat, only 60 more years. Perhaps I'll do some cleaning while I wait.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I'm noticing a trend...
Tuesdays roll around and I just don't care. (My tuesdays, which are sort of wednesday morning, but meh)
Seriously. I don't think I could've written a grocery list today, let alone anything I would inflict on my friends and family.
Plus I had my big interview with the armored division gentleman, which I felt went really well, but I didn't get out until 11:30, and at that point I'd be up for 23 hours, doing 'stuff'. I was kinda bagged.
Few things I'd like to jot down. If I get the job, they'll give me a boot allowance. Money. To buy shoes. I really love my chosen profession.
As well, I woke up early and went to the gym this evening. I really destroyed it today; one thing that made me really happy was the fact that the fitness center itself, with the weight machines and what-not was crazy crowded with stupid-hot guys. (Like so Hot it's stupid. Not stupid and hot. Well. They might be. I don't really talk to people in the gym, but it's at the university so...?) nevertheless the weight room with free weights, dumbells and barbells, was COMPLETELY empty. I'm usually too shy to do anything really challenging because I dislike looking stupid (having to be saved by two gentleman from a 'bench-press-gone-wrong' was an experience I wish I'd passed on) but since there was nobody around, I went to town. Now, as I sit on my bum at work, I can feel, literally FEEL my ab muscles begin to get sore. It's kind of like feeling the tide come in. This creeping, growing awareness. On the plus side I have a very definite four-pack.
Yet another day of joy
Seriously. I don't think I could've written a grocery list today, let alone anything I would inflict on my friends and family.
Plus I had my big interview with the armored division gentleman, which I felt went really well, but I didn't get out until 11:30, and at that point I'd be up for 23 hours, doing 'stuff'. I was kinda bagged.
Few things I'd like to jot down. If I get the job, they'll give me a boot allowance. Money. To buy shoes. I really love my chosen profession.
As well, I woke up early and went to the gym this evening. I really destroyed it today; one thing that made me really happy was the fact that the fitness center itself, with the weight machines and what-not was crazy crowded with stupid-hot guys. (Like so Hot it's stupid. Not stupid and hot. Well. They might be. I don't really talk to people in the gym, but it's at the university so...?) nevertheless the weight room with free weights, dumbells and barbells, was COMPLETELY empty. I'm usually too shy to do anything really challenging because I dislike looking stupid (having to be saved by two gentleman from a 'bench-press-gone-wrong' was an experience I wish I'd passed on) but since there was nobody around, I went to town. Now, as I sit on my bum at work, I can feel, literally FEEL my ab muscles begin to get sore. It's kind of like feeling the tide come in. This creeping, growing awareness. On the plus side I have a very definite four-pack.
Yet another day of joy
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Fiction work #15
Those damn Wright brothers.
We were one month away from catapulting ourselves into history, but they had to do it first.
They didn't even do it with style.
But us?
We got style; and a Dream. It's how we fell in love. We looked into each other's eyes, and saw the bright, beckoning, blue. Then we knew.
Twenty years later, here we are.
Standing together in the barn, staring, by dim lantern light, smelling like hay and grease, at our latest baby: The Mark IV, affectionately known as "Dolly". She's a bi with two old John Deere engines in her, heavily altered of course.
Just a few kinks to work out, the steerings still a little thick for what we need.
"What do you need?" You ask? We need her to turn sharper than the dog chasing his tail, to climb faster than the barnhand up the ladder in front of the bull's horns, to stop deader than...I dunno. Roadkill, probably. We'll get it. Oh, we'll get it.
Folks wonder why we need all this.
It's 'cause we're stuntmen.
The Amazing Marileze and Dupoir! Humans that fly like Birds! See feats of Darring-do that frighten women, children, and lesser men! Only 6p a show!
Dupoir will fly the plane, and I will wing-walk. There's a planted bar on poles on top of the wings. That's where I ride. Scarf trailing, and let me tell you, there's nothing better than chasing geese through the white clouds of fall.
Our most amazing trick is one I came up with while watching kids on the swings. First, we climb, straight up. As high as we can. Then, at the top, we kill the engine, and just fall: Diving, Tumbling, Rolling, Pitching, the ground covered in moss-like bushes, tiny humans like toys, houses like gingerbread, larger, down, the horizon a ruled edge of white between the heavens and the hard end that feels like it's balanced on your head as you handstand, plummeting unstoppably until WHOOSH he starts her up and we swoop away, seconds from death.
We call it the Icarus. It horrifes our bridge partners.
"But you could DIE!" They gasp.
"But we could LIVE!" We reply.
They shake their heads. They don't understand.
Especially the women. I've taken to wearing pants constantly now. They titter in horror and obsess in their outrage. No-one else knows why I do, but I'll tell you. On the mark III we had the engine running, hanging from the ceiling, blades a-goin, when my frock was sucked into the gears, quick as a blink. I've given thanks many times that I was wearing my cheap one (I'd stitched it back loosely after a mundane house accident prior) so it ripped at my shoddy seam, but it pulled my hip in, nipped a neat little bite in my thigh. Dupoir had gone sheet-white, was beside me in a flash, slowing the blood, weeping like a new calf. We held each other till we cramped; then, without a word, got up and dissasembled the Mark III, burying the main engine component. It had tasted human blood. There was no love there. It could not be flown. I only wear pants now.
The Mark IV is good to us. We can feel she's the one; the one to take us all the way there.
There have been exciting developments too. My favorite is our night-flying routine. We were at a loss for a while. If you can't see the ground, how would you know if you are going to hit it? We puzzled, for months. Then one morning Dupoir woke me by bounding on our ricket bed.
"I've got it!" he hollered.
It was magnificent. A series of lanterns, carefully hooded, reveal, by how much light you can see, how close you are to the ground. If you are above 300ft, only one ring is visible. At 200ft, two rings, and at 100ft, all three rings. We danced that night, like idiots, and drank the wine my parents had saved from their wedding night. We slept like puppies in the hayloft that night.
And now, we are in the home stretch. We no longer even need to look at our blue-prints, although we keep them close at hand. They are, to us, works of precious art. When we finally fly, we plan to frame them and hang them on our walls.
People ask us, 'When are you going to grow up and stop fooling around?' But we don't understand the question. I cannot imagine myself, other than with this piece I have found. I feel like I have been forever trying to get back to where I came from, in the clouds. Life without this quest, is not a life to me.
Sometimes I dream. I can fly by wishing very hard. I take off, and smell the sweet, cold, air from above the shelf of clouds, blue, white, and porcelain. The sun streams through holes like tree trunks in the early morning, beckoning me higher. When the clouds touch my face, they dissolve into a dozen shimmery crystals, tiny pinpoints of cold wetness that refresh my lungs when I breathe them in. I love to soar low over the houses, spin the weathercocks, and do handstands on the treetops. When I wake up, I shake Dupoir awake, and we sit in the barn for hours, staring at our plane by dawn's light.
We were one month away from catapulting ourselves into history, but they had to do it first.
They didn't even do it with style.
But us?
We got style; and a Dream. It's how we fell in love. We looked into each other's eyes, and saw the bright, beckoning, blue. Then we knew.
Twenty years later, here we are.
Standing together in the barn, staring, by dim lantern light, smelling like hay and grease, at our latest baby: The Mark IV, affectionately known as "Dolly". She's a bi with two old John Deere engines in her, heavily altered of course.
Just a few kinks to work out, the steerings still a little thick for what we need.
"What do you need?" You ask? We need her to turn sharper than the dog chasing his tail, to climb faster than the barnhand up the ladder in front of the bull's horns, to stop deader than...I dunno. Roadkill, probably. We'll get it. Oh, we'll get it.
Folks wonder why we need all this.
It's 'cause we're stuntmen.
The Amazing Marileze and Dupoir! Humans that fly like Birds! See feats of Darring-do that frighten women, children, and lesser men! Only 6p a show!
Dupoir will fly the plane, and I will wing-walk. There's a planted bar on poles on top of the wings. That's where I ride. Scarf trailing, and let me tell you, there's nothing better than chasing geese through the white clouds of fall.
Our most amazing trick is one I came up with while watching kids on the swings. First, we climb, straight up. As high as we can. Then, at the top, we kill the engine, and just fall: Diving, Tumbling, Rolling, Pitching, the ground covered in moss-like bushes, tiny humans like toys, houses like gingerbread, larger, down, the horizon a ruled edge of white between the heavens and the hard end that feels like it's balanced on your head as you handstand, plummeting unstoppably until WHOOSH he starts her up and we swoop away, seconds from death.
We call it the Icarus. It horrifes our bridge partners.
"But you could DIE!" They gasp.
"But we could LIVE!" We reply.
They shake their heads. They don't understand.
Especially the women. I've taken to wearing pants constantly now. They titter in horror and obsess in their outrage. No-one else knows why I do, but I'll tell you. On the mark III we had the engine running, hanging from the ceiling, blades a-goin, when my frock was sucked into the gears, quick as a blink. I've given thanks many times that I was wearing my cheap one (I'd stitched it back loosely after a mundane house accident prior) so it ripped at my shoddy seam, but it pulled my hip in, nipped a neat little bite in my thigh. Dupoir had gone sheet-white, was beside me in a flash, slowing the blood, weeping like a new calf. We held each other till we cramped; then, without a word, got up and dissasembled the Mark III, burying the main engine component. It had tasted human blood. There was no love there. It could not be flown. I only wear pants now.
The Mark IV is good to us. We can feel she's the one; the one to take us all the way there.
There have been exciting developments too. My favorite is our night-flying routine. We were at a loss for a while. If you can't see the ground, how would you know if you are going to hit it? We puzzled, for months. Then one morning Dupoir woke me by bounding on our ricket bed.
"I've got it!" he hollered.
It was magnificent. A series of lanterns, carefully hooded, reveal, by how much light you can see, how close you are to the ground. If you are above 300ft, only one ring is visible. At 200ft, two rings, and at 100ft, all three rings. We danced that night, like idiots, and drank the wine my parents had saved from their wedding night. We slept like puppies in the hayloft that night.
And now, we are in the home stretch. We no longer even need to look at our blue-prints, although we keep them close at hand. They are, to us, works of precious art. When we finally fly, we plan to frame them and hang them on our walls.
People ask us, 'When are you going to grow up and stop fooling around?' But we don't understand the question. I cannot imagine myself, other than with this piece I have found. I feel like I have been forever trying to get back to where I came from, in the clouds. Life without this quest, is not a life to me.
Sometimes I dream. I can fly by wishing very hard. I take off, and smell the sweet, cold, air from above the shelf of clouds, blue, white, and porcelain. The sun streams through holes like tree trunks in the early morning, beckoning me higher. When the clouds touch my face, they dissolve into a dozen shimmery crystals, tiny pinpoints of cold wetness that refresh my lungs when I breathe them in. I love to soar low over the houses, spin the weathercocks, and do handstands on the treetops. When I wake up, I shake Dupoir awake, and we sit in the barn for hours, staring at our plane by dawn's light.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Nomadic day #4
My tribe limps to it's death like an ailing animal, but all I can think of is my own personal catastrophe.
I have not had my courses for four months, and I threw up my breakfast this morning.
I believe that the child I carry is a gift from the Gods to our tribe. That he will unite us and lead us into a new era. I wish I could tell everyone.
"How do you know he is a savior?" they would ask.
"Because I am a virgin."
Then the elders would examine me, and know it to be true, but I cannot risk it. The elders know the only man I have ever been alone with is my scholar; his privileged status allows him private counsel. They also hear the whispers; people believe him to be a phrophet, above the elders. Jealousy is an ugly fruit. They would denounce us. He would be killed for an act of indecency. But the child; known to be demi-God? They would raise him, twist him to their wills. That is not what fate has in store for my child.
What I must do now frightens and sickens me. I gather my tribe, tell them of my "vision". I must travel many miles, past mountains, plains, forests of clouds, to where the fountain of truth is. In it's waters I shall see the image of the demon; when I destroy the image of the demon, so too shall it fade away. But I must go alone. They shudder together, as we did at the first sight of the demon. A bonfire is lit to give me strength. The tribe dances ferociously, painted, eyes rolling. the drums echoes my child's heartbeat, resounding in my bones. I am now a part of another tribe; of motherhood. I dance without care this last night in the tribe of my father. I know my flailing knees and elbows entice some, and I receive two more marriage proposals, all discreet, promising to relieve me of the quest's burden. I could no more accept their offer then I could shut off my heart.
When all have collapsed, and we are alone, my scholar begs to come with me and my heart breaks a thousand times to tell him "No", but he must stay, to ensure my tribe any survive, that I have a home to come back to. It is to his credit as well, that he does not ask me to stay. He understands, I wonder if perhaps he even knows. By the firelight his eyes blaze and I could believe the rumors.
I take supplies and bid farewell, walking into the sunrise, as is our custom.
The hardest step remains. She is awake now, as I approach her cage, examining her toenails. It is time to fly now. I throw open her door.
" Eloise. My name is Eloise."
Instantly she is upon me, her hands holding my almost rounding belly, teeth gleaming, eyes wild. I see the power I have given her, in my folly, What have I done? I fear for my life, my child, my tribe. Damn fool! So taken in, her patsy! She sucks in air, triumphant,
"What a stupid name."
She laughs, steps down, and stretches,
"God. You're going to get fatter."
I hate her and at the same time, love her dearly.
Slowly my bright world begins to turn again.
I have not had my courses for four months, and I threw up my breakfast this morning.
I believe that the child I carry is a gift from the Gods to our tribe. That he will unite us and lead us into a new era. I wish I could tell everyone.
"How do you know he is a savior?" they would ask.
"Because I am a virgin."
Then the elders would examine me, and know it to be true, but I cannot risk it. The elders know the only man I have ever been alone with is my scholar; his privileged status allows him private counsel. They also hear the whispers; people believe him to be a phrophet, above the elders. Jealousy is an ugly fruit. They would denounce us. He would be killed for an act of indecency. But the child; known to be demi-God? They would raise him, twist him to their wills. That is not what fate has in store for my child.
What I must do now frightens and sickens me. I gather my tribe, tell them of my "vision". I must travel many miles, past mountains, plains, forests of clouds, to where the fountain of truth is. In it's waters I shall see the image of the demon; when I destroy the image of the demon, so too shall it fade away. But I must go alone. They shudder together, as we did at the first sight of the demon. A bonfire is lit to give me strength. The tribe dances ferociously, painted, eyes rolling. the drums echoes my child's heartbeat, resounding in my bones. I am now a part of another tribe; of motherhood. I dance without care this last night in the tribe of my father. I know my flailing knees and elbows entice some, and I receive two more marriage proposals, all discreet, promising to relieve me of the quest's burden. I could no more accept their offer then I could shut off my heart.
When all have collapsed, and we are alone, my scholar begs to come with me and my heart breaks a thousand times to tell him "No", but he must stay, to ensure my tribe any survive, that I have a home to come back to. It is to his credit as well, that he does not ask me to stay. He understands, I wonder if perhaps he even knows. By the firelight his eyes blaze and I could believe the rumors.
I take supplies and bid farewell, walking into the sunrise, as is our custom.
The hardest step remains. She is awake now, as I approach her cage, examining her toenails. It is time to fly now. I throw open her door.
" Eloise. My name is Eloise."
Instantly she is upon me, her hands holding my almost rounding belly, teeth gleaming, eyes wild. I see the power I have given her, in my folly, What have I done? I fear for my life, my child, my tribe. Damn fool! So taken in, her patsy! She sucks in air, triumphant,
"What a stupid name."
She laughs, steps down, and stretches,
"God. You're going to get fatter."
I hate her and at the same time, love her dearly.
Slowly my bright world begins to turn again.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Noir fiction #5
I came to in a garbage dumpster, feeling like a gorilla's accordian. Unfortunately, what I came to was the conclusion that I was getting nowhere. If I wanted that to change, I had to convince people to stop trying to kick me, and I had to do that by kicking first, and faster.
I straighted my tie as I lit up a smoke. It made my lip sting a little, but I liked the way the smoke made my jacket look. I turned up it's collar. Time to get serious. Like my grandpa always said, "No sense in smelling the cold shit." I couldn't understand smelling shit at all, but my grandpa was one of the best in his time, and who am I to argue?
The hot-shit dame had been hired on by the Pink Peri a few nights ago for her blockbuster show. I'm sure my piano man was thrilled, but I wasn't laughing. Neither was she when I kicked in her door.
"Heya Toots. You miss me?"
She tucked away the Magnum lipstick she'd been packin' and regarded me cooly,
"What the hell do you want? I gotta show." Time to turn on the charm.
"Well, darlin'. I want you to sing for me."
She huffed and began plucking her eyebrows,
"You're an idiot. Come to my show like a normal man. You ruined my door."
"I gotta special song in mind, sweetheart. About parrots and how my little starry-eyed friend is mixed up with dames that sic ugly men on me." I grabbed her arms and she leaned back on her cushion. I could smell her perfume.
"And I don't wanna do anything,"
I let my eyes drag over her dressing-gowned figure,
"Un-gentlemanly to hear it."
Her black eyes narrowed and her body, down to her teal feather, shook with outrage.
"You wouldn't dare."
"You use it. Why can't I?"
She hissed, and I wondered if she's knife me in the kidneys with her heels. I've leapt from a speeding car onto a bridge railing, watching the car plunge headlight first into a black river a hundred feet below, but this dizzy broad scared me.
The things I do for piano with my scotch. Her mouth turned into a languid smile.
"You wanna play with the big kids? Fine."
She purred with the same tone my Dinah used right before she clawed some poor Tomcat's nuts off.
He owes me some ragtime for this.
I stayed out of sight for their show, nursing a double. I couldn't face him knowing I was gonna throw his doll to the sharks. I watched them, though; her, leaning forward on the piano to kiss his forehead as he gazed at her, hands flying. He was in love, I could tell, but her? She caught me staring and pulled away sharply, her voice cracking, but her panic didn't make any sense unless...Aw shit.
I ain't a romantic. Graveyard's are full of folks who died for love, but I suspect that whoever was behind this had a bigger wrench in their plans then they knew what to do with...
This city is full of people; Old money, new money, no money; all trying to work it out together. But here I was, caught like a lynch pin between two cogs trying to press together to what might be their mutual destruction. Maybe I should just let go? I was tired. My old wounds were acting up, and all they got me was an empty apartment. Maybe I was in the wrong plot, reading the wrong script. Their love story wiping out my tragedy. Love conquers all, but where's that leave me?
I straighted my tie as I lit up a smoke. It made my lip sting a little, but I liked the way the smoke made my jacket look. I turned up it's collar. Time to get serious. Like my grandpa always said, "No sense in smelling the cold shit." I couldn't understand smelling shit at all, but my grandpa was one of the best in his time, and who am I to argue?
The hot-shit dame had been hired on by the Pink Peri a few nights ago for her blockbuster show. I'm sure my piano man was thrilled, but I wasn't laughing. Neither was she when I kicked in her door.
"Heya Toots. You miss me?"
She tucked away the Magnum lipstick she'd been packin' and regarded me cooly,
"What the hell do you want? I gotta show." Time to turn on the charm.
"Well, darlin'. I want you to sing for me."
She huffed and began plucking her eyebrows,
"You're an idiot. Come to my show like a normal man. You ruined my door."
"I gotta special song in mind, sweetheart. About parrots and how my little starry-eyed friend is mixed up with dames that sic ugly men on me." I grabbed her arms and she leaned back on her cushion. I could smell her perfume.
"And I don't wanna do anything,"
I let my eyes drag over her dressing-gowned figure,
"Un-gentlemanly to hear it."
Her black eyes narrowed and her body, down to her teal feather, shook with outrage.
"You wouldn't dare."
"You use it. Why can't I?"
She hissed, and I wondered if she's knife me in the kidneys with her heels. I've leapt from a speeding car onto a bridge railing, watching the car plunge headlight first into a black river a hundred feet below, but this dizzy broad scared me.
The things I do for piano with my scotch. Her mouth turned into a languid smile.
"You wanna play with the big kids? Fine."
She purred with the same tone my Dinah used right before she clawed some poor Tomcat's nuts off.
He owes me some ragtime for this.
I stayed out of sight for their show, nursing a double. I couldn't face him knowing I was gonna throw his doll to the sharks. I watched them, though; her, leaning forward on the piano to kiss his forehead as he gazed at her, hands flying. He was in love, I could tell, but her? She caught me staring and pulled away sharply, her voice cracking, but her panic didn't make any sense unless...Aw shit.
I ain't a romantic. Graveyard's are full of folks who died for love, but I suspect that whoever was behind this had a bigger wrench in their plans then they knew what to do with...
This city is full of people; Old money, new money, no money; all trying to work it out together. But here I was, caught like a lynch pin between two cogs trying to press together to what might be their mutual destruction. Maybe I should just let go? I was tired. My old wounds were acting up, and all they got me was an empty apartment. Maybe I was in the wrong plot, reading the wrong script. Their love story wiping out my tragedy. Love conquers all, but where's that leave me?
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Fiction work # 14
Two tiny eyes, framed by such an expanse of hair I originally feared they belonged to a black bear. My fears abated as two human arms picked me up, and I lost consciousness again.
He was not there when I awoke, pulling the tucked in blankets out from under the couch cushions. There was a huge, aged Malamut, however, and beside the fireplace, a box of yowling puppies, no more than a few weeks old.
On the rough oak table in front of me was a bowl of semi-cold chili (the best I had ever tasted- messily devoured) and my pack. I dug through it, almost as hungrily as the chili, looking for my journal. The memories I had of the last few days were sketchy, but I knew I always wrote the day's events in the evening, ever since my first major marathon.
Reading back through, recollection came easier. I had begun the Iditarod, the largest winter adventure race in the world, a few days ago. My confused writing and increasingly erratic trail notes and timings showed I had erred seriously somewhere in my preparations.
I set to work assessing damage control, silently hating myself for whatever mistake I made to cause this near-catastrophe. My toes seemed the worst, still waxy and hard. I next began to evaluate my surroundings. A typical winter cabin, somewhat sore from what I believed was (at the time) disuse, yet it was devoid of the quintessential bookshelves or even a T.V. Neither had it a phone, as far as I could find.
I must have fallen asleep again, for I awoke to see a great, hairy man sitting on the floor in front of me, shovelling down chili so quickly he almost seemed to be using his hands. I extended a greeting, offering my gratitude for his rescue, but my speech seemed to startle him, and he did not reply.
He stared blankly as I ran through the little Inuit, Russian, even French, I knew but not once did I sense comprehension dawning. He chewed the chili, regarding me as one watches a street performer. After a while, I gave up, huffing a sigh. This excited him, and he began to... well, there's no other word for it; he barked.
Over the next few days, after discovering an old radio and informing race officials and my wife where I was and that I would be back once I knew where I was, we seemed to bond. I was fascinated by him. He hunted like a wolf, with his hands and a kitchen knife, and seemed more comfortable in the snow than in the cabin. He had twelve dogs, a full sled team, and we frequently went on trips to see if I could landmark where we were. He seemed to know the woods as well as another person knows their city.
Meals were many times easier than I had expected; the cellar was full of jars, roots, strange plants, and smoked meat. I can only assume he canned things himself (mushrooms, softer roots, carrots) since some were almost fresh, but the thought of this sasquatch of a man in an apron, boiling jars was a tad strange. I laughed over this image for a while; He danced around me, barking gleefully for awhile. I suspect that while most of my actions confused him (shaving being the most baffling), he understood my mirth.
The fireplace was only ever lit for my benefit. After trips, he would often blow through the door, pursued by the slobbering dogs, leaving it open to the elements. He was so discomfited, whining and roaming, when I closed the door and lit a fire that eventually I compromised; I left the door open, but built a large fire.
The first few days he would sleep where-ever he stopped long enough, but eventually he began to sleep at the foot of the bed I slept in (one I surmise his late parents used).
His most unusual characteristic was that he never spoke. After a while, he began to understand what I intended, but I believed that his vocal cordds had altered so far that they could no longer produce regualr speech. He "talked" to the dogs almost constantly, and seemed to be able to understand their replies. I began, as well, to pick up some of the more simple words, first learning the dog's "names", finally what I believed to be verbs, although the language seemed to contain a large component I could not begin to understand. The most pivotal part, much like the tones in some languages, or the clicks in others, was a series of evocative connective words, conveyed through body language and smells. Frequently in the evening, he would regail the dogs, and sometimes myself when I was quick-witted enough, with tales of his escapades; fighting with a bear, a huge moose he had tracked, when he almost captured an eagle, but fell off a cliff instead. He would often get caught up in the physical retelling of the story, and by the end was visibly winded.
Almost a month after my arrival, I mapped out the final last clues, and uncovered our location relative to everywhere else. I packed my kit, taking enough food to make it home, tried to thank him, and left early one morning.
The trip home was deceptively easy, and by the time I got home, I was breathless with anticipation to be back in civilization. I indulged myself and ate McDonalds (usually forbidden with my racer's diet), sat in the tub for two hours, and held my wife until she insisted that, no really, she had to work in twenty minutes. It took a while to regain my normal life, but regain I did, and finally everything was as usual. Or so I had thought.
I came home from work one day to find him sitting on my lawn, surrounded by his dogs. The camera crews had already been there for a few hours, coaxing him with food, but my wife was still at work. He lept up when he saw me, but I was confused. How the hell had he found me and what did he want?
I invited him in, shooing away the reporters, and fed him while I waited for my wife to return home, so I could consult her in what we should do next.
My life broke when she walked through the door, however.
I brought her into the kitchen, let her sit down, and explained everything to her, my rescue, my months with this man, his disposition, and everything we had been through, that he was not dangerous, and I wondered if she would mind if we let him stay in our basement until he was sufficiently civilized to live in our world, since I believed he keenly wanted to learn our ways, and regain the life he lost to the woods.
"What man?" She asked, slowly.
I laughed, thinking she was giving tacit approval for our new lodger. She wrinkled her perfect brow, and, in our spotless kitchen, surrounded by metal, plastic, warmth, luxury, culture, and easy, she blew away my tiny grip on reality.
"What man are you talking about?"
I could not find him. The dogs were gone. Our yard, spotless. The food I had brought back with me, and saved out of nostalgia, turned out to be rotton, foul, autumn leavings, the kind you scrounge under the snow. I could find no indication that this man ever existed.
I laughed with her, and said it was my little joke. Tried to forget it. Wrote it off as a dream. But now, everyday of my life since, I stare out the window of my 25th story office, and dream of snow, trying desperatly to ignore the blood pounding in my temples, crying out for the thrill of the hunt, the honor of the pack, and the sheer joy of earning a true life.
He was not there when I awoke, pulling the tucked in blankets out from under the couch cushions. There was a huge, aged Malamut, however, and beside the fireplace, a box of yowling puppies, no more than a few weeks old.
On the rough oak table in front of me was a bowl of semi-cold chili (the best I had ever tasted- messily devoured) and my pack. I dug through it, almost as hungrily as the chili, looking for my journal. The memories I had of the last few days were sketchy, but I knew I always wrote the day's events in the evening, ever since my first major marathon.
Reading back through, recollection came easier. I had begun the Iditarod, the largest winter adventure race in the world, a few days ago. My confused writing and increasingly erratic trail notes and timings showed I had erred seriously somewhere in my preparations.
I set to work assessing damage control, silently hating myself for whatever mistake I made to cause this near-catastrophe. My toes seemed the worst, still waxy and hard. I next began to evaluate my surroundings. A typical winter cabin, somewhat sore from what I believed was (at the time) disuse, yet it was devoid of the quintessential bookshelves or even a T.V. Neither had it a phone, as far as I could find.
I must have fallen asleep again, for I awoke to see a great, hairy man sitting on the floor in front of me, shovelling down chili so quickly he almost seemed to be using his hands. I extended a greeting, offering my gratitude for his rescue, but my speech seemed to startle him, and he did not reply.
He stared blankly as I ran through the little Inuit, Russian, even French, I knew but not once did I sense comprehension dawning. He chewed the chili, regarding me as one watches a street performer. After a while, I gave up, huffing a sigh. This excited him, and he began to... well, there's no other word for it; he barked.
Over the next few days, after discovering an old radio and informing race officials and my wife where I was and that I would be back once I knew where I was, we seemed to bond. I was fascinated by him. He hunted like a wolf, with his hands and a kitchen knife, and seemed more comfortable in the snow than in the cabin. He had twelve dogs, a full sled team, and we frequently went on trips to see if I could landmark where we were. He seemed to know the woods as well as another person knows their city.
Meals were many times easier than I had expected; the cellar was full of jars, roots, strange plants, and smoked meat. I can only assume he canned things himself (mushrooms, softer roots, carrots) since some were almost fresh, but the thought of this sasquatch of a man in an apron, boiling jars was a tad strange. I laughed over this image for a while; He danced around me, barking gleefully for awhile. I suspect that while most of my actions confused him (shaving being the most baffling), he understood my mirth.
The fireplace was only ever lit for my benefit. After trips, he would often blow through the door, pursued by the slobbering dogs, leaving it open to the elements. He was so discomfited, whining and roaming, when I closed the door and lit a fire that eventually I compromised; I left the door open, but built a large fire.
The first few days he would sleep where-ever he stopped long enough, but eventually he began to sleep at the foot of the bed I slept in (one I surmise his late parents used).
His most unusual characteristic was that he never spoke. After a while, he began to understand what I intended, but I believed that his vocal cordds had altered so far that they could no longer produce regualr speech. He "talked" to the dogs almost constantly, and seemed to be able to understand their replies. I began, as well, to pick up some of the more simple words, first learning the dog's "names", finally what I believed to be verbs, although the language seemed to contain a large component I could not begin to understand. The most pivotal part, much like the tones in some languages, or the clicks in others, was a series of evocative connective words, conveyed through body language and smells. Frequently in the evening, he would regail the dogs, and sometimes myself when I was quick-witted enough, with tales of his escapades; fighting with a bear, a huge moose he had tracked, when he almost captured an eagle, but fell off a cliff instead. He would often get caught up in the physical retelling of the story, and by the end was visibly winded.
Almost a month after my arrival, I mapped out the final last clues, and uncovered our location relative to everywhere else. I packed my kit, taking enough food to make it home, tried to thank him, and left early one morning.
The trip home was deceptively easy, and by the time I got home, I was breathless with anticipation to be back in civilization. I indulged myself and ate McDonalds (usually forbidden with my racer's diet), sat in the tub for two hours, and held my wife until she insisted that, no really, she had to work in twenty minutes. It took a while to regain my normal life, but regain I did, and finally everything was as usual. Or so I had thought.
I came home from work one day to find him sitting on my lawn, surrounded by his dogs. The camera crews had already been there for a few hours, coaxing him with food, but my wife was still at work. He lept up when he saw me, but I was confused. How the hell had he found me and what did he want?
I invited him in, shooing away the reporters, and fed him while I waited for my wife to return home, so I could consult her in what we should do next.
My life broke when she walked through the door, however.
I brought her into the kitchen, let her sit down, and explained everything to her, my rescue, my months with this man, his disposition, and everything we had been through, that he was not dangerous, and I wondered if she would mind if we let him stay in our basement until he was sufficiently civilized to live in our world, since I believed he keenly wanted to learn our ways, and regain the life he lost to the woods.
"What man?" She asked, slowly.
I laughed, thinking she was giving tacit approval for our new lodger. She wrinkled her perfect brow, and, in our spotless kitchen, surrounded by metal, plastic, warmth, luxury, culture, and easy, she blew away my tiny grip on reality.
"What man are you talking about?"
I could not find him. The dogs were gone. Our yard, spotless. The food I had brought back with me, and saved out of nostalgia, turned out to be rotton, foul, autumn leavings, the kind you scrounge under the snow. I could find no indication that this man ever existed.
I laughed with her, and said it was my little joke. Tried to forget it. Wrote it off as a dream. But now, everyday of my life since, I stare out the window of my 25th story office, and dream of snow, trying desperatly to ignore the blood pounding in my temples, crying out for the thrill of the hunt, the honor of the pack, and the sheer joy of earning a true life.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
I am shamed.
Guilt is something that comes very easily to me. It is second-nature to feel guilty over something even as simple as a perceived social slight I have perpetrated. (I seem especially suceptible to embarassment over lack of social grace) Sometimes this motivates me, other times, not so much.
I had written, or more clearly, begun writing a story about a gentleman with a dog-sled team, while on my usual patrol, when I became aware of a general discomfort within myself. I did not vote this past election. In fact, I have never voted in any election of consequence. This has never bothered me before.
Earlier today, while making coffee, I read the article concerning the recently-deceased trooper Michael Yuki Hayakaze. His story is a tragic one, as all deaths are, but it struck a particular cord within me when it was reported he said (of his tour in Afghanistan)"If I die- obviously I don't want to- I'm OK with it. I'm at peace with everything." This man believed in what he was doing. He believed that Canada was making a difference by being overseas. Believed so strongly in his country that he was willing to give his life for it. In my quest to join the military, I had believed I was willing to do the same; had thought I, too, loved my country. But I'm not even willing to go fill out a piece of paper to help lead the country.
I cannot close my eyes, now, without seeing trooper Hayakaze. He fought for me, for my freedom. I will never be allowed to fight beside people like him, owing to past stupidities, but perhaps I can find a life that is worthy of this man's, and other's, sacrifice; their tremendous gift to me.
I would like, now, to say "Thank you" to Hayakaze, and to all the men and women who fight, in whatever way they can, to promote this country.
It seems rarely said, shadowed by America's massive ego, but it needs, sometimes, to be said,
God Bless Canada.
I had written, or more clearly, begun writing a story about a gentleman with a dog-sled team, while on my usual patrol, when I became aware of a general discomfort within myself. I did not vote this past election. In fact, I have never voted in any election of consequence. This has never bothered me before.
Earlier today, while making coffee, I read the article concerning the recently-deceased trooper Michael Yuki Hayakaze. His story is a tragic one, as all deaths are, but it struck a particular cord within me when it was reported he said (of his tour in Afghanistan)"If I die- obviously I don't want to- I'm OK with it. I'm at peace with everything." This man believed in what he was doing. He believed that Canada was making a difference by being overseas. Believed so strongly in his country that he was willing to give his life for it. In my quest to join the military, I had believed I was willing to do the same; had thought I, too, loved my country. But I'm not even willing to go fill out a piece of paper to help lead the country.
I cannot close my eyes, now, without seeing trooper Hayakaze. He fought for me, for my freedom. I will never be allowed to fight beside people like him, owing to past stupidities, but perhaps I can find a life that is worthy of this man's, and other's, sacrifice; their tremendous gift to me.
I would like, now, to say "Thank you" to Hayakaze, and to all the men and women who fight, in whatever way they can, to promote this country.
It seems rarely said, shadowed by America's massive ego, but it needs, sometimes, to be said,
God Bless Canada.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Conceptual abstract of a wedding
Had I eggs for fingertips, what would it feel like to touch a star- would it feel like laughter? Their singing does not reach inside my shell, so sturdy. But, Hah! I, unprepared, have been transformed. A hole drilled through my top, what was inside has been removed, to be refreshed. So hollowed, I am now an object of great beauty.
Silence! Of your objections, I shall have none. The frequency shakes me to my grit calcium core.
You are chosen to lay testament to this great and noble honesty.
Open inside like great stone cathedrals.
OH! Quake and Fear for the balance of your souls!
Measured on tenderhooks.
But now, claws sheathed in kittendown; Bring to me, for I require, a measure of mirth, with which to see this concluded.
Silence! Of your objections, I shall have none. The frequency shakes me to my grit calcium core.
You are chosen to lay testament to this great and noble honesty.
Open inside like great stone cathedrals.
OH! Quake and Fear for the balance of your souls!
Measured on tenderhooks.
But now, claws sheathed in kittendown; Bring to me, for I require, a measure of mirth, with which to see this concluded.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Star light, star bright.
Sometimes, when I am sitting alone, late at night, music on the crackly radio, my legs fly away from me. It feels like they float up until I can no longer sense where my body is, or in what position. It is wonderful and yet very strange.
I think offlying, then, up through the rafters, to the stars, to dance on the dark heavy clouds, to swing from streetlights, waving to commuters on the long bus ride home.
I think offlying, then, up through the rafters, to the stars, to dance on the dark heavy clouds, to swing from streetlights, waving to commuters on the long bus ride home.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Fiction work #13
I like to stare at people while on the bus. The last time was a woman; tanned skin, dark, curved eyes, and a long nose perfectly accenting her oval face. She seemed of Egyptian descent. I like to imagine her ancestors, a male perhaps, on a reed boat, fanning the Pharaoh, a prestigious position, he stands firmly, proud of where he is. The sun is warm; there has been some excitement in the palace. Some royalty has returned, or so they say. He doesn't follow gossip. Right now there is the feather fan, the thick, lazy, water of the Nile, the opulant, almost nutritious shine of the gold around him, and a man on the bank shouting. He is shouting at Pharaoh; they are debating property in an agitated fashion. The guards take an interest; our man does not, although he notices the wind picks up.
The man wades into the Nile; our man begins to watch as the guards close in, but the man puts his staff in the water and the smell, God, the smell, seeping outwards, like an infected wound, red arms, hands reaching, the smell like when he was six and his father injured his own hand. Everywhere, drowning in the scent, and the blood! Oh Pharaoh, it is blood! The Nile! What shall we do? Save us!
Pharaoh is livid, screams for his priests, flings anything in reach. His guards must walk to the shore, they are soaking in blood. The man has fled. When the priests arrive they bring a bowl of water. I hold it as they call our Gods to work a miracle. The water in the golden basin flushes crimson and my heart soars to know my Gods have not abandoned me. Pharaoh approaches, I can smell his sweat as he dips his hand in, but my soul falls away as I can smell his sweat but no blood. A cheap conjure. I wait for Pharaoh to summon the priests, to flog them, beat them for this deception, this failure, but he does not. He smiles. He is satisfied. His smile breaks my heart. I want to stop, wake up, erase this feverish dream, climb back onto the world I knew only a minute ago. But it goes on. We go home, where pharaoh rests, and I cry to my wife, terrified that the dog-headed god I no longer believe exists will eat my soul for knowing what I know. Now there is only one thing to be done. We pack up a wagon and steal away, four tiny figures on the sand, under the huge white moon. We run until we find a tribe. They know the man I speak of, and of miracles, of his God and of great love. So we make new lives, change, then grow; new children are born, we pass on, more children, they pass, years pass, the children of our children's children move far away, time passes, seasons, years, changes, until here, this moment, where his great-to-the-140th-degree granddaughter sits on a blue bus, saying her rosary, as I watch.
The man wades into the Nile; our man begins to watch as the guards close in, but the man puts his staff in the water and the smell, God, the smell, seeping outwards, like an infected wound, red arms, hands reaching, the smell like when he was six and his father injured his own hand. Everywhere, drowning in the scent, and the blood! Oh Pharaoh, it is blood! The Nile! What shall we do? Save us!
Pharaoh is livid, screams for his priests, flings anything in reach. His guards must walk to the shore, they are soaking in blood. The man has fled. When the priests arrive they bring a bowl of water. I hold it as they call our Gods to work a miracle. The water in the golden basin flushes crimson and my heart soars to know my Gods have not abandoned me. Pharaoh approaches, I can smell his sweat as he dips his hand in, but my soul falls away as I can smell his sweat but no blood. A cheap conjure. I wait for Pharaoh to summon the priests, to flog them, beat them for this deception, this failure, but he does not. He smiles. He is satisfied. His smile breaks my heart. I want to stop, wake up, erase this feverish dream, climb back onto the world I knew only a minute ago. But it goes on. We go home, where pharaoh rests, and I cry to my wife, terrified that the dog-headed god I no longer believe exists will eat my soul for knowing what I know. Now there is only one thing to be done. We pack up a wagon and steal away, four tiny figures on the sand, under the huge white moon. We run until we find a tribe. They know the man I speak of, and of miracles, of his God and of great love. So we make new lives, change, then grow; new children are born, we pass on, more children, they pass, years pass, the children of our children's children move far away, time passes, seasons, years, changes, until here, this moment, where his great-to-the-140th-degree granddaughter sits on a blue bus, saying her rosary, as I watch.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Fiction work # 12
Love, I suppose.
What a strange fancy.
Of family, who knows you so well, knows the weave of your fabric.
Of infatuation, the sudden heady rush of perfectly understanding.
Of friends, gained by degrees through familiarity, respect and deference.
Of an object. I must admit, I love this building. I know it so well, it's doorhandles more familiar to me than my own toes. I think it (he? she?) loves me back; leaves me surprises(pumpkin seeds scattered like perfect sakura petals by the backdoor). How shall it feel, then, when I am excised from it, prised like flesh out of a scapel incison? In my absence the building will change. It will only exist in my heart. Will I still love it? I suspect I shall, in absentia.
But then I shall only love a figment, a memory, a dream of something. Once it is gone, does it matter if it ever existed?
You can probably tell I have an agenda to this thought. I have a crush (Oh, folly!) on a television character (Oh, fate!). I know him as well as any love I've ever had. Whether he knows me or not is irrelevent; he is a conceptual schema. The question is: what's to be done?
He makes me think of rhubarb. The first bite of crisp rhubarb, the tiny grits of sugar, the tart flood, even the tough strings that catch in your teeth. The shape, a smiling mouth, and the color of red, yellowy-green, even the smell, like no other on earth. I remember sitting on the cement steps in front of the house, warmed by the sun, with a safety-orange plastic cup of sugar, long stick of wet rhubarb, and my sister and brother, watching the park. Sometimes we'd just dip it in the sugar, then mangle the end, eating the sugary-rhubarb juice. The last clumps of sugar fused with sour water eaten like Nerds.
Ah, summer. A season of larks.
What a strange fancy.
Of family, who knows you so well, knows the weave of your fabric.
Of infatuation, the sudden heady rush of perfectly understanding.
Of friends, gained by degrees through familiarity, respect and deference.
Of an object. I must admit, I love this building. I know it so well, it's doorhandles more familiar to me than my own toes. I think it (he? she?) loves me back; leaves me surprises(pumpkin seeds scattered like perfect sakura petals by the backdoor). How shall it feel, then, when I am excised from it, prised like flesh out of a scapel incison? In my absence the building will change. It will only exist in my heart. Will I still love it? I suspect I shall, in absentia.
But then I shall only love a figment, a memory, a dream of something. Once it is gone, does it matter if it ever existed?
You can probably tell I have an agenda to this thought. I have a crush (Oh, folly!) on a television character (Oh, fate!). I know him as well as any love I've ever had. Whether he knows me or not is irrelevent; he is a conceptual schema. The question is: what's to be done?
He makes me think of rhubarb. The first bite of crisp rhubarb, the tiny grits of sugar, the tart flood, even the tough strings that catch in your teeth. The shape, a smiling mouth, and the color of red, yellowy-green, even the smell, like no other on earth. I remember sitting on the cement steps in front of the house, warmed by the sun, with a safety-orange plastic cup of sugar, long stick of wet rhubarb, and my sister and brother, watching the park. Sometimes we'd just dip it in the sugar, then mangle the end, eating the sugary-rhubarb juice. The last clumps of sugar fused with sour water eaten like Nerds.
Ah, summer. A season of larks.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I'll not write another line, for my true love is gone
Well, sorry folks, but I'm phoning it in today. I got nothing. All that is in my head today is "soulja boy", which is not conducive to creative writing. I mean, I have plans for a lot of other writings, but none of them are shiny enough in my head today. I blame my cold.
The only thing, right now, that I could talk on is how hot 99% of policemen are. That and the fact that there is a reflective toaster in the kitchen which scares the piss out of me everytime I walk in and catch a glimpse of some crazed human that looks like me, running loose in the kitchen.
Speaking of phoning it in; in the building there are numerous jars and bags of candy hearts. I like to pick out the white ones to carry around and munch on. Recently I consumed one that said,
"why not"
They should just come out and say it,
"Will you be my last resort?"
Another one is,
"How nice"
That cannot be said in a sincere tone. I've never seen a candy heart so sarcastic; it tasted like resentment.
On a related note, I would like to begin writing opinion pieces, like world politics and stuff. I should probably start reading the newspaper to do this, I guess, since the only thing I read is The Junk, which means I'm authorized to speak on Britany and Lindsay, but not much else. Perhaps research into an area might be helpful...
The only thing, right now, that I could talk on is how hot 99% of policemen are. That and the fact that there is a reflective toaster in the kitchen which scares the piss out of me everytime I walk in and catch a glimpse of some crazed human that looks like me, running loose in the kitchen.
Speaking of phoning it in; in the building there are numerous jars and bags of candy hearts. I like to pick out the white ones to carry around and munch on. Recently I consumed one that said,
"why not"
They should just come out and say it,
"Will you be my last resort?"
Another one is,
"How nice"
That cannot be said in a sincere tone. I've never seen a candy heart so sarcastic; it tasted like resentment.
On a related note, I would like to begin writing opinion pieces, like world politics and stuff. I should probably start reading the newspaper to do this, I guess, since the only thing I read is The Junk, which means I'm authorized to speak on Britany and Lindsay, but not much else. Perhaps research into an area might be helpful...
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Fiction work #11
"Did you ever see such a lazy crew?"
Even without opening my eyes, even through the ubershitty comm sys I can still tell it's my boss. I shuffle in my crunchy overalls just enough to hit the camera button,
"Yo chief, spit it."
"I've gotta report of Pixtees near the Byron system. I'd give it to Nos, 'cause he's closer, but I figure you've been drifting longer and, well, if you die, who's gonna scare the noobs?"
"Don't have to ask me twice, sir, I'm all over it."
"Atta-girl."
It takes a while to flex enough heat into my fingers to push the ignition, but as I do, and life flows into my nerves, I remember what it's like to be human again.
The Byron system (2 stars, 18 planets, one of which is known to be hospitable to pixtees) is about a day's flight from my tie-post, and three from central, but I'm jive with long trips. The interstellar radio runs around that area, so I get the "wookie" music I like.
My tummy rumbles, but a look at my clock shows four more days before I'll eat again. I might stop off at a truckstop and grab a doughnut. True, we don't have to eat since we found the pixtees, but some folks like to. It's a dying hobby though; too messy, too frivolous, too organic. The pixtees changed all that. Showed us a better way. We only eat once a month now, a typically quite ritualized affair (for those not on the fringe, like my coworkers and me). World hunger solved in a fortnight (five years if you count the mandatory testing done by the government). So sated, humanity turned its collective mind towards more lofty activities. Light speed transport was achieved two years later; World peace a year after that. Most diseases were eradicated that same year. Then, bored of problem solving, we looked for challenges. Music, art, literature: All flourished. Music became the first universal language; Art, its written form. Literature became a lifestyle, then a philosophy, then a religion. I cannot even begin to detail the progress made in philosophy itself. Suffice to say, a philosophical certainty was found, and it was just the beginning. We became a happy, fulfilled society. Blessed, if you will.
Blessed by the pixtees, some believe. They are believed to be saviors, perhaps our original gods. Some believe them to be created by another God, solely to love and care for us. They are our greatest liberators, and our greatest struggle. Some believe they are holy, too holy to be eaten, so they refuse to. They are getting fewer as the alterior food sources dwindle.
I land planetside roughly since my company is too ruttin cheap to pay for good landing fans. After checking the outside temperature (-30) I throw on my overall and helmet. The cold is uncomfortable, but not lethal, since we met the pixtees. After walking a bit, I come across a healthy village of them. I can see the genders right away; the women have long frizzy hair, the men are bald, and the neuters have long clumps of hair. The heirarchy becomes apparent after a short while. The deeper blue ones are younger, less responsible. The eldest is almost pearly white. I can see some of the family units, little flickers of electricity in minature igloos.
Soon they start to notice me. Tiny temors of excitment pass from one to another through the peeps that they use, we think, as language. Then, almost as one, they run.
I hate this part.
They clutch my pantleg, race up my shirt, diving, clamoring, in a frenzied euphoria. Some so excited they bang against my glass helmet, trying to get in my mouth. Their tiny mouths slobbering on my fishbowl. I don't even need to carry them back. They curl up in my pockets, my cuffs, my elbows, or my neckband. The initial party usually fades, and they nap like puppies, but once they see the shuttle, they perk up again.
Inside, they leap off, sitting in a campfire-like circle on the floor. Some sing, some talk, but mostly they wait. Some research has been done into how they know what they know; it's mostly private and heavily regulated. A sort of old-fashioned "don't ask, don't tell". Perhaps ignorance is bliss.
I remember my first time. I ate him live. Just opened my mouth and popped him in. I expected a crunch, a squish, anything really, but he dissolved in a heart-rending fashion. I cried for days. How unglorious an end for such a noble creature, who gave it's life for me.
I am sure there is something wrong. But for the life of me I can't figure out what.
****
Special thanks to the McAskiles for getting me the book that inspired this! (The pig who wants to be eaten)
Even without opening my eyes, even through the ubershitty comm sys I can still tell it's my boss. I shuffle in my crunchy overalls just enough to hit the camera button,
"Yo chief, spit it."
"I've gotta report of Pixtees near the Byron system. I'd give it to Nos, 'cause he's closer, but I figure you've been drifting longer and, well, if you die, who's gonna scare the noobs?"
"Don't have to ask me twice, sir, I'm all over it."
"Atta-girl."
It takes a while to flex enough heat into my fingers to push the ignition, but as I do, and life flows into my nerves, I remember what it's like to be human again.
The Byron system (2 stars, 18 planets, one of which is known to be hospitable to pixtees) is about a day's flight from my tie-post, and three from central, but I'm jive with long trips. The interstellar radio runs around that area, so I get the "wookie" music I like.
My tummy rumbles, but a look at my clock shows four more days before I'll eat again. I might stop off at a truckstop and grab a doughnut. True, we don't have to eat since we found the pixtees, but some folks like to. It's a dying hobby though; too messy, too frivolous, too organic. The pixtees changed all that. Showed us a better way. We only eat once a month now, a typically quite ritualized affair (for those not on the fringe, like my coworkers and me). World hunger solved in a fortnight (five years if you count the mandatory testing done by the government). So sated, humanity turned its collective mind towards more lofty activities. Light speed transport was achieved two years later; World peace a year after that. Most diseases were eradicated that same year. Then, bored of problem solving, we looked for challenges. Music, art, literature: All flourished. Music became the first universal language; Art, its written form. Literature became a lifestyle, then a philosophy, then a religion. I cannot even begin to detail the progress made in philosophy itself. Suffice to say, a philosophical certainty was found, and it was just the beginning. We became a happy, fulfilled society. Blessed, if you will.
Blessed by the pixtees, some believe. They are believed to be saviors, perhaps our original gods. Some believe them to be created by another God, solely to love and care for us. They are our greatest liberators, and our greatest struggle. Some believe they are holy, too holy to be eaten, so they refuse to. They are getting fewer as the alterior food sources dwindle.
I land planetside roughly since my company is too ruttin cheap to pay for good landing fans. After checking the outside temperature (-30) I throw on my overall and helmet. The cold is uncomfortable, but not lethal, since we met the pixtees. After walking a bit, I come across a healthy village of them. I can see the genders right away; the women have long frizzy hair, the men are bald, and the neuters have long clumps of hair. The heirarchy becomes apparent after a short while. The deeper blue ones are younger, less responsible. The eldest is almost pearly white. I can see some of the family units, little flickers of electricity in minature igloos.
Soon they start to notice me. Tiny temors of excitment pass from one to another through the peeps that they use, we think, as language. Then, almost as one, they run.
I hate this part.
They clutch my pantleg, race up my shirt, diving, clamoring, in a frenzied euphoria. Some so excited they bang against my glass helmet, trying to get in my mouth. Their tiny mouths slobbering on my fishbowl. I don't even need to carry them back. They curl up in my pockets, my cuffs, my elbows, or my neckband. The initial party usually fades, and they nap like puppies, but once they see the shuttle, they perk up again.
Inside, they leap off, sitting in a campfire-like circle on the floor. Some sing, some talk, but mostly they wait. Some research has been done into how they know what they know; it's mostly private and heavily regulated. A sort of old-fashioned "don't ask, don't tell". Perhaps ignorance is bliss.
I remember my first time. I ate him live. Just opened my mouth and popped him in. I expected a crunch, a squish, anything really, but he dissolved in a heart-rending fashion. I cried for days. How unglorious an end for such a noble creature, who gave it's life for me.
I am sure there is something wrong. But for the life of me I can't figure out what.
****
Special thanks to the McAskiles for getting me the book that inspired this! (The pig who wants to be eaten)
Friday, February 22, 2008
Nomadic day #3
I have done it now. Through my hubris I have doomed us all. Last night, before our horrified gazes, a hideous red demon, impossibly huge, blocked out the moon. We remained calm, we are a hearty tribe, but our collective face was ashen as we turned to the elders. They insist it is the white witch summoning evil servants to raze our world, say we must capture her at any cost now before all is lost. I do not know what it was, but I am sure the witch is not summoning anything. She would not be able to fit it into her busy schedule; sleep for twelve hours, complain about my feet for four, pick her nose for three.
In silence my people weep, and I have seen the tribe return to a more chaste time. Objects of vanity or frivolity have been sacrificed. More beans have been burnt this season then on any other since my birth (another unusual tale). More cattle than we can almost afford have been slain to draw the beast; hunters laying in the shadows, bows tensed for the kill. Some of the more extreme zealots have begun eyeing the virgins. Something must change soon, or we will all perish.
Through all of this, I drift. Praised for my inner strength and serenity, I remain modest while knowing it is denial and shock. Why can I not abandon her? I am sure it is in failing the tribe that some God is punishing me; I expect to hear the flap of horrific wings at any moment as the red destroyer comes to pay me for my stupidity and weakness. My world comes apart at the seams: chaos, fear, hopelessness. We have all become gaunt from lack of nutrition; most of the food is sacrificed, and the little we can consume is rarely kept down. I chew bread as through it is wool. Lifelong friends have betrayed each other, snarl and fight over nothing. How quickly our peaceful world is uprooted. Then I return to her, to the little camp I make for us, and she gabbles about her flatulence, and the turmoil is a dream. These periods of respite make the guilt upon my return many times worse.
Finally, so stressed that my courses cease altogether, I seek out my scholar to confess to him. He is entirely calm as I speak, unsurprisingly, asking few questions, and only to clarify. I finish and we sit reflectively.
Abruptly, with speed that surprises even myself, he whips salt in my eyes, leaps on me, and attempts an exorcism. He believes me possesed. As fast as he is, and as blind as I am, he is no match for a trained warrior and I soon have him pinned to the ground while I sob the grains from my ravaged eyes.
When the haze clears enough to see, the orange of the fire highlights the trails my tears have made down his face. He exhales my name so softly, yet my shoulders shake with the resonance. I release his arm and he cups my face lovingly, murmuring apologies, insisting he wanted to see if I could kill him, promising that it's over now, that everything will be fine. I headbutt him. How dare he! Now of all times, when I needed his strength, and his trust in my strength. I am furious enough to leave, let him puzzle when he wakes up, wondering if it was a dream, but I cannot leave him. The fire is low, so I tend it while he wakes.
The moon. My skyward mother. Her cold radience unlike anything else. I feel that she was shining extra brightly to warn us of danger the night my world exploded. To show the demon as he flew by her.
My scholar is sleeping now, and I am grateful. He sleeps little enough, but with this crisis he is likely to be up at all hours, transcribing heiroglyphics, people begging him to interprete the prophecies therein, in the hopes of finding an even keel, a foothold, in this calamity.
Even now I am a mortal woman, for instead of thinking of ways to defeat the undefeatable, I focus on how his breath makes tiny swirls in the plainsdust. I do love him. If we could be forever, I would gladly be. Yet, I know as the daughter of a chieftan, heir to the tribe-head, I never could. He would be killed in a heartbeat. I wonder if he knows this. I think he does. Yet, his strength today has surpised me. Larger men then him have fallen in combat to me; he held his own, at least for a while. Perhaps he is not as hopeless as I thought...
I vow to think on it when I return to the cart. The witch has a distressing ability to pick out my thoughts, and comment on them. I find myself desiring her advice. Perhaps she can shed some light on this demon, as well. I am terrified that the only recourse of action will be to sacrifice myself to this living retribution. The punishment is fitting enough, but there is so much undone. The question remains; what is to be done with her?
In silence my people weep, and I have seen the tribe return to a more chaste time. Objects of vanity or frivolity have been sacrificed. More beans have been burnt this season then on any other since my birth (another unusual tale). More cattle than we can almost afford have been slain to draw the beast; hunters laying in the shadows, bows tensed for the kill. Some of the more extreme zealots have begun eyeing the virgins. Something must change soon, or we will all perish.
Through all of this, I drift. Praised for my inner strength and serenity, I remain modest while knowing it is denial and shock. Why can I not abandon her? I am sure it is in failing the tribe that some God is punishing me; I expect to hear the flap of horrific wings at any moment as the red destroyer comes to pay me for my stupidity and weakness. My world comes apart at the seams: chaos, fear, hopelessness. We have all become gaunt from lack of nutrition; most of the food is sacrificed, and the little we can consume is rarely kept down. I chew bread as through it is wool. Lifelong friends have betrayed each other, snarl and fight over nothing. How quickly our peaceful world is uprooted. Then I return to her, to the little camp I make for us, and she gabbles about her flatulence, and the turmoil is a dream. These periods of respite make the guilt upon my return many times worse.
Finally, so stressed that my courses cease altogether, I seek out my scholar to confess to him. He is entirely calm as I speak, unsurprisingly, asking few questions, and only to clarify. I finish and we sit reflectively.
Abruptly, with speed that surprises even myself, he whips salt in my eyes, leaps on me, and attempts an exorcism. He believes me possesed. As fast as he is, and as blind as I am, he is no match for a trained warrior and I soon have him pinned to the ground while I sob the grains from my ravaged eyes.
When the haze clears enough to see, the orange of the fire highlights the trails my tears have made down his face. He exhales my name so softly, yet my shoulders shake with the resonance. I release his arm and he cups my face lovingly, murmuring apologies, insisting he wanted to see if I could kill him, promising that it's over now, that everything will be fine. I headbutt him. How dare he! Now of all times, when I needed his strength, and his trust in my strength. I am furious enough to leave, let him puzzle when he wakes up, wondering if it was a dream, but I cannot leave him. The fire is low, so I tend it while he wakes.
The moon. My skyward mother. Her cold radience unlike anything else. I feel that she was shining extra brightly to warn us of danger the night my world exploded. To show the demon as he flew by her.
My scholar is sleeping now, and I am grateful. He sleeps little enough, but with this crisis he is likely to be up at all hours, transcribing heiroglyphics, people begging him to interprete the prophecies therein, in the hopes of finding an even keel, a foothold, in this calamity.
Even now I am a mortal woman, for instead of thinking of ways to defeat the undefeatable, I focus on how his breath makes tiny swirls in the plainsdust. I do love him. If we could be forever, I would gladly be. Yet, I know as the daughter of a chieftan, heir to the tribe-head, I never could. He would be killed in a heartbeat. I wonder if he knows this. I think he does. Yet, his strength today has surpised me. Larger men then him have fallen in combat to me; he held his own, at least for a while. Perhaps he is not as hopeless as I thought...
I vow to think on it when I return to the cart. The witch has a distressing ability to pick out my thoughts, and comment on them. I find myself desiring her advice. Perhaps she can shed some light on this demon, as well. I am terrified that the only recourse of action will be to sacrifice myself to this living retribution. The punishment is fitting enough, but there is so much undone. The question remains; what is to be done with her?
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Fiction work # 10
I never wanted to cause trouble. It all began out of convenience; He was always there for me. Always considerate, always calm; The perfect gentleman. Over the years I fell for him. I would say, "Who could blame me?" but as the judge calls for order in the court I realize, everyone. I have become the spearhead, unwillingly, of this political movement. People say I'm the next Rosa Parks. How? She fought. She chose the harder path to make things better for people. I'm just taking the path of least difficulty. So tired of dating and relationships, I'm loving the one that I know, can prove, loves me back. Perfectly.
So now, here we sit. Together, before a "jury of my peers", until they decide whether I will be commited and him, killed, or not. Outside this mahogany chunk of history-in-the-making, it is June, the year 2032. If I can remember this year in my old age, I shall remember it as the year I toilet-trained the cat, and finally grew a perfect African Violet in my windowbox. How could laws and rulings possible matter compared to the tiny daily triumphs? Compare to the way he sillouettes in the sun?
Everyday I wake up next to him, expecting people to have finally come to their senses. Then this madness, the strikes, the protests, the fighting, will be all over. Then it'll be just me and him.
I used to just run a bakery and bookstore. A place to cosy up with a scone and some Twain. Now I'm a lawyer, philosopher, demagoge, and a celebrity. I had an interview with People magazine last week. They wanted to know if I'd ever had a sexual attraction to my oven,
"It's so hot!". Are they crazy? I'd never cheat on Toby that way.
"What's it like, being the first woman to love a robot?" Well, I doubt I'm the first. I'm just the first who tried to marry one. She smiled a disgustingly toothy grin,
"Whatever." Some people just don't understand. I'm not sure I do. Is it a crime if no-one is hurt? If I can love my cat, can't I love him? Some people argue I can love him, just not marry him. I just want to show that I love him, will always love him, and won't ever love another.
"But it's not a him." Now you're just arguing semantics. Call him whatever. 'The entity'.
"They're interchangable. Do you love all Tobico Mark 553's?" (She grins, thinking she's got me. Foolishly believing, like my naiive morning self, that this will wash all the trouble away, nice and pat. But she's bringing a knife to a cannon fight. This is a battle of ideologies, and I've had to field tougher questions than this.)
Of course not. I only love Toby. I know him by sight, sound, or feel.
The court tested that. Lined up hundreds of mark 553s. Made me look through them. Blindfolded me and had them speak. I always found him. On test number twelve I looked for two hours. He wasn't in the group. They thought they were clever.
They keep asking to reboot him. Wipe his RAM clean and see if he still loves me on restart. I ask if I can induce amnesia in their wives.
Other scientists downloaded his code, to study. Some of it was leaked to the public. Supporters buy T-shirts with segments on it. Some even get tattoos. The most beautiful was my name mingled into a line of code, tracing a flower. I would get it done, but I don't want people to think I'm doing this for publicity. Tobico has already capitalized on the fallout. Their new tagline is, "Robots you could fall in love with." I hear sales have septupled. We are a lonely species.
Scrapeing chairs bring me back to the present where the jury has finished deliberating this "ground-breaking case". Toby's big hand engulfs mine and I realize I am shaking. All this fuss. I want to stop everything and just explain to them. I just want a little piece of paper and a ring. They don't understand. I wish I could show them how it feels to have someone by your side 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, caring for you, selflessly. I don't want to be a precedent. I just want to go home, reheat my buffalo stew, watch the news, and go to bed; and I want to do it all with him.
So now, here we sit. Together, before a "jury of my peers", until they decide whether I will be commited and him, killed, or not. Outside this mahogany chunk of history-in-the-making, it is June, the year 2032. If I can remember this year in my old age, I shall remember it as the year I toilet-trained the cat, and finally grew a perfect African Violet in my windowbox. How could laws and rulings possible matter compared to the tiny daily triumphs? Compare to the way he sillouettes in the sun?
Everyday I wake up next to him, expecting people to have finally come to their senses. Then this madness, the strikes, the protests, the fighting, will be all over. Then it'll be just me and him.
I used to just run a bakery and bookstore. A place to cosy up with a scone and some Twain. Now I'm a lawyer, philosopher, demagoge, and a celebrity. I had an interview with People magazine last week. They wanted to know if I'd ever had a sexual attraction to my oven,
"It's so hot!". Are they crazy? I'd never cheat on Toby that way.
"What's it like, being the first woman to love a robot?" Well, I doubt I'm the first. I'm just the first who tried to marry one. She smiled a disgustingly toothy grin,
"Whatever." Some people just don't understand. I'm not sure I do. Is it a crime if no-one is hurt? If I can love my cat, can't I love him? Some people argue I can love him, just not marry him. I just want to show that I love him, will always love him, and won't ever love another.
"But it's not a him." Now you're just arguing semantics. Call him whatever. 'The entity'.
"They're interchangable. Do you love all Tobico Mark 553's?" (She grins, thinking she's got me. Foolishly believing, like my naiive morning self, that this will wash all the trouble away, nice and pat. But she's bringing a knife to a cannon fight. This is a battle of ideologies, and I've had to field tougher questions than this.)
Of course not. I only love Toby. I know him by sight, sound, or feel.
The court tested that. Lined up hundreds of mark 553s. Made me look through them. Blindfolded me and had them speak. I always found him. On test number twelve I looked for two hours. He wasn't in the group. They thought they were clever.
They keep asking to reboot him. Wipe his RAM clean and see if he still loves me on restart. I ask if I can induce amnesia in their wives.
Other scientists downloaded his code, to study. Some of it was leaked to the public. Supporters buy T-shirts with segments on it. Some even get tattoos. The most beautiful was my name mingled into a line of code, tracing a flower. I would get it done, but I don't want people to think I'm doing this for publicity. Tobico has already capitalized on the fallout. Their new tagline is, "Robots you could fall in love with." I hear sales have septupled. We are a lonely species.
Scrapeing chairs bring me back to the present where the jury has finished deliberating this "ground-breaking case". Toby's big hand engulfs mine and I realize I am shaking. All this fuss. I want to stop everything and just explain to them. I just want a little piece of paper and a ring. They don't understand. I wish I could show them how it feels to have someone by your side 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, caring for you, selflessly. I don't want to be a precedent. I just want to go home, reheat my buffalo stew, watch the news, and go to bed; and I want to do it all with him.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Big 'ol list of essential comics
Hey everybody!
These are the lists of what I consider to be “damn good reads”.
I’ve broken them into several groups and rated them.
Ta-Da
Gogogo
Love, Michelle
p.s. for actual physical reads the main one I would recommend is “Transmetropolitan”. So awesome.
Intelligent reads (1 being least difficult, 10 being most)
10. http://www.templaraz.com/
9. http://dresdencodak.com/index.html
8. http://thinkingapeblues.com/archive.php?comic=0
7. http://xkcd.com/
6. http://www.comics.com/comics/frazz/
5. http://www.sinfest.net
4. http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php
3. http://www.webcomicsnation.com/justinpie/wonderella/series.php?view=archive&chapter=12046
Plot-driven reads
10. http://www.sluggy.com
9. http://www.girlgeniusonline.com
8. http://www.moderntales.com/comics/shilongpang.php?view=archive&chapter=12949
7. http://www.itswalky.com/d/19970908.html
6.http://www.lackadaisycats.com/archive.php
5. http://www.lfgcomic.com
4. http://www.samandfuzzy.com/archive.php?comicID=99
3. http://www.uglyhill.com/index.html
Inappropriate (for reasons of sex, violence, or yuk)
10. http://www.thezombiehunters.com
9. http://www.jaynaylor.com/betterdays/archives/2003/04/post-2.html
8. http://www.leasticoulddo.com
7. http://www.blastwavecomic.com/
6. http://drmcninja.com/archive.html
5. http://www.butternutsquash.net/2003/04/16/meet-da-punks/
4. http://nobodyscores.loosenutstudio.com/index.php?id=4
3. http://www.sugarboukas.com/PD
2. http://www.kawaiinot.com/?p=1
Geeky
10. http://www.megatokyo.com/strip/1
9. http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20021023
8. http://www.secretlivesofmobs.com/index.php?strip_id=1
7. http://www.vgcats.com/comics/?strip_id=0
6. http://www.gpf-comics.com/d/19981102.html
5.http://www.somethingpositive.net/sp12192001.shtml
4. http://icanhascheezburger.com/
These are the lists of what I consider to be “damn good reads”.
I’ve broken them into several groups and rated them.
Ta-Da
Gogogo
Love, Michelle
p.s. for actual physical reads the main one I would recommend is “Transmetropolitan”. So awesome.
Intelligent reads (1 being least difficult, 10 being most)
10. http://www.templaraz.com/
9. http://dresdencodak.com/index.html
8. http://thinkingapeblues.com/archive.php?comic=0
7. http://xkcd.com/
6. http://www.comics.com/comics/frazz/
5. http://www.sinfest.net
4. http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php
3. http://www.webcomicsnation.com/justinpie/wonderella/series.php?view=archive&chapter=12046
Plot-driven reads
10. http://www.sluggy.com
9. http://www.girlgeniusonline.com
8. http://www.moderntales.com/comics/shilongpang.php?view=archive&chapter=12949
7. http://www.itswalky.com/d/19970908.html
6.http://www.lackadaisycats.com/archive.php
5. http://www.lfgcomic.com
4. http://www.samandfuzzy.com/archive.php?comicID=99
3. http://www.uglyhill.com/index.html
Inappropriate (for reasons of sex, violence, or yuk)
10. http://www.thezombiehunters.com
9. http://www.jaynaylor.com/betterdays/archives/2003/04/post-2.html
8. http://www.leasticoulddo.com
7. http://www.blastwavecomic.com/
6. http://drmcninja.com/archive.html
5. http://www.butternutsquash.net/2003/04/16/meet-da-punks/
4. http://nobodyscores.loosenutstudio.com/index.php?id=4
3. http://www.sugarboukas.com/PD
2. http://www.kawaiinot.com/?p=1
Geeky
10. http://www.megatokyo.com/strip/1
9. http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20021023
8. http://www.secretlivesofmobs.com/index.php?strip_id=1
7. http://www.vgcats.com/comics/?strip_id=0
6. http://www.gpf-comics.com/d/19981102.html
5.http://www.somethingpositive.net/sp12192001.shtml
4. http://icanhascheezburger.com/
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Noir fiction # 4
Well, it's been six months and the closest I've got? It's big.
Big enough for me to get my nose broke.
Big enough for my lady to leave me.
Big enough that I almost don't care.
Almost.
I've moved my office to the Pink Peri for the night, and the only thing that keeps me from chargin' out the door to blindly bust heads is the Piano guy. He's a friend of mine, and plays the Vaudeville I like.
I lite up to go with my scotch and he glances in my direction. I know he hates it, but damnit, tonight's a night for vices. He doesn't say anything, but I sense a tinge of disapproval in his A sharp.
Yah. He's that good.
I guess everything's forgiven later 'cause he sidles up to the bar to chat during his break. Orders a cranberry juice. He plays like an angel for a bunch of lowlife port rats; 'Man. what are you doin' here?'
We sit in silence. He always waits.
"She's gone. Finally had enough." There's really nothing else to say. He exhales slowly; He's gearing up to ask a question when a piece of dark-haired marzipan in a red sequin sashays up,
"Hey, ya big lug. Play me somethin'?" I wanna tell her to take a walk, but the look on his face stops me. I guess I owe him for the smoke.
Halfway though the song, she drapes herself on the piano, and I catch a glimpse of her thigh. A parrot tattoo. That ain't good. My buddy's looking at her like he looks at a piece of music. That's worse.
I finish my scotch, top up his juice, and with one last look at his face, hit the streets again.
God ain't heard from me in a while, but we talked that night. Let her just really like birds. Failing that, help me be faster then whatever's going down. A good man like that doesn't deserve this mess. Big guy must have been tuned into my channel 'cause I caught a tail around peach street. Something was wrong though. I could have lost this man taking a dump. Nobody was dumb enough to send a bad tail after me. What were they playing at?
I ducked around a corner and waited. Once his head was under my arm, I leaned on him. He sang like a fat, ugly, canary. What are they teaching kids these days? Before I could ask the name of his boss, though, I heard the very nasty harmonic of a big chunk of lead.
Then I caught a break.
Several, in fact.
As I lay in the gutter, bleeding gently, I consoled myself by saying at least they had to dry clean their suits now.
Yah. I'm that good.
Big enough for me to get my nose broke.
Big enough for my lady to leave me.
Big enough that I almost don't care.
Almost.
I've moved my office to the Pink Peri for the night, and the only thing that keeps me from chargin' out the door to blindly bust heads is the Piano guy. He's a friend of mine, and plays the Vaudeville I like.
I lite up to go with my scotch and he glances in my direction. I know he hates it, but damnit, tonight's a night for vices. He doesn't say anything, but I sense a tinge of disapproval in his A sharp.
Yah. He's that good.
I guess everything's forgiven later 'cause he sidles up to the bar to chat during his break. Orders a cranberry juice. He plays like an angel for a bunch of lowlife port rats; 'Man. what are you doin' here?'
We sit in silence. He always waits.
"She's gone. Finally had enough." There's really nothing else to say. He exhales slowly; He's gearing up to ask a question when a piece of dark-haired marzipan in a red sequin sashays up,
"Hey, ya big lug. Play me somethin'?" I wanna tell her to take a walk, but the look on his face stops me. I guess I owe him for the smoke.
Halfway though the song, she drapes herself on the piano, and I catch a glimpse of her thigh. A parrot tattoo. That ain't good. My buddy's looking at her like he looks at a piece of music. That's worse.
I finish my scotch, top up his juice, and with one last look at his face, hit the streets again.
God ain't heard from me in a while, but we talked that night. Let her just really like birds. Failing that, help me be faster then whatever's going down. A good man like that doesn't deserve this mess. Big guy must have been tuned into my channel 'cause I caught a tail around peach street. Something was wrong though. I could have lost this man taking a dump. Nobody was dumb enough to send a bad tail after me. What were they playing at?
I ducked around a corner and waited. Once his head was under my arm, I leaned on him. He sang like a fat, ugly, canary. What are they teaching kids these days? Before I could ask the name of his boss, though, I heard the very nasty harmonic of a big chunk of lead.
Then I caught a break.
Several, in fact.
As I lay in the gutter, bleeding gently, I consoled myself by saying at least they had to dry clean their suits now.
Yah. I'm that good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)