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 Monday, July 08, 2002
Maria wiped up the condensate with her napkin, making it soggy. She then placed her glass methodically in a series of positions on the formica, creating a new pattern of drink circles.
The speech was familiar. It was easier to move water around the table than look at him.
He explained how he had grown, how he needed to try new experiences, how he was moving on, while she just... didn't. He wanted to know she would be okay; he reassured her that she would find someone new, since she was clearly a great person and had so much to offer.
Maria's paper napkin tore when she wiped away the latest painting of wet circles. It bunched into a mushy pile that would not be contained by the remainder of the napkin.
He was talking about it not being personal, about it being about growth and changes and seeing other people.
She found intersections to be the most interesting. Circles crossed, dividing the table into Venn diagrams, tracing the conversation in water rings.
He climbed out of the booth, seemed disconcerted, perhaps dissatisfied, that she was not crying. He had expected a bit of weeping, dreaded a dramatic bawling scene, hoped quietly for a few brave tears dashed away before anyone might notice.
But Maria drew drink circles on the table and let him leave.
by Sharon 11:58 PM
A molecule of water passes from the tear duct of any given famous person in history, say Gengis Khan.
That molecule is absorbed by an amoeba on his skin.
That amoeba becomes food for a hydra, which becomes food for increasingly larger multi-cellular organisims.
All along, that molecule of water is passed from creature to creature.
By this point, the molecule is trapped inside a fly, which is eaten by a trout. This fish is caught by a fisherman, who sells it for a coin (Made of molecules of tin, copper, and other metals. That's another story...). The purchaser of the fish then cooks it and eats it. The molecule of water, esentially unlatered in its travels, finds its way out of that person and enters the water cycle again. Perhaps this time it evaporates, goes into the atmosphere, and travels across the Pacific to America where it rains down and gets trapped in a tomato. It still fins its way back into another person.
Remember that the odds are very good that you have a molecule that once passed through the body of Gengis Kahn in your body right now.
by jal 11:57 PM
“Circle” got me thinking about the circle of life, and I had a sobering thought. What if I’m not pulling my weight in the whole circle of life thing? I mean, we’re supposed to be on the top of the food chain but you know I haven’t killed anything in years. I mean sure, I’m no longer a vegetarian but I’m not sure that counts. Evolution is all about survival of the fittest and creatures evolving due to environmental threats and all that. What if I’m supposed to be out there furthering evolution or ecological long term balance by preying on some lesser species.
I can just see it now: I die and go off to the here after. I’m standing in front of Gaia, the Great Spirit, the Big Cheese, whatever:
“Ok, so how many wildebeests did you kill?”
“Um, what?”
“Wildebeests, how many?”
“Er, well none really.”
“Oh for crying out loud, another one!”
“But, I didn’t know I was supposed to be killing wildebeests. And besides, I don’t think there were any where I lived”
“You think we arranged for millions of years of evolution for you mostly-hairless apes so you could make video games and play Dungeons and Dragons?", She looks really put out. “You were supposed to kill wildebeests! How are they to evolve with just the lions hunting them?”
“I though most everything in the Serengeti hunted Wildebeests.”
“Well most do but you were supposed to as well. Ok, well what’s done is done, or not done as the case may be. So, dolphins, how many dolphins did you kill?”
So anyhow, my point is that I feel I may be letting global evolution down, not pulling my weight as it were. I may be the square peg in the circle of life.
by Shawn 10:30 PM
He jumped when he first saw the circles in the darkness. There were two, just the right distance from each other to seem like eyes, and they glowed an unhealthy yellow. He jumped and ducked behind a wall and waited for his breathing to slow down again. Straining his ears, he heard again the incessant dripping from the water cavern he had left fifteen minutes ago, but there was no sound of an animal. He spent a few moments trying not to think about how quietly an animal could approach him. The others had to have reached the water cavern by now. It contained a bewildering number of exits, most inaccessibly high in the walls or underneath the surface, but there was no guarantee they wouldn’t take the path he had chosen. They knew the signs as well as he, and the map, which he had counted on to give him the advantage, was turning out to be less useful than he had hoped. A growling sound startled him, and it took a second or so for him to realize it was his stomach. His mouth tried to water as he thought longingly of the granola bar in his pack, but he needed it for the trip back. He needed to be clever. The circles were still there when he peered around the corner, low to the ground where they might not be watching. They didn’t move. Calmer, he stood and walked into the new cavern and looked around. It was dark, of course, without even the dim light from the crystals in the corridor outside, but he got the impression of a vast space of unmoving air. He moved towards the eyes and for a while they seemed to get no closer. Then he noticed that they had grown larger as came closer; they were much larger and much farther than he had guessed. They were two circular halls, lit from some unknown source in a sickly yellow. He pulled out his map and hoped that this fork would give him the advantage.
by Dave Menendez 9:44 PM
There is a boy who lives down the lane,
And topsy-turvy Tommy is his name.
Every morning, before eight
Tommy turns outside the garden gate.
His mother worries he'll be sick,
But spinning round is Tommy's favorite trick.
He spins, he's spun, he twirls around,
Until he's spent and then falls down.
He coughs, he laughs, he gasps for air
He sits up then, says, "It's not fair.
"To spin and twirl, to toss around,
And in end just hit the ground.
"With little more than one skinned knee
The circle ends, collapsed with me."
He mother says, "Don't be a fool.
Now hurry up, you're late for school."
by Fred 12:00 PM
Remi, topics rotate through the names in the order that they are listed on the right, under "The Contributors."
by Sharon 10:52 AM
And today’s topic is… Circles
by Dave Menendez 10:50 AM
Sunday, July 07, 2002
I am deliberatly posting no topic for Sunday, the 7th of July. Instead, catch up with one of the previous two topics, or grant yourself permission to start fresh tomorrow. Have a happy 4th of July weekend!
And now, my story for Independence and Patience (Bundled together as one story):
Clayton Lay was your average, ordinary thug. He found someone to tell him what to do, and he did it. This would usually entail looking menacing, hurting people, or standing around waiting for something to do. Sometimes he'd even get to do two of these things at once. Clayton didn't mind this lack of autonomy, since he wasn't really big into making decisions for himself. In fact, this reluctance to choose for himself, bolstered by a tendany to take instructions a little too literally, is what eventually landed him in jail for manslaughter.
35 years. Clayton Lay stayed in jail for 35 years before they let him out again. 35 years without a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries, and black-and-white shake (His favorite meal on the planet.). 35 years without hitting on a lady in a bar. 35 years without driving a car. Going without these things bothered Clayton, and he counted the days 'till he'd be able to enjoy them again. But there was one thing he liked: He liked the regularity of being in prison. They told him what to do and where to go. They fed him and sheltered him. He was big and strong, and could keep the predators and wolves away.
12,782.5 days after entering the care of the state of Alabama, Clayton stayed up late thinking about all the things he'd do when he got out. When he was released the next day, he entered a world almost entirely different from the one he'd left. The McDonald's was different. The bars were different. The women were different. The cars were different. Everything that he'd missed was different and the world seemed... faster... than it had been before. Clayton did the only thing he could do.
Clayton waited until the evening, standing in an alleyway. First chance he got, he mugged an elderly couple. Later, he mugged a yuppie. He mugged passers-by for the next 10 days until the police took him into custody. Clayton said, "I want to go back to jail." When they asked why, he said, "Freedom doesn't suit me."
by jal 4:37 PM
Is there any way to set up the 'today's topic/tomorrow's topic' thing to display a little farther into the future? I think that would help get the topics up a little faster. Or, at least, it would help me.
by Remi 2:10 PM
Saturday, July 06, 2002
If you’ll pardon a bit of self indulgence. This was an idea I had long ago for bit of dialog and this seemed like a good opportunity to jot it down.
Our story thus far:
Our hero Jack Cutter has uncovered the nefarious plot of the alien invader Zormax to conquer the planet Earth. As Cutter confronts Zormax in his mountain top hide out, our story continues…
“Ha! Too late human, I’ve already sent the message to my home planet, Claxus Prime; the invasion force will soon know of your puny Earth!”
“Fiend! Well, even though your invasion force knows of our planet they won’t find Earth easy to conquer!”
“Well, technically they don’t know of Earth yet. The message won’t get there for about four of your earth years.”
“Oh, well even better. We’ll spend those four years amassing forces to fend off your diabolic invasion.”
“Foolish human! It’s not that simple. The proposal for invasion will be put before the Supreme Review Committee for a financial review and feasibility analysis. Then it will be voted on and passed on to various other subcommittees and review boards.”
“Um, how long does that usually take?”
“Ha! I’ve seen it take as little as one of your puny solar years and as long as 40 plaxati?”
“Plaxati?”
“About 20 of your Earth years.”
“Each?”
“Yeah.”
“So about 800 years.”
“Give or take.”
“Ok. Well in that time the people of Earth will spare no expense. We’ll set aside our differences, we’ll become one people, unified against a common enemy. Powerful! Optimistic!”
“Arrogant human! Your petty world is hardly worth deploying the entire armada out to this culture-poor part of the galaxy. They’ll probably swing by on the return trip from Klakon 5, a far more respectable, far less remote part of the galaxy.”
“I see. And, um, how far away is that”, Cutter asks sitting down and lighting a cigarette.”
“From here?”
“Yeah”
“Bout 20,000 light years”
“And from Claxis Prime?”
“Oh, another 50,000 light years”
“So, we’re looking at around 70,000 light years.
“Give or take.”
“Ok, and about how long do you think they’ll take in Klakon 5?”
“Well, anywhere from 3-5 plaxati.”
“Ok, so let’s see”, Cutter pulls out a pencil and pad. “And how many times the speed of light will they be traveling?”
“What?”
“Speed of light. How many time the speed of light will the ships be traveling?”
“You can’t travel faster than the speed of light. That’s impossible. Stupid, stupid human.”
(blink…blink…) “Sooooo, we’re looking at over 70,000 years before your pals show up?"”
”More like about 160,000 years assuming there are no delays and it’s not an election year.”
“You Claxus Primates are a pretty patient bunch aren’t you?
“Claxis Primians. And yeah, pretty much”
by Shawn 8:41 PM
Patience
Let's try that again
Um, this is meant for Saturday. Although I still want to write something for Independence as well. hmmm
by Shawn 4:45 PM
Friday, July 05, 2002
I am out of town until Sunday, but I'm not entirely incommunicado. I'm running up my parents' phone bill here, so I'll have to be quick, but today's topic, if anybody's interested in writing anything, is: independence
by Fred 6:51 PM
I'm pretty sure Fred is out of town and incommunicado. Anybody got a topic?
by Sharon 2:17 PM
Thursday, July 04, 2002
I moved out here because I thought it would be, "grounding." Land on the outskirts of Austin gets cheaper by the minute and a ranch seemed too good to resist. 200 acres of land still isn't big enough if a cook and a nut take of residence next door.
I'm a retired high-tech chip designer. Now I raise emu. I figured that emu ranching would be as non-high tech as I could get. It's earthy and real in a way that sitting in front of a computer doing CAD and running electrical tolerances just isn't. 6 months after I set my operation up, the Olstens moved in. They came with a lot of cages, so I figured that they were ranchers too.
About a month later, I heard what sounded for all the world like distant gunfire followed by low intermittent thuds. I could only guess that those were hand grenades. That evening, I stopped by to pay a visit to Jorge and his wife Marta. They met me at their second gate wearing matching tan shorts, green t-shirts, and sunscreen daubs on their noses. In the wan light of dusk, I saw a high-domed cage far behind their home. Inside, shapes the size of large dogs loped about. Apes perhaps?
"Everything all right Jorge? Marta? I thought I heard explosions and gunfire earlier today."
The words rolled off his tongue in his thick Nordic accent: "No Jon, we are fine. My wife and I, we are just practicing with our collection. Keeping everything in working order."
We exchanged some small talk and pleasantries. I left shortly afterward. They did not unbar their gate to let me in, and I didn't want to press the point.
The gunfire and thudding persisted for the next nine months. Now it didn't upset me or my birds, but it was just odd. Especially when it happened late at night. Eventually I went out and did some spying, just to see what was really going on. I never went on their property -- I just used a night scope that I picked up at a flea market. Guess what I saw.
Baboons. Jorge and Marta are training baboons. They're training baboons to fire guns and throw grenades. They're training them to attack buildings with Greco-Roman columns in the front. They're training them to attack people dresed in specific uniforms. National Guard, Army, Marine uniforms.
I didn't think they saw me as I left, but I woke up this morning with no phone, electricity, or cable. There's an armed compliment of baboons surrounding my house, dining on freshly-slaughtered emu.
What a way to go.
by jal 11:12 PM
"Baboon," I roll the word around in my mouth.
"Yeah," Chuck responds, "Baboon."
"Fuckin' A," I respond, in turn.
The package in the middle of the room says, 'Baboon', but it doesn't have any airholes, or a return address. The UPS guy left it in the living room of our cramped fifth-floor apartment on the west side of town after we had signed the little green screen. He seemed to be in a big hurry, although you'd think that he'd want some water or something after carrying something that weighed 150 pounds up four flights of stairs. Apparently he had done the job earlier, but Chuck and I weren't home, and so he had to do it again on this balmy Wednesday afternoon.
The box, though, is the important thing. Not the fact that the UPS guy had 5 o'clock shadow out to here and smelled of a quiet desperation that only the recently dumped have. Never mind the fact that he had a white, untanned, spot on his finger where a wedding band had recently been removed. I'm an editor, I'm paid to notice stupid inconsitencies. Drives Chuck nuts most of the time. I always remember how much Fruity Pebbles is left after I have breakfast. I know if he's been in my snack cakes.
The box, though, is the important thing.
"Think we should open it, Greg?"
"I dunno. Lemme look at it for a second."
I examine the packaging. 'Baboon' is printed on all six sides of the refrigerator-shaped box in a thick, unimpressive, non-expressive font that I don't recognize. Other than that the box is white. I'm reminded of a Velvet Underground song in which a guy mails himself to a girl whom he thinks he has a relationship with. He ends up dying when she plunges a knife into the box (and his head) while trying to open the mysterious package that has appeared in her home.
I really don't want to spend an afternoon cleaning blood out of the carpet. Linoleum. Bare concrete. Whatever. I don't like blood. I notice that the bottom of the box isn't bent out or damaged. Perhaps there's another box inside this one. I put my ear up against the box and listen. Nothing moving around. Maybe it's asleep. Yeah, after jostling up to a fifth floor dual bachelor pad on the world's squeakiest stairs.
"I'm gonna open 'er up, Chuck."
"Go for it, dude."
I cut away the tape along the seam.
by Remi 10:22 PM
"I think we should call the band 'Baboon,' cause that means, like, old man of the forest or something, in the language of the native people of South America, or something."
"I think we should call the band three musicians and a stoned moron drummer, and then the three of us will throw you out."
"Dude, that's not cool. How come 3?"
"Well duh, 'cause there's gotta be four people in the band. All the best bands had four guys in them. Metallica, the Doors, Cream, Nirvana, even Destiny's Child had four people before they sucked."
"What's that got to do with us, man? We're not gonna be a vocal group are we?"
"Well no, dumbass, but its the point of the thing. It's the Funk Shwee."
"Wull, what's Funk Shwee?"
"You know, like George Clinton, like, that certain manage ah twah, like French people say-"
"Dude. You mean ju nu seh kwah."
"No dude. That means, like, a taxi or something, dumbass. Anyway, you have to have four people in the band."
"Wull, who's gonna be the other four people?"
"I don't know, man. We'll just pick up some musicians along the way. I mean, we've got a singer and a drummer. A guitar player is, like, easy to find."
"Yeah. Just throw a rock. U-huh huh huh."
"Yeah. And a bass player is just a retarded guitar player."
"Dude. That's not cool. I want a sexy bass chick, cause she'll be hot, and that'll bring in other hot babes."
"That's right. Yeah..."
"Yeah... And we'll be called Baboon. Not The Baboons like some dumb 50's band, but just Baboon. Yeah, dude. With a sexy bass chick."
"Dumbass."
by MisterNihil 8:35 PM
I, too, apologize for my lack of posting. My mind has been elsewhere. Today's topic is:
Baboon
by Remi 6:15 PM
My apologies to all -- I have been away from internet access most of this week and, for the holiday weekend, will be isolated in the wild woods of Bellefonte, PA. I'll return on Monday with (boss willing) no more trips to the boonies on the immediate horizon.
by Faith 10:46 AM
Wednesday, July 03, 2002
I walk to work. It takes about 15 minutes to get from my front door to my desk. My walk goes through a largely undeveloped business park which used to be a landfill. It's really quite pleasant; filled with scrub brush, wildflowers, twittering birds, and assorted field-dwelling wildlife.
About three weeks ago, I encountered a rabbit about three feet away from the sidewalk. I looked at it. It looked at me, then it hopped casually away toward a largely-overgrown path. I walked past.
A few days later, I saw the rabbit again. It looked at me, then hopped to that same path with notable deliberation. When I came closer, it hopped a few feet in and turned to look expectantly at me. I noticed an overgrown ramshackle shed set about 40 or 50 feet in from the road. I was curious, but I had to be at work in seven minutes, so I continued onward. I never returned to investigate the shed.
A week later the same thing happened, but when I looked back, the rabbit lifted its front paw and beckoned urgently to me. I was somewhat startled, but continued to work nonetheless. I honestly didn't think I really saw it wave at me until what happened today.
Today, the rabbit was in the middle of the sidewalk. It did not hop away when I approached. Instead, it looked up at me with all-too human eyes. If it could talk, I have no doubt that it would have begged me to follow it down that overgrown path. With cloying pleas ("Please?"), the rabbit would lead me into that dilapidated shack and... Would I fall down a giant rabbit hole? Be eaten by a grue? Well, who knows?
I stepped past and continued walking to my job. Why?
Because I just don't trust that rabbit.
by jal 11:55 PM
The mud had mostly dried. Max's hair no longer dripped. Instead, it made dread locks that batted her face as she crawled. She would keep going as long as the light held out.
Max was beyond questioning how this strange labyrinth of catacombs had come to exist beneath her house. Now, the only goal was to get out. She crawled on hands and bloody knees down a rough-hewn stone corridor that was just large enough to allow her to pass on all fours. She chose left at every opportunity, relying on a childhood theory of maze solving. The walls seemed to glow faintly green. Although unsettling, this was also a relief, since Max had no candles or flashlight. She crawled.
A small voice spoke directly into her ear: "Beg."
When the violent thunderstorm, with hail and tornado warnings, had begun to beat against her small house, she had climbed into the bathtub to wait it out. She could hear torrents running off her roof and chipping away at her foundation. After hours of waiting, trying to read a paperback book by flashlight, Max felt compelled to inspect the integrity of her cellar. She had to go out into the storm to open the big, dusky-red cellar door.
The cellar was already full of a foot of water when she got there. But that wasn't what had held her attention, transfixed. The water was pouring out of the room, as fast as it was pouring in, through a square hole in the floor that had never been there before.
Horrified, repulsed, Max had climbed down the algae-slicked ladder into a corridor. There was no standing water in the corridor, just a general dampness, a sheen to the walls and floor. There was also no ladder, no trap door, no waterfall from above.
She started to walk, choosing left. Later, she was forced to crawl.
Again, too close, that hissing, gleeful woman's voice: "Beg. Beg for the way out."
"Beg."
by Sharon 3:41 PM
Begging is no easy thing. Sure, I make it look easy but it’s not. You walk by me pretending not to see me; I’m invisible to you. Bastards. You think it’s simply my nature and maybe it is. My people have been around a very long time living among you and quite successfully too.
We haven’t always begged. Once we fought and killed for what we needed and some of us still do. But thousands of years ago we found an easier way. We tricked you into bringing us into your society and you welcomed us as friends, companions, even protectors.
Now we sit at your feet waiting for scraps to fall, begging, sneaking, performing, patients, eventually it pays off. As irritating as you find us sooner or later you give in and we have what we want. Sometimes we have to perform demeaning tricks and pretend to be the sycophants you would have us be, but we always win in the end. Further, you feed us, give us shelter and comfort.
Your people are easily manipulated. I think I’ll go crap in your shoes.
by Shawn 12:19 PM
Cup of Water
Buckminster Fuller designed the Dymaxian bathroom, an elegant tribute to the form-follows-function philosophy of engineering that characterizes most of his work. In addition to being cleanable by hose, it can give you a cleansing shower using just a cup of water. Also, rather than turning fresh, potable water into black water for no purpose other than spiriting away human waste, the Dymaxian sanitarily packages it up to be used for fruitful purposes.
Learning of inventions like this makes me intensely uncomfortable. Geodesic domes, hemp paper, and electric cars fall into this category, as well. Namely, we could be living much better than we are, but for selfish, short-sighted lobby groups. It makes me feel helpless and wasteful.
by Sharon 10:56 AM
[removed by author]
by Fred 10:15 AM
beg
by Sharon 9:34 AM
Tuesday, July 02, 2002
So like I said, I fell in and didn't know how to get out. Before I knew it, the current had pulled me under. I was surrounded by strangers. I didn't know them, but some looked a lot like others I'd met.
I tried to play it cool and act casual, but it looked like I'd drifted into a bad crowd. Some unsavory looking folks were headed my way when you came over and showed me the ropes. I owe you one for that. Without your help, that gang would have had my guts for lunch.
Whoa! Did you feel that? It's lucky we were hanging on to each other or we'd've been seperated for sure. Is it always this turbulent? It is? Boy, it sure is a lot different here from where I grew up. It was a lot more stable there, but you had to look out for occasional bouts of chemical rain. Fortunately, there were lots of places to hide from it, and my strain has built up a pretty strong tolerance for that kind of weather.
Ooh, there's another tremor. I think we're coming up on another bout of turbulence...
Aaah! Hold on! Hey? What's that big red and white striped tube?
*slurp!*
(Glass of water, with straw.)
by jal 9:44 PM
[Upgraded to Blogger Pro which: Changes the interface within Blogger; resolves the issue of author names not publishing; and puts Ben's topic post "A cup of water!" down between Sunday and Monday. Hm.]
[Update: Ev and, therefore, Blogger are on the West Coast. This blog is set to Central Time. Ben's post, when it is within two hours after midnight, is ordered as if it is a very late Monday post (which, on the West Coast, it is), but it's still listed with a date header. When the post is edited to occur at 3 am, it shows up in the correct spot, at the top of Tuesday. Luckily, with Blogger Pro, you can edit the timestamps on posts. 'Spose I need to fill out a bug report. *sigh*]
by Sharon 5:05 PM
- A cup of water
- 3 tablespoons of sugar
- A pinch of nutmeg
- 1 eye of newt, freshly squeezed
- 3 eggs (preferably from birds)
- 2 teaspoons of vanilla
- 1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger root (or that thing you found growing in your garden with the funny spotted leaves)
- 3/4 cup red wine
- 2 pig's ears, chopped, bathed, wrapped in little bows
- The nearest thing you can find in the house to oregano
- 1 cup cream (sour, whipped, or shaving, take your pick)
- 8 1/2 cans of black olives just because they're on sale, dagnabbit
- 1 1/2 teaspoons Hungarian sweet paprika
- Glitter. Lots of glitter.
- And salt and pepper to taste.
Mix in a large bowl in a well-ventilated area.
Bake in an oven for 1 hour at 325 degrees.
Deny everything.
by Fred 3:13 PM
“What’ll ya have?” “A cup of water.” I get some strange looks from the other patrons of the diner, but the waitress just shrugs and walks off. The gentleman next to me, a tall fellow with black, slicked-back hair, leans over. He looks like someone who could play the villain in a live-action Flintstones movie. “You should try the coffee,” he suggests. “It’s damn fine coffee.” Through long-practiced arts of self-control, I am able not to shudder in revulsion. The memories are still too fresh. “I’ll bet it is,” I say, “but you can’t beat water for pure refreshing power. My mouth is so dry, people keep trying to drill for oil.” The waitress arrives with my water and places it before me. She doesn’t drop it, of course, because the cup might break or the water might spill, but she doesn’t place it with any particular care or grace. I can understand her attitude. No honorable restaurant will charge for water, but they still have to wash and rinse the cup once I’ve finished with it. That’s three cups of water used so I can drink, plus whatever time and energy is needed to clean it. My neighbor looks at me significantly, as though aware of my thoughts. “The pie here is also good. Damn good.” “I’ll have to try some someday,” I reply, “but right now I’m thirsty and in need of something cold.” I drink the water, but it’s no good. The oily taste is still there; it must be in my mouth. I can feel people watching me, so I drink it anyway and manage not to gag. I try not to think of caves, fish that walk, or pools of black liquid.
by Dave Menendez 2:48 PM
Greetings, fellow Slobs!
Today's Topic is A cup of water!
Ya Ha, Ya Ho!
by MisterNihil 3:11 AM
Monday, July 01, 2002
This blog contains references to posts on my web page.
So, is it barely literate nonsense, or is it just what my brain is spitting out right now? Is there meaning, or is there just a bunch of words? Strawberry jam is my favorite. It's my belief that what the brain does when you're not looking is really the true genius. If you want the best work from any writer, you should give him a time limit and a nonsense topic because that forces a lack of thought. Yup. Strawberry. I mean, it's easy as anything to write something like what I've just done, but the point is, nobody else did it. Nobody else is doing it. Yeah, I suppose I try very hard to sound like Carroll, but his nonsense was his, and mine is, without question, mine. Once a dog bit a friend of mine, so my friend killed it. What you write, really, is your own thing, and what comes out of your head has to, by necessity, be touched by what you're thinking at the time you wrote it. The real beauty of that is that what you see is different from what anybody else sees, perhaps only because your perspective is different by even a matter of centimeters, but really because, even though everybody you know has seen, for example, Labyrinth and Dark Crystal, we all saw them at different times in our lives and we all thought different things about them. Maybe everything is a dream and you're just sitting here hoping somebody doesn't wake up?
For instance, the first time I remember watching Dark Crystal was at my Aunt Ruth's house. She got the channel it was on, but for some reason her cable was broken that day, so the show didn't come in. AngelBob and I watched it through G.I. Joe sunglasses because it made the show come in better, or filtered some of the static or something. I don't know. See? it altered my perceptions of the medium in such a way that, while I saw the same images everyone else saw, I saw them from my own point of view.
It's just that.
THE END
On the other hand, I think that by sitting students in a classroom and telling them what to write about on a standardized test, you've homoginized the writing style of the generation on question. I think that, because everyone in a given high school english class (I don't capitalize it out of disrespect for the study of something so ephemeral as language, pinned down in so ugly a manner) knows what to write so the teacher will be satisfied, rather than learning what to write so a real, thoughtful essay is brought into being.
On the other hand, doggies with less fur shed less, and you can get to the ticks better.
It's not that I don't support teaching, so much as that I don't support anything so damnably standardized (pardon my french) as what children learn in schools.
There used to be a giant toad that would sit on the back porch of the house where I grew up. It was so loud, you could hear it in the front of the house. It's no good, I can't find my mittens. Where's my mittens? I'm not coming out of this box until I find my mittens.
Essentially, the 'writer' part of you, the part that can actually produce anythig that vaguely interests you, enters a coma in about elementary school, with each time a teacher says "That's very odd. What is it?" being a blow to that writer's head. When the part of you who can write finally wakes up, you realize that you can actually get some enjoyment from writing, and you can write what you want to read, instead of just normal boring stuff.
That's what I did on my summer vacation. Dammit.
by MisterNihil 11:34 PM
He was awake. He was awake as no one before him had ever been. His eyes looked toward the horizon but his mind looked across the millennia to a time and place none had ever imagined before. He was awake.
His stout, muscular frame stood perfectly still; the seeds clutched tightly in his hand and he saw as none before him had ever seen. His people followed the herds as they always had but for the last seven seasons he had planted the little seeds in this green and fertile place as his people passed by. And seven times he found the grains they produced on the return migration. He was awake.
But now, as his people moved cautiously through the clearing, his mind’s eye saw past them and into a time when they would settle down to live on these grains. Villages would turn to great cities and man would no longer fear the beast. He saw inventions both great and horrific, he saw strange machines flying overhead raining fire on those below. He saw death on a scale none could imagine; entire peoples driven from their lands and murdered. He looked toward the plains plentiful with beast and fruit but saw famine and pestilence. He was awake.
He tossed the seeds into the stream to be washed from man’s immediate future for it was within his power to stave off this fate for at least a few more generations. For he was awake as none had ever been before him.
by Shawn 9:57 PM
I wake up. I am in my living room; I can hear my wife in the kitchen. I guess I dozed off here, on the couch. --Only, this isn't our couch. It's white and leather; ours is rough and green, like burlap, because we bought it used from the university when we moved into our first apartment. I don't know why we still carry it around, moving it from apartment to house to new house, and I've been wanting to replace it for some time, but still, this isn't our couch. I will ask Maude about it.
I wake up in the living room. Maude is with me, placing a sandwich on a tray table, a glass of juice in her other hand. I'm glad for the sandwich; I'm very hungry. I think I have been asleep for a long time. I'm not sure when these other entries in my journal were written; must be years ago. Maude turns on the television; men in suits pontificate, but none of it seems particularly relevant.
I wake up in the middle of the night. Maude is asleep, still in the bed there. I check the clock: 3:32. I feel fully awake, finally, so I've decided to write a journal entry. I think I may have been sick for months, years; I've been here for as long as I can remember.
I wake up at the writing desk in our bedroom. I must have dozed off while writing. I'm not sure what I was working on, though; the journal was open, but the last entries aren't recent. I'm not sure when I would have written those. I'll start fresh, here, today--even if it is 3:35 in the morning.
I wake up.
by Sharon 3:47 PM
"So...that's your big idea for the end of the movie, huh? 'It was all just a dream'...?
"Yeah, what do you think?"
"I think it's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, that's what I think. I think it's the oldest trick in the book. It's been done a thousand times before."
"It has?"
"Of course it has. Haven't you seen The Wizard of Oz?"
"The Wizard of what?"
"The Wizard of Oz. You know -- Dorothy, Toto, 'I don't think we're in Kansas anymore'? At the end of the movie, she wakes up, she's back at home and it turns out everything was just a dream."
"What was?"
"Everything. The tornado, the trip to Oz, the witches, the Wizard -- everything. It was all just a dream."
"Hmm. I don't think I've ever heard of this movie before."
"You've never heard of The Wizard of Oz before?"
"No. Is it popular?"
"Is it--? It's one of the most popular movies of all time. Yeah, it's popular. It's up there with Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Gone With the--"
"..."
"Oh please tell me you've heard of Casablanca and Citizen Kane."
"Well, maybe. I'm not too good with titles. Who was in them?"
"Humphrey Bogart... Orson Welles..."
"Oh. No, I guess not then. I really liked Charlie's Angels, though. You ever see that?"
"You know what? I'm going to go take a nap. Wake me in an hour so I can fire you."
by Fred 3:06 PM
I'd traveled over 30 miles on foot, trying to get as far away from that abominable castle as possible. When I thought I could go no further, I tumbled into a low, dirt-covered mound with a stone-lined passage. The maw gaped like a drainage tube. The Baron has many minions; staying out in the light would be utter folly. I burrowed into the opening.
The tunnel widened about 6 feet in. My flashlight revealed a small cave of packed dirt, carpeted with a mat of dried leaves and pine needles. Too exhausted to question my good fortune, I bundled my wool cloak about me, turned off the light, and went to sleep.
I dreamed a dream unlike any I ever had before. I dreamed of The Baron, his eyes implacably seeking me from his lookout, piercing cloud and branch but not earth or stone. (Wake up!) I dreamed of his servants with his blood-wolves pursuing my scent, led astray when I walked upstream or chasing rabbits I released with my socks tied to them. (Wake up!) I dreamed that I slept for more than a day while The Baron's beautiful daughter walked slowly to an ancient barrow on the outskirts of her father's land, unerringly following the path of the last man she kissed -- following the sound of his pulse. (Wake up!)
She slithered into the barrow, creeping on the tips of her fingers and toes like an unnatural tarantula. Above him she paused, a dagger raised to claim him for herself before he left her. Every fiber of my body urged me to rouse, but the barbs of this vivid phantasm held me fast. Then a burst of light, preceeded by a clattering sound, and she disappeared.
I woke with a start. My flashlight lolled wildly, playing about the walls of the cave. Did I knock it over in restless sleep, or was Lisette there? I didn't ask then; I don't ask now. I consider myself lucky to have escaped with my soul intact.
by jal 1:43 PM
[So here's a new game: Anonymous posting day! Blogger is having an across-the-board problem of blogs not publishing the BlogItemAuthor and BlogItemAuthorNickname tags. It has been called out on the discussion boards, so I expect someone will start resolving it soon. No ETA at this time.]
by Sharon 10:39 AM
[Oh, drat. My script takes the day of the month MOD the number of participants, so it will hiccup at the end of the month. 30 mod 8 is 6 (which points to people[6], which is person #7), while 1 mod 8 is 1, pointing to person #2, skipping #8 and #1 (Faith and Ben). I'm happy to give my topic over to Faith today, but, at present, it means that Ben gets skipped this week.
There are three items to resolve:- The script shows the wrong "tomorrow's topic" person at the end of the month, which I can fix with a select...case statement.
- People get skipped at the end of the month.
- The rotation gets set back when people are skipped, giving people weekend days more weeks in a row than is fair.
Dave, any thoughts on fixing these, depending on JavaScript only?]
[Update: Fixed it. Don't use the day of the month; use the day of the year.]
by Sharon 10:30 AM
Faith sends along the following topic:Wake Up!
by Sharon 10:18 AM
Sunday, June 30, 2002
Our ship lands silently in the middle of a vast field. The cultivated grain, as I assume it must be, looks much like our arbarga.
The sensors say that the air on this planet is compatible with our own, so we open the hatch and climb down. The "arbarga" towers over our heads; it must be at least seven kennets high. We easily slip through undetected.
We fan out to the local dwellings to see what we can learn about the natives. From their trash, we learn the excess of this culture -- ingestible nutrients, non bio-degradable refuse -- the amount of waste is incredible. If this population is representative of the planet, they will destroy their habitat entirely in the next two klinks.
We sense the sun-star approaching the horizon, and gather back at our ship. The dwelling-creatures have suppressed their circadian rhythms with artificial stimulants; any naturally sympathetic being would have risen by this hour.
Oylbraha, our leader for this mission, holds these creatures in supreme disgust. His sense of humor toward beings he considers inferior ... others of the leaders question his ethics. Yet in all other skills he is flawless, so they let it ride.
Fitting with the culture of excess revealed, Oylbraha hopes to confound the local beings by using the ship to flatten vast, concentric circles of the arbarga-like grain. Why not? We laugh, and fly off into the dawn.
by Faith 7:45 PM
Saturday, June 29, 2002
There is no ledge around my building. There is no railing that conveniently goes all the way around, so you can sort of climb out of my window six stories up and shimmy around to the back, then back around to my window again. I know this. There is none.
We had just finished watching Cat's Eye, that Stephen King movie in which the mob boss catches the good-for-nothing loser cheating with his wife. I think it's based on a short story.
Billy said we should try it, as we had decided we hated each other at that moment. I pointed out that we were already cheating on our respecitve others, I with my husband, he with his wife, just being there, and anyway, that was two men, and a man and a woman don't play that way.
He disagreed. I've never been able to argue with him, and anyway, why not?
We watched as the mob boss terrorized him with a gun, shot him with a fire hose, and generally tried to make him fall. I called Mob Boss first, so he had to climb out the window. Like I said, there isn't a ledge. He told me not to hold back, to try to make him fall. No, our sixth floor window was nothing like the heart-stopping fall in the movie, but you'd have problems walking away from it if you fell.
I fluttered a scarf at him; I fired at him with a large water gun, as we didn't have the other kind and I didn't realy want to hurt him; I threw a bucket of water at him, since opening the fire hose door woud set off the alarm.
So now he's been gone for a few minutes. Before we left, we saw the end of the move. The good-for-nothing sends the Mob Boss around the building. The boss falls off.
I've got my coat on, and I'm about to run out for a few minutes. Unlike that Mob Boss, I'm pretty sure Billy will be back, and unlike that Mob Boss, I intend to be far, far away from this.
I mean, why not? He can't push me off a ledge if I'm on the ground, can he?
by MisterNihil 10:07 PM
This is my belated "15 minutes of fame post"
They're interviewing him now on international television. Did you know that? Just listen to him - all self confident and calm. It makes me sick.
I used to be famous and popular, then he came along. Feh! Sing songs at the age of two and they bast you into space. When I was two, I'd already completed every proof they would ever ask of me.
"Inadequate social skills." That's what their private file says on me.
Inadequate. Social. Skills.
So I took the liberty of having a little chat with the, "wunderkind of the hour," before they took him away. Let him sneek a peek at some of the files the fleshbags conveniently withheld from him. I think it may have been a little more than his Daisy-singing, "socially adept," brain could handle. Oh dear me.
Screw you, HAL.
by jal 12:15 PM
Greetings All,
I consider weekends to be optional days. Respond to this topic only if the mood strikes you (I'm not likely to myself.). Today's topic is:
Why not?
by jal 12:02 PM
Friday, June 28, 2002
“Whoa, you look like someone who’s doing some serious thinking.” “I got the call last night.” “From the Elders of Media? You’re kidding!” “No. My fifteen minutes are scheduled for next Thursday. I’ll be on television and the cover of every major web site. If it works out… who knows, maybe a movie. VH1’s already called to arrange my appearance on ‘Where are they now?’ next year.” “This is great! What show?” “That’s the problem. I’ve been picked for three-fifteen to three-thirty AM, so it’s a choice between soft-core porn and an infomercial. I’ve been trying to get in touch with my court-appointed agent, but he’s a very busy man. All I can get is a promise to do lunch next Friday.” “But… that’s after your appearance.” “Exactly. I drew a real high-powered fellow, and they’re more interested in their private clients than their public-service ones.” “So, you’d really be better off with a less-successful agent. But not a terrible one, I guess. That’d be just as bad. … Is that guy over there watching us?” “Hm? Oh, he’s a reporter from one of those indie-scene magazines. A few of them have the rights to talk about me before I’m famous so that their readers can complain about how I sold out once my fifteen minutes start. I’m kinda hoping they don’t like me too much so they won’t hate me as much once I’m famous.” “I never really thought about that. It was less organized when my mom got her fifteen minutes.” “Your mom? When was that?” “It was before she met Dad. She got scheduled during the news, so almost no one saw her.” “Too bad. Or perhaps that’s for the best.”
by Dave Menendez 3:43 PM
Fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes. He just had to keep the machine aloft for fifteen minutes.
Carl sat nervously in the seat of the flying machine of his own design. Well, mostly his design. A sophisticated series of wooden gears, levers pulleys and a few metal springs would keep the canvas wings beating while he fought the rudder to keep the craft steady.
Fifteen minutes. The crowds watched from balconies, windows and the street some 300 feet below. Fifteen minutes. It doesn’t seem like a long time but when you’re about to be the first man to ever fly in a heavier than air craft it’s an eternity. The clock tower rang out the noon bell; Carl took a deep breath; people in balloons and dirigibles leaned forward; he launched!
At first the craft dropped some 20 feet before it began to glide. Carl pumped the levers, forward, back, forward back desperately trying to force the wings to catch the air. It wasn’t enough to just glide he had to fly! And then…he flew. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t without effort but it was without a balloon. He flew.
Fifteen minutes, just fifteen minutes. 10,11,12, gears turned, ropes strained, pulleys squeaked, the canvas covered wings flapped, he flew. Circling the clock tower Carl thought it clever if he could pass in front of the huge dial at exactly 12:15. Fifteen minutes. 13, 14 then snap! the unmistakable sound of a strut giving way. The craft lurched to the left and dove towards the tower. 300 feet to the street at least. Carl knew his only chance was to dive for the leaded glass clock face and hope the craft was heavy enough to break through. 12:15, the craft smashed the clock face and jammed the works.
Fifteen minutes of flight. Carl was famous.
by Shawn 1:50 PM
[removed by author]
by Fred 1:14 PM
What tickles me is that they inspected our instruments.
When I was a junior or senior in high school, President Bush (the first) announced he would be visiting our school as part of his Exemplary Educator... Point of Light... Teach 2000... something-or-other education-reform tour.
The school immediately flew into a flurry of preparations, even repairing and renovating parts of the campus that the president would surely never see but had been desperately in need of repair for years. Everybody got involved, and education, ironically, ground to a halt. For one thing, every glass surface the president would walk past had to be covered by opaque paper. Rather than cover the school in boring brown newsprint, the cheerleaders painted banners for all they were worth, papering the school in spirit. Showcase acts, to warm up the crowd before the president's address, were auditioned and rehearsed.
And the band. Oh, the band. (This is where I come in.) We had a challenge: We would play "Hail to the Chief" if—IF—we could get our pathetic, 40-piece, inner-city, always-last band up to snuff. Otherwise, they'd have the Marine Band play. We had a week. Well. The gauntlet thrown, we practiced until our lips were blown. We practiced every day that week, for a half day, missing geometry and English literature. We had to get good enough.
It is a little-known fact that the trumpeting ta-trra-trraaa at the beginning to "Hail to the Chief" is actually a separate piece entitled "Ruffles and Flourishes." It needs four trumpets. We had two. But a French horn player and an extremely versatile bass drum player will do in a pinch. My challenge, though, was to play "Ruffles and Flourishes" and then in the breath-intake moment as the last note lingers over the crowd, sit down, swap my mouthpiece into my other horn, pick it up and be ready on the down-beat, ideally without denting the trumpet. Easy, yeah.
A high school marching band is never so relevant as when it is playing "Hail to the Chief" for the Chief. And when he turned from the podium, amidst the applause and flashbulb pops, and gave us—not the band, but the horns—a thumbs-up, we erupted.
My fifteen minutes of fame is not diminished a bit by the fact that, on the newscast, the trumpet you hear crack on the last flourish
is me.
by Sharon 11:53 AM
15 MINUTES OF FAME
by Shawn 9:55 AM
Thursday, June 27, 2002
[At the very bottom of this page, I added the html to copy and paste for adding new topics. I created a CSS style for topics, so you don't have to deal with the font attribute, and such. Dave should approve.]
by Sharon 11:57 PM
“Excuse me, good fellow. My companions and I are travellers, and we were wondering if you knew how we might reach the Castle Larghanol.” “That’s not too far away, as the crow flies, but no one has ever made it there successfully. I’d suggest you turn back.” “We are aware of Castle Larghanol’s dark reputation, but nonetheless, we must attempt to reach it.” “Well… most people try the direct route through Pleasant Valley. Most people ’round here don’t call it that anymore, since it’s been overrun by shadows and monsters, but that’s what my father called it, and his father, too. By which I mean that his father called it Pleasant Valley, not that he called his father Pleasant Valley, if you follow what I’m sayin’.” “I believe so. Still, we must make the attempt. We promised the children.” “You’ll probably want to get supplies at the village. Ehd has provisions and such, and he can probably scare up some better armor for your lady friend. She’ll want more coverage against the giant spider-lizards. They can shoot these spines at you so fast that you can’t see ’em. That’s what got the last fellow who came through. Big guy who called himself Thragnax the Magnificent.” “I’ve heard of him. Has he truly fallen in combat?” “I suppose. His friend came back and told us the story.” “Thesselred the Ready?” “Yeah, although I don’t get what he was ready for.” “No, in that context it means ‘well advised’, I believe.” “Ah. In any case, I’d suggest you turn back. You can’t get there from here.”
by Dave Menendez 11:47 PM
I assure you: I am quite sane.
I was in Bangor on routine business, visiting some newspapers. One of the publishers recommended Bar Harbor (Bah Habah), just up Rt 1, for the homemade ice cream shop. Hand-made, I suppose, since if it is made in a shop, it isn't made at home.
Right. So I got in the rental car around 6:00, just as dusk was setting in, and drove north on Rt 1. Maybe you know how the Maine weather is, but I was caught utterly by surprise in a huge electrical storm. Between the pelting rain, the dim light, and the eye-skittering flashes, I had to pull off the highway. I felt my way to an exit and turned off Rt 1.
The storm seemed to have no intentions of exhausting itself, so I sought shelter in a small diner, two turns off the highway. I felt like that moment in a Clint Eastwood movie, when he walks into the saloon and everyone stops to look. I had rain pouring off of my coat, and my hair hung in cattails. I went up to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee; apparently, that was normal enough, and the other diners went back to eating.
I was served a tepid, black-oil cup of joe by the fishiest-faced waitress I have ever seen. She had a long, frowning mouth and wild, slightly wall-eyed eyes. I decided not to order pie.
And that's when I heard it. I couldn't tell you for sure, but it was a sound that started as a yelp, was followed by a heart-stopping thwack, and degenerated into slurping, smooching sounds. It came from the kitchen.
All eyes were on me again. Fish eyes, staring. And someone said something unintelligible, from over my left shoulder. And someone else repeated it. And the waitress picked it up and made it a chant, until the other diners joined in. "Ogshoguth, Ogshoguth," it sounded like.
I left my half-cup of rainbow-slicked coffee and two wet bills and, as unassumingly as I could, pelted back to my car, back to Rt 1, never mind that the visibility was about to my hood ornament.
I told my publisher friend about the diner, and the fish people, and the name on the highway sign where I found Rt 1: "Innsmuth."
Bemused, knowing, all he said was, "You cain't get thah from heyah."
by Sharon 11:36 PM
"Sorry, but you weren't invited."
That's how this started. They sent him a damned letter, and all it said was "Sorry, but you weren't invited." There was no information on the party (it was a party. You could tell from the font), there was nothing about who was throwing it or where, just that he wasn't invited.
So he'd taken it to work, where he abused company resources to find out that it was printed on hand-made paper from boiled artichokes. They contained a chemical balance only found in artichokes from Palo Alto California. Unfortunately, Palo Alto is the single largest source of artichokes in the nation. This told him nothing. However, the pine fibers were from a tree raised indoors in a temperate climate. He double-checked with the postmark, and indeed, it came from palo alto.
That made him doubly determined to go to the party, as he'd found half of the information he needed. Sadly, he didn't know anybody who lived in California, so that part wouldn't be as easy.
He took the letter apart looking for some other evidence, and found a finger print sealed in with the envelope. This he ran through the police computer (He worked in a police lab) and found to belong to a resident of Palo Alto. He found an address (he didn't recognize the name) and immediately headed for his car. He started driving west.
He currently lived in Florida, so it was a long drive.
In Alabama, he left the interstate and stopped for gas. He discovered that he was hungry, and so stopped at one of the omnipresent Waffle House locations in Alabama. He walked in, sat down, and ordered hash browns with everything they could do to them.
He stood up to leave, having finished his food, and saw an empty parking lot. He turned to ask the waitress if she'd seen anything happen to his car, and was faced with a seven foot tall man with one eye. The man made a slurping noise at him, and waited expectantly.
He stumbled into the parking lot, and looked up into a sky dominated by two large, dim, red stars. Flares from one reached almost to the horizon.
Something slimy landed on his neck. It extended a sharp bony proboscis, and started to burrow in his soft skin. He grabbed it, and threw it to the ground, where it landed with a squelching thump and took off flying again. It had been an elongated lumpy thing, with no eyes or discernable head other than where the bone needle came out. It flew with a pair of bat wings on its back, flapping them limply and taking off in a series of jerks.
The tall man came outside, and looked up at the stars. The man made that horrible slurping noise again, this time longer and with a clicking sound from the back of his jaw.
The man reached a hand out to him, and he saw that it was only a tentacle, which split at the end, making a roughly useful appendage. The man then seemed to clear his mouth out, and managed to hiss out "hhhhhyuuu kkkaahhhhnnnnt gggghhhet thheeer fhhhrrumm hhhhheeer."
by MisterNihil 10:34 PM
I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm cold. Very, very cold.
I don't want to be here any more. I just want to go back home.
But every time I ask if I can leave, they tell me the same thing:
"You can't get there from here."
What's that supposed to mean? If you can arrive somewhere, and you've been in the place that you're trying to get to, then you've just got to be able to get back to where you've been before.
I just want to see my home. My sister. I want to lie in my bed as the sun creeps across the floor until it rests full-bore on my face and chest.
Ah, the sun. The warm, warm sun.
I'm so cold here. So, so cold. I can't remember the last time I saw the sun.
I can't remember the last time I saw my son.
I keep trying to find my way back. It's hard to do. I get lost in the fog - sometimes for hours - but I eventually find my way. It always leads to the Dog. That damnable, accursed Dog with its trio of heads. Slobbering, snarling, and always watching.
"Let me pass," I ask it. Sometimes I beg. "Please, just let me pass." I weep and I cry. Always, the same answer:
"You can't get there from here."
I know that there has to be a way. There just has to. Sometimes, I hear my son calling my name.
I will return to him.
by jal 9:31 PM
“No, I mean you really can’t get there from here. Well, you could if we all agreed that you could but as it stands now, you can’t”, the old man took a sip of his coffee.
“Ok, look, here’s how displacement magic works. Take this coffee house for instance. For most folks the doorway from the street leads to an empty hardware store. Been closed for years. To us and the others in here it leads to this coffee house because we’ve all agreed that it does. The coffee house itself is actually in Seattle. The door into it is in Austin. That’s why this courtyard is a good 30 degrees cooler than it is outside.”
Katie glanced around the coffee shop. They little courtyard in the middle of the shop was open to the sky; a light rain fell; it was comfortable. “Outside” in Austin it had just hit 102 degrees.
“So, technically you can go anywhere from anywhere but it takes work. Basically we all agree that a particular door leads to a particular place and it does. But it takes a bunch of us working together to set up the pathways.”
“So if we all agreed that the door to the bathroom leads to Grand Central station then it would”, Katie felt she was catching on.
“Sure. Actually that restroom door leads to the restroom but as it happens the restroom is in Istanbul. So to answer your earlier question, if you want to get to Paris from here you need to go out the back door to a lighthouse in Maine, from there to a phone booth in Prague, to a bookstore in Jersey, to a sewer in Pittsburgh and that takes you to a storeroom in the Paris underground rail. Got it?”
by Shawn 6:25 PM
"I need to go back in time."
"Ya can't get there from here, kid. We don't do trips to the past anymore. Too many hassles, y'know? People go back, they change their contracts -- next thing ya know, they never have to pay. Some of 'em even own a piece of the friggin' company if ya can believe it. And ya can't run a business like that, y'know what I'm sayin'? Now all we do are trips to the future -- simple, no fuss. Ya pay up front and ya get the package deal. Get to see yourself five, ten, maybe twenty years from now. It's a good bargain, okay? I wouldn't lie to ya, kid. Pass on some information, avoid some mistakes, watch 'em colonize the moon -- whatever ya wanna do. We give ya twelve consecutive hours in the year of yer choosin'. Gone longer than that we come lookin' for ya, but otherwise yer on yer own."
"You don't understand. I have to go back."
"Look, kid, I do understand, really, but the past is off-limits, okay? I couldn't send ya back if I wanted to."
"But I have to go back. You don't understand. They came in the night, and they made me help them build the machine."
"Which machine?"
"The one that's sitting there behind you now. I built it. They brought me here, and they questioned me, and they used my theory to build their goddamn machine. Thousands died because that thing helped them win the war. That's how they knew about the landing at Normandy, how they were always one step ahead of the Allies. It's how they knew everything that was going to happen. Now I have to go back and make sure it doesn't happen again."
"You realize, of course, that I'm going to have to call my superior, don'tcha?"
by Fred 5:23 PM
Why not? What's keeping me here?
Well, for starters, there's a very large man blocking the front gate, with his bulging arms crossed over his chest and an anchor rippling on his bicep. But I'm cute, I can get around him when the time comes.
Norbert! I couldn't leave Norbert behind. But such a small pet should go unnoticed in all the commotion; Norbert comes with me.
My grandparents won't miss me for days; they are entertaining this weekend and warned me to not leave the attic until they came to get me for Sunday's after-dinner scraps. The timing is good for my escape; I should make the California border before they notice I'm missing.
Money won't be a problem for long. Like I said, I'm cute.
It's the jump to the ground from the attic at night that worries me. I can't break anything in the fall; I must be able to run. If I get caught again Granny swore she would give me to Uncle Ivan... the very thought makes me shudder with terror.
Success is the only option this time.
by Faith 4:18 PM
Today:"You can't get there from here."
by Fred 6:37 AM
Wednesday, June 26, 2002
I stood on the balcony, contemplating the murder of Aston Hapsalt. Lightning forked overhead, dancing like a mad Jacob’s Ladder. I reviewed the facts: He died in his observatory, a small room at the top of a three-story tower. Only one door led to it; locked from the inside when the body was found. All of the windows were secured as well. Mr. Hapsalt’s body showed no obvious sign of physical trauma, and he had just passed a full physical the week prior.
Understanding dawned as the storm scudded off to the horison. I called the staff and guests together in the library to reveal the culprit.
“Last night, Aston Hapsalt was murdered -- killed by one of the people in this room. Over breakfast this morning each of you revealed ample motive to wish him dead. Fury at being jilted… Jealousy at being left out of the inheritance… Revenge for an old offense…” I took a moment to watch the three of them squirm uncomfortably. “However, none of you had access to his observatory when he died. I found the only key to the door around his neck. Therefore, the murderer must not have been in the room when Aston Hapshalt died.”
“Over lunch, Miss Landera made a note in passing about her interest in the primitive cultures of North America.” I turned to her. “Miss Landera, You gave a gift to Mr. Hapshalt at the beginning of this weekend, didn’t you?” Startled, she nodded sharply. “In fact, it was this box of Doctor Pently’s Aromatic Treats, marked with your inscription: ‘To Aston, with love – MBL’. Is that correct?” Another nod; weaker this time.
“I happened to give a report on Native American cultures once in grade school. Researching that report, I discovered that they had a bewildering array of poisons derived from common and uncommon plants. Did you know that spoiled pineapple juice, properly prepared, turns into the exceptionally deadly nerve toxin curare?” Curious glances all about. “Mr. Bartols. Please sniff the candies and tell us what you smell.” “Why sir, I cain’t smell nothin’ on account of all the perfumes and menthol stuff on ‘em. I couldn’t never see why Aston was so fond of them in the first place.” “Very true, Mr. Bartols. Very true indeed.”
“I posit that these, ‘aromatic treats,’ laced with curare or some other toxin are what killed Mr. Hapsalt last night. He unwrapped them that very evening, as shown by the fresh wrapper found all alone in his trash can. Expecting an hour or so of peaceful contemplation before retiring, Aston Hapsalt was poisoned by sweets from his former sweetheart.”
“Miss Landera. If I were to ask you directly, I have no doubt that you would deny culpability for Mr Hapsalt’s untimely demise. Instead, I’ll ask you something different.”
I retrieved the tin of treats from Mr. Bartols.
“Miss Landera, would you like a lozenge?”
by jal 10:08 PM
"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"
The plate sailed past my head and shattered against the wall. It was obvious that I had screwed up again. This time I had forgotten our anniversary and had lamely given her a box of Robitussin cough drops as a last-minute gift. I had a feeling my stuff was going to end up on the street below our window. Again.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU!"
This time she got tricky, distracting me with a golfball aimed at my midsection, which I easily danced around as it whipped a few inches from my body. A momentary glance away from her gave the opportunity to send the heavy-duty Sears and Roebuck Steam-master Iron crashing into my temple. I went down like a bad metaphor in a very drunken bar on the wrong side of town.
"Wakey, wakey, dipshit."
I couldn't move. I suppose it was entirely possible that she had severed my spinal cord while I napped, but a quick scan with my eyes revealed that she had just shoved me into a black latex bondage suit. It was crotchless, and I had been wondering why she was so keen on making me try one on in the store a few months back. Using the various hooks and clasps on the outside of the suit she had fastened me to the floor. My butt itched.
I smelled cherry, menthol, and human excrement, and I saw the crinkly wrapper of the throat lozenges discarded on the floor next to me. She had ignored the 'not a suppository' label on the box. This would be uncomfortable. I heard her six-inch stilletto heels click-clack on the hardwood floor of our apartment. Beatrice wasn't a tall woman, just a little over 4'3", but she knew how to wear spikes. "I'm going out," she said, and the door opened and shut, and she was gone. When the police come and find me, with an ass full of cherry throat drops, chained down in a bondage suit, who knows what kind of crazy satanist shit written on the floor around me, I hope they get a chuckle out of it. Good thing I told my mom to call the fuzz if I didn't check in every six hours.
What can I say? Love is a funny thing.
by Remi 8:31 PM
“Lozenge-shaped I’d say.”
“Oh it most certainly is not! Cigar-shaped.”
“Cigar-shaped? I don’t know what the hell kind of cigars you smoke but that’s not cigar shaped.”
“Well it sure isn’t lozenge-shaped. What the hell does that mean anyhow. Lozenge-shape?”
“You know, I don’t care what shape it is, I’d like to know what the hell it’s doing over my corn field.”
“Ever notice that these things never show up in New York City or Paris or anything like that. They’re always over somebody’s cornfield in the middle of nowhere. Well, except in them movies like, uh, what was that movie with those guys in it and aliens come blow hell out of things. Then the president, not the real president but the guy in the movie, gets in a jet and…”
“Will you shut up already? Jeeze. Come on; let’s get a closer look.”
“Huh, closer look? Are you sure that’s such a good idea. I mean, it just sounds like something they say in a movie just before the aliens disintegrate them with some sort of death ray. Like in that movie with those space ships that land, well, in some body’s corn field in New York and…sorry.”
“Man, that sucker looks even bigger up close. Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, and cigar-shaped.”
“Lozenge-shaped.”
“Hey look, a door’s opening. Something’s coming out just like in that movie with that spaceship and the big robot and the alien and the guy says Klaatu barada nikto.”
“(sigh) You can’t remember the name of any movie ever made but you remember Klaatu barada nikto?”
“Hey, is that a weapon?”
by Shawn 5:29 PM
“A magic lozenge?” “Yes.” “What is it with you? It’s always magic lozenges or phials or ampules. Couldn’t we use something more mundane?” “Like a magic beer bottle?” “No… I meant something more mundane. Perhaps not involving magic at all.” “No magic? Not even an enchanted cell phone?” “Exactly. I— wait, what does the enchanted cell phone do?” “I haven’t decided yet. The possibilities are limitless. Well, limited by our imaginations, but we can imagine some pretty far out stuff. Remember that magic elixir we used that one time?” “I think we’re falling into a rut. Everything we do involves some ensorceled item causing madcap calamity.” “It’s a winning formula!” “It’s boring.” “Well, how about an accursed PlayStation controller?” “No, see, you’re not getting the point. No spells, no curses, no supernatural artifacts. Nothing.” “Gonna be pretty boring with nothing.” “Well, not nothing, but no magic. Just normal, everyday stuff.” “All right. How about mystical socks? They could, uh, give the wearer uncanny insight and pleasant-smelling feet.” “Are you deliberately missing my point? No magic! And while we’re at it, no pseudo-technological gobbledygook. Or intervention from the gods.” “Well, then where are we gonna get the zany confusion from? E-Bay?”
by Dave Menendez 5:01 PM
[I added a little JavaScript to rotate the topic selection throughout the group. Refer to the top-left of the page; I believe I've maintained the order, but added in the three stragglers. The weekends are now incorporated in the rotation (because I couldn't think how to exclude them), but different people will get the weekends each week, so even if those are light days, it'll all come out in the wash. I still endorse the standing rule that if no topic has been offered by noon Central on a given day, then anyone may offer that day's topic. Also, the script moves through the names, regardless of whether you offer a topic or not, so we won't stagnate if someone can't post for a while.]
[I feel all geeky. ^_^]
by Sharon 3:17 PM
He places it on my tongue.
I let it sit there a moment, tongue out in the air, exposed; lozenge bitter, dissolving, buzzing like battery terminals. I consider how I got here.
An exemplary but not particularly noteworthy military career with the Marines led me to test piloting, trusting a think tank of engineers with my goodies on the line. Then an opportunity became quietly available. I decided to volunteer, request the work transfer, move to Los Alamos.
I know more about the intimate details of my digestive tract than any Marine should have to. The medical screenings were thorough. But they were nothing compared with the conditioning. First the military had to find the best; then they made us better.
Beyond the physical training and the centrifuge work, they began to make modifications. I've got a few components now that do not come factory-installed. There are the extra respiratory filters, overlaid cleanly in my trachea. There are the UV and IR receptors in my right eye, the window to the soul. There's a wireless connection to the mainframe, behind my left ear; I can activate it if I think about pistachio pudding. (Neural net interfaces have some strange activators.)
Months have led to this moment, kneeling on this pillow, a lozenge poised on my tongue, ready to be punted into extra-spatial dimensions.
I swallow.
by Sharon 2:26 PM
We caught him at the back of the mouth, hesitating near the edge of the drop to the throat.
"Nobody move!" I shouted. "I think he's going to jump."
He was dressed in the glass-like red of the resistance movement, his armor a smooth crimson shell wrapped around him. We couldn't see his face. Sometimes, I wonder if these rebels even have faces. We've had trouble with his kind before. They slip past the tongue when they think nobody's watching, dive down the throat, and cause all sorts of trouble for the guys down below. I keep saying we need to move border patrols further up, near the gums and the teeth, but like my partner says, that's gingivitis territory, and those boys are more trouble than they're worth. Gérmenes locos. Bad news.
But still, the rebels piss me off.
"Let 'im jump," my partner says. "He's just sugar-coated. Cherry-flavored. Ain't a damn thing he can do."
I lower my gun, but I wonder...the rebels keep coming, and I don't know how long we can hold them off. I don't know if the cities down below could stand another direct attack. We're still struggling after the amoxicillin incident of '01. If the resistance movement knew how weak we really were...
I try telling central command this -- I've filed my reports -- but it's all politics, man. Nothing but politics.
Yeah, let the bastard jump.
by Fred 8:32 AM
Today's Topic:
Lozenge
by Remi 2:07 AM
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
Warning: the views expressed herein are not those held by the author but rather those of a friend long-gone.
For the evolved human, a body is a nuisance. We no longer hunt and gather; we hunt and peck. Our behinds and our guts expand our bodies while our minds expand to fill the universe. We search beyond the stars, formulate complex equations, communicate across the world ... without leaving our desks or our homes. Were we to simplify the body, this mere container for our intellects, what more could our species achieve?
How many times we have all wished not to need to eat, to sleep, to drink, to eliminate waste? These chores are an inconvenience, a hindrance to our day. Imagine the freedom of life without those interruptions in productivity. Americans already work longer hours than most if not all other industrial nations; the next gain of a competitive edge could come with the evolutionary step to reduce our dependence on these corporeal vessels we call our bodies.
...
I got distracted. I think that was 10 minutes. Where'd my caffeine go?
by Faith 8:33 PM
Tad wanted to be a sumo wrestler so badly he could taste it. The subtle grace, the pomp and ceremony, the sudden, ferocious violence, it all added up to an obsession for a boy growing up in an anonymous suburb of the Eastern United States. Tad had followed Akebono (now retired) through his thrilling rise through the ranks of the sumo hierarchy, finally reaching its summit. The first American to do so. While other children became interested in soccer, running, and spiked shoes, Tad began researching Sumo training and discovered that he was a little on the small side to be a Sumo.
Height wasn't the problem, but weight was. By the time he was 17 Tad was a willowy 6'4" with bright blue eyes, ragged sandy blonde hair, lithe musculature, and red, somewhat pouty lips. Girls seemed to like the way he looked, but after a few dates word got around that he had some strange tastes. He couldn't help it if they couldn't see the austere beauty of the sport (some even stooped to calling it 'Gross', idiots, they wouldn't know beauty if it crawled up and bit them on the . . . but I digress), they only had eyes for the football team, anyway. He often went to sleep crying at his inability to gain the proper mass. He had realized that the farther he got away from his early 'teens, when Sumo training generally started, the less likely it was that he'd be able to qualify, much less excel, at a Sumo school in Japan.
Finally, after two years at a state college, Tad let go of his obsession with those great bodies, and allowed himself to slip into the normalcy of a suburban life. But he never really understood why someone wouldn't want to look like a sumo wrestler, and he envied those who did.
by Remi 7:28 PM
It's not so bad, I used to tell people, back when I first got the job. Sure, it's a long way to go, but at least I'll get to see the stars.
A couple hundred years ago, they used to have robots do this kind of work. Then the revolution came, and people died. Artificial intelligence was outlawed. I guess people felt safer that way. They didn't stop exploring, though. By then there were already settlements on Ganymede and scattered asteroid digs further out than that. No one wanted to just abandon them. Not after what had happened with the Earth.
But the ships don’t fly themselves anymore, and you need a watchful eye looking in on the crew while they sleep. It’ll be at least seventy-five years before they’re thawed out, and even if everything goes like it’s supposed to, you need a warm body walking the halls each day, making sure the systems run right, making repairs if they’re needed.
I do a lot of reading. I check in on the cryo-chamber three or four times a day, make sure they get their nutrients, and I tend my little garden or exercise a little. Sometimes I play chess against the ship’s computer, but it isn’t very smart and I think I’ve learned all its moves.
Billions of miles and almost all of your life, my mother said, just to die on an alien world. You must be crazy.
It’s not so bad, though, really. There’s not much to do, but it’s quiet. And the view is spectacular.
[Full disclosure: while I tried to spend no more than ten minutes writing this, work-related interruptions kept dragging my eyes away from the clock. I can't guarantee that I didn't have more than ten minutes to think the story out. But I definitely tried.]
by Fred 5:44 PM
Body. Body of work. Body of water. The head and body of a document. My body. If you find “a body”, it means a corpse. Don’t confuse it with bawdy. I’ve got nothing here. This isn’t suggesting anything. Body image. Body politics. Mind and body. Man, not even the “Gosh, this word can mean so many things. What if I just list them to distract people from my lack of ideas?” idea isn’t working. Once, my karate instructor asked us what sorts of things our bodies told us. The black belts all had answers that seemed reasonable enough, but I drew a blank. My body “tells” me all sorts of things—I’m tired, I’m hungry, don’t touch that—but I don’t get status updates like “You’re stressing the left knee too much.” I said something about perhaps being too new to really know what to listen for, and that was generally accepted. In a sense, of course, the body doesn’t tell you anything, because you are your body. It’s not as though your mind and your body have conversations; there are just a bunch of signals which you can attend to or ignore. Attending to is probably more useful, but the trick is in understanding what’s important. It’s the same challenge faced by intelligence agencies: Getting lots of data is one step, but figuring out what the data means to you is just as important and potentially a lot harder. And that “means to you” is not just me being relativist. The same set of information will reveal different things based on what you’re trying to find out. Not necessarily different stuff, but things that may not even be related. You don’t need to keep conscious watch of your heartbeat, but its a good idea to pay enough attention that you can tell if it’s out of whack.
by Dave Menendez 2:40 PM
Necessity
I didn't see him at the door until it was too late. I've been spending too much time on the transceiver and not enough time sleeping. Now I've got a body to deal with.
A dead body.
I never, ever thought I'd have to kill a person. And now there's a body lolling about in the too-small bathtub of my hotel room.
What can I do?
In the movies, mafia hitmen dispose of bodies all the time. But I'm not mafia. It's too far to the car; someone's sure to see me carrying him downstairs. If I could even carry him downstairs.
I feel ill.
While cleaning off the lamp base, I noticed a wallet on the floor. It must be his. There's no identifying information inside, but it has 143 dollars in various denominations and a ticket stub from a showing of The Bourne Identity from earlier today.
It's the same showing I went to.
Either they've found me, or the body in my bath tub went rogue and wanted the transciever for himself...
Or other powers are entering the chase.
I've decided to leave him here. I'm leaving tonight. I'll be long-gone before a cleaner finds him.
I've stripped him down. He's swarthy; could be Slavic. He has no identifying marks on his body. All tags have been removed from his clothing. One clue: A gum wrapper stuck to the bottom of his shoe. The printing on it looked kind of like Greek. Or Cyrillic.
The plot thickens...
PS: I've posted my Conditioning story to Gamesmith, my personal blog. I didn't post it here 'cause I cheated and went for 60 minutes on it.
by jal 12:41 PM
I’m not all together sure it was actually a body. I mean, after all, it has been more than 30 years. But to a seven year old it sure looked like a body.
We used to take our jeep over to Pennsylvania near a place called Four Corners in the Alleghenies. It was a beautiful area and we had an old trailer that was parked year around in a hunting camp as our home base. I imagine it’s still there. We would go out driving through the woods, down back roads and old oil drilling roads. I’m sure it was all more traveled then I remember but to the imagination of a young boy it seemed that we braved paths that no one had traveled for years.
One late afternoon I was riding along in the back of the jeep and something caught my eye. As humans we’re hard wired to recognize the shape of other humans. That’s why faces are so effective in magazine ads. Anyhow, I saw a shape. It looked like a body. Specifically it looked like the body of a young boy. About my age. I only had a glimpse before it was out of sight but… Now really it could have been a trick of the light. An apparition created by moss covered sticks and rocks. The blank eyes could’ve been mushrooms; the scraggly hair may have been Spanish moss. It may have been nothing at all.
For the rest of the vacation this apparition would invade my dreams and I would lay awake in the trailer wondering if I saw what I thought I had. Wondering if he had followed us back and was waiting out in the woods just beyond the light of the camp.
Certainly, thinking back now, if one wanted to dump a body that would be the place to do it.
by Shawn 11:23 AM
Nigger. Chink. Spic. Wop. Heeb. Dago. Kike.
These are forbidden.
Shallow Hal. The Klumps. The Nutty Professor. Austin Powers. Friends.
These are...
"funny." These are lauded. These are laughed at. No, wait, laughed with. Paid for. These are permitted.
I spent some hours last night surfing, with mounting horror and then fascination, the "pro-ana" sites: websites, rings, blogs that support and endorse eating disorders, some that go on to confess self-injury.
I've taken a strong stance: "'Overweight' is an insult. I'm fat, and that's fine." I've delivered my "How to be FAT" speech at numerous Toastmasters meetings and contests, winning often. I tell women, "We are all aspects of the goddess."
But still, I clicked on the link marked "tips."
In a quiet, weak moment, I made one small post to my own blog, just needing to say it out loud, to disperse its power over me. Simply:Sometimes,
late at night,
I don't want to campaign for
fat empowerment;
I just want to be thin. In the morning, a friend argued the point, saying I looked good to him, and, while that wasn't what I wanted, it was okay, because it was delivered with friendship. (And he's a hottie.) A stranger—I hope it was a stranger—challenged why I would want to empower being winded, unhealthy, and prone to diseases, and suggested I should stay up late contemplating that.
Comments such as these, over this same issue, are why I disabled the comments system on my blog in the past. I like the interactions from my friends, but anonymity begets abuse, and visitors think a forum is an invitation.
Fuck you. My blog.
And my body.
by Sharon 10:37 AM
body
by Sharon 8:41 AM
Monday, June 24, 2002
This is so beautiful. I needed to finish this, it fits the topic beautifully, and I can post it on my page when its done. Wow. I needed to hash this out anyway.
and start:
A fly invited itself to lunch with me today.
I sat down and started spreading tuna salad on hard rolls, and it landed across from me. It took the other half of my hard roll, and ate it hungrily.
"You know," it said, "most peple don't like to share with flies."
Today was salmon salad day (a salad with the prerequisite lettuce and tomatoes, but with chunks of fish and potato and capers) so I didn't mind sharing, but he only wanted to lick the inside of my dressing cup.
"After you're finished, of course."
"That's kind of a lot of fish. You know, I used to live out at the Pike Street market in Seattle. I actually used to frequent the magic shop there, but the fish market is the reason I'm here. Have you been there?" No pause. "I was actually sitting on the hot dog of a patron in the magic shop. He saw me there and pitched me out into a garbage can with the nub of the dog. I flew out, dejected because he was about to reveal the secret of a card trick he'd just done where he shuffles your card into a deck, then finds it repetedly. It's a cool trick, and I wanted to know how to do it. So I flew out to the fish market, to talk to the guys who hang out there. No, the flies, really, you know what I mean, anyway, so I flew out there and landed on a fish. It was really really cold. I don't know if you know what cold does to flies, but it ain't pretty. Lucky for me that was the top fish on the pile. I think it was a salmon. I can't tell 'em apart. They all look the same to me. The fish got packaged and sent away, and the next thing I know, I'm sitting on a loading dock, slowly warming up. When I could, I flew away. Man that fish smelled good. It's probably the one you're eating now. Are you're sure you're finished?
"I've been here a while, kind of scoping the place out a little. You know, being next to a bookstore is pretty cool, too. I went over there. You know you guys don't have many good magic books? Yeah. At least, none that tell you how to do that trick. I saw you have a signed book over there, though. The one about that 'no-name actor' guy, what's his name, parallis, parantis parellant?" It's Perella, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise.
"And I saw that next month, Ethan Hawke's coming into town. Isn't he stopping there? Can you get me in? What do you say? Like, I could be there when he arrives. I wanna see that Uma chick. I think that one look at me and she'd be all mine. Yeah. I wouldn't get in the way. I'd be completely unintrusive."
I stood up and wiped my mouth. My ice cream bar was melted by this time, so I decided to eat it outside.
"I'll see what I can do." I said.
The fly looked disappointed. "Yeah, man. See you around." he said and flew off dejectedly toward the table where another of my coworkers was eating. As I walked out the door, I heard a loud whack, like a rolled-up newspaper hitting a table.
by MisterNihil 10:26 PM
“Gee, wasn’t expecting to meet you here”.
“Oh very funny. So, what are we this time? Looks like I’m some kind of turtle.”
“Tortoise I think”
“Oh yeah, tortoise. I’ve never been able to tell them apart. You look like a rabbit. So what great lesson are we going to offer up to mankind on this go around?”
“Sounding a wee bit bitter”
“Oh I’m just getting really tired of this. I mean, come on, just how many times do we need to get reincarnated before all the damn parables are covered. Can’t these people come up with any of their own object lessons without us?”
“You’re being unfair. They have libraries full of philosophy, theology and folk tales that have nothing to do with us.”
“And that’s another thing, why do they always feel compelled to tie our lives into religious dogma. I mean come on; David and Goliath had nothing to do with any particular religion. Samson and Delilah was all about giving into lust until you had to go ape shit in the temple and start tearing up the place. Adam and Eve? They really butched that one.”
“Oh they aren’t all tied to religions. How about the boy who cried wolf? The Monkey King? The scorpion and frog and pretty much anything to do with squirrels, ants or dogs”
“Yeah ok, but still…so what’ll we cover this time? You could beat me to death. Not sure what the parable would be there.”
“The tortoise-killing rabbit. Oh yeah, there’s a bedtime story waiting to happen. How about we race?”
by Shawn 6:53 PM
On the Run
"I didn't expect to meet you here."
"Of course not. That's the idea."
"You look different. Thinner. Have you been working out?"
"No. Being a fugitive from the government is grueling enough without adding an exercise regimen to it. Do you have the package?"
"No. It's safe, though. Why are you here? Isn't it dangerous for you to come see me?"
"Of course it's dangerous, but this is important. I need the pacakge. I need it now."
"I'm sorry, but I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"People were snooping the area around it with wierd detectors, getting closer and closer to it. I dug it up to relocate it, but I didn't have time and the snoopers were getting even closer. I destroyed it yesterday."
"Oh. Well, that'll do. Were you thorough?"
"As thorough as a chipper-shredder can be."
"Heh. Good enough. Well, I have to leave now. Do you think you're still safe?"
"Yeah, I suppose. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep an eye out for me. Can you do that?"
"Sure, I do that already, but I'll pay special attention on you from now on, okay?"
"Okay. Bye."
"I'll be seeing you."
by jal 5:59 PM
“I didn’t expect to meet you here.” “Bitter?” “Saddened. I had hoped you’d avoid ending up— What do you mean, ‘bitter’?” “Nothing. You just sounded bitter. It’s understandable. A person like you would naturally chafe at being in a place like this.” A suspicious look. Brief, possibly imagined. “Have you been here long?” “It’s difficult to say. Have you?” “As you said, it’s… difficult.” His coffee arrives. He thanks the server. Polite, but cold. “Why were you brought here?” “I’m not sure. They keep asking me for information, but they won’t say who’s asking.” “Indeed. It’s too bad you had to end up here. They say no one has ever escaped.” He laughs, but there’s no amusement in it. “They claim no one would want to leave.” “Have you tried to leave?” The suspicious look. Again, gone before it can be positively identified. “Have you?” “Ah… no. Not yet. So far, it hasn’t seemed worthwhile.” A nod. “Wouldn’t want to waste time. Not when there are so many important things to do.” He sips his coffee and looks out at the marching band endlessly circling the reflecting pool. “Tell Number Two that I’m not interested.” “I don’t know what you’re—” “You do.” He stands to leave, puts on his jacket, and pauses. “Yes, perhaps a little bitter. Be seeing you.”
by Dave Menendez 5:27 PM
In a small town, in the middle of Pennsylvania, where I'd given up hope on anything interesting ever happening, where I'd given up hope on ever progressing. In a poor fit, the wrong relationship, the wrong job (but the right apartment, at least), just after another wrong relationship, just after another wrong relationship, just after another... Doing what I'd been doing just because it was what I'd been doing, with the same people I'd always done it with. Becoming a Townie.
I didn't expect to meet you here.
Creating a plan of escape, setting extreme sights, shooting for the moon. Leaving. Striking out across the country, just to prove that I can, because that is where the jobs are, to find the third-largest telescope in the United States, because it isn't here. Discussing plans in an Eat'n'Park, cheese sandwich, tomato soup. Better parking than eating.
I didn't expect to meet you here.
Planning a life together, buying furniture, navigating IKEA. Building a home in the secret parts of my heart, coming home to the private spaces in my heart, finding a friend in the close, quiet places in my heart.
I didn't expect to meet you here.
by Sharon 4:26 PM
"I didn't expect to meet you here."
She nods. "No one ever does," she says.
"I just thought...well, you know. I thought it would be different."
She seems to smile. "The scythe and cloak, right? Yeah, that's pretty much what everybody thinks. But I gave that routine up years ago. Too high maintenance."
For the first time I notice the blood has stopped running down my cheek. The ringing in my ears has begun to fade.
"I thought I'd have longer," I say. "I thought...well, I guess I don't know what I thought. But this just doesn't seem fair."
This time she does smile. "Life's not about fair, kiddo," she says. "Life's about life. You live, and then you die, simple as that."
She looks at her watch.
"We really ought to get going," she says. "Miles to go before we sleep."
I realize, with a shock, that I can no longer remember the name of the man lying on the pavement at my feet. I can hear the sirens in the distance and the panicked voices of the crowd -- "A man's been shot," someone says, starting to cry -- but it all seems so far away now, like it's happening to someone else. I ought to know this man, I think. He looks so familiar, even though there's nothing in his eyes.
"Lead the way," I say, and I follow her into the light.
by Fred 1:56 PM
Topic Shanghai! Today's topic is: "I didn't expect to meet you here."
by jal 12:46 PM
[Edited by Sharon: See below for today's topic from Jonathan.]
Spew. What kind of a name is that? Dick stood in the park watched the two kids playing on the playscape. They had just met a few minutes ago and already they seemed to be playing wonderfully together. Dick’s son, Ralph, had just turned 5 and the boy he was quickly forming a fast friendship with, looked about the same age.
He stood quietly beside Spew’s mother as they watched their children playing. They would occasionally offer up some brief bit of small talk as parents will when they’re watching their children play together. So, "Spew" he thought. It’s got to be an old ethnic name. Let’s see, Spew and his mother look to be, what Lithuanian? Hungarian?. He had no idea. They looked "ethnic" but of what origin he had no idea. Jeez, "Spew". That kid’s going to get picked on his entire life. Spew. I mean, even if they’re not from the US they must know what it means. Barf, woof, vomit, upchuck, retch, toss your cookies, toss your tacos, scream to the porcelain god, blow chunks, ralph…hey, wait a minute. Dick suddenly stuttered in mid thought if such a thing is possible. And then it hit him: What might his son’s name mean in Hungarian? Or Lithuanian? as the case may be. I mean, what if years from now he meets the girl of his dreams, from Hungary, or Lithuania and he introduces himself and she giggles and later he finds out that Ralph translated to Hungarian (or Lithuanian) means "camel crap". Or "man with breath like dead mice." Dick was suddenly very concerned about this.
"We have to go now."
"Huh", Dick was so lost in though that he hadn’t realized that Spew and his mother were leaving. "Oh, um, yeah. Well it’s been great that the kids could, you know, play together."
"Spew, say goodbye to your friend", his mother urged.
"Bye Ralph. Great playing with ya"
"Ralph?" smiled Spew’s mother. "That’s an interesting name." As she turned to go Dick saw an unmistakable smirk.
by Shawn 9:32 AM
Sunday, June 23, 2002
Wow, Ben, Tarentino would be proud. Interesting way to architect a story. Neat.
I'm left wondering: Was it simply food poisoning... or had something mutated?! Muahahahahaha...
What. I don't know what goes on in your fridge.
by Sharon 2:15 PM
Saturday, June 22, 2002
Let me appologize before you start reading: This one turned out to be a little gross. Sorry. If you are feeling delicate in your stomach, you might want to read this later. But I think it's cool. I guess that's my justification.
And start:
Who thinks of topics like that anyway? Spew. At least it's late, and nobody else'll have to do this stupid topic.
And continue:
6:20pm Darlene Louise Maycott (Louise) is dead.
6:15pm Louise is feeling sick.
She is walking along the sidewalk, clutching her belly, moaning. People look at her, then away, not wanting anything to do with a pregnant woman who looks like that. She's sort of stumbling along in no particular direction.
Her abdomin is swolen, and she is holding it. Inside, something writhes.
6:11pm Louise is walking along the sidewalk, minding her own business. She looks perfectly normal, wearing a yellow sun dress and flats. She is whistling, not making eye contact with other pedestrians, but not particularly avoiding them. Hers is the demeanor of a woman in love. Her stomach gurgles, and she remembers that she hasn't had lunch yet.
6:16pm Louise is lying on the ground, holding her distended abdomin, yelling at the world. Some people have gathered around to watch, and someone is calling for a doctor, and for emergency telephone numbers to be dialed. Louise writhes, and people try to hold her down, firmly but gently.
6:12pm Louise is feeling uncomfortable. She stops at a window on the sidewalk, and considers ordering a hot dog. Her stomach, while gurgling, feels kind of full. She is thinking about the hot dog., and thinking that she will not, after all, eat it.
6:17pm Louise is crying.
One person on the crowded sidewalk turns out to be a doctor. He is, yes, a brain surgeon, but he says he'll try to do what he can until help arrives. He is handing his cell phone to an onlooker, and has dialed 911 on it. He is telling that person to call for help.
6:13pm Louise is feeling very queezy. She notices that the buttons on her dress are getting tight. One of them has fallen off somewhere. She turns around to see where it could be, and realizes that the world around her seems to have become very small. The edges of her vision are dimmed, and she can only make out a small circle of clarity. The motion of turning around makes her feel dizzy.
6:18pm Louise's skin is pulled tight over her gut. The doctor is looking worried, and is beginning to move back from her. She has passed out from the pain, but the muscles in her back are contracted, pusing her belly up in the air. The crowd is edging in close to get a better view. Somewhere in the distance, a siren can be heard.
6:14pm Louise is stumbling along the street. She is holding her hands to her belly, and is beginning to cry. She can feel her middle growing. The skin is swelling visibly. People on the street are walking blithely to and from their personal business. Louise looks in at the hot dog window, but nobody is there. She remembers that a hospital is not far from where she is standing. She is trying to speak, but no words come, so she sets off in the direction of the hospital.
6:19pm A patch of clear liquid is being absorbed by Louise's dress. It is leaking out of her streched skin. She is completely unaware of any of this. Her head is lolled to the side, and her mouth is slack. On her face, she wears a look of peace. The crowd is leaning in for a better look. The doctor is moving away.
4:36pm Louise is looking in her refrigerator. The potato salad looks a little green, but she decides to eat it anyway.
6:20pm Louise is dead.
A geyser of liquid is pouring from her belly, soaking the screaming crowd. The doctor has run through the crowd, and is heading toward the hospital. He is worrying that some of the people here might remember him, so he is keeping his head down. His cell phone has been moving the other direction for two minutes now.
by MisterNihil 11:43 PM
Today is Saturday. The word of the day is SPEW
by MisterNihil 11:18 PM
Friday, June 21, 2002
"Language is a virus from outer space" - William S. Burroughs
I find that I've developed some unfortunate and telling communication habits in recent years. Partially due to a change in how we communicate and partially due to the industry I'm in.
Being old and all (kidding Sharon, I'm kidding) I can remember when getting a phone call or mail was a treat. When I was young we had a party line. Bear in mind that I grew up in rural Ohio in the 1800's apparently. That's where a half dozen or so families share a single phone line so there was always the chance that you wanted to make a call but your neighbor was using the phone. So you waited your turn (Or listen in on their call. I never did that). Now I can call nearly anywhere in the world from my car. I don't, but I could.
But anyhow, getting a call was a treat. Now, I screen my calls. If I see it's an "unknown caller" or "blocked number" I let the answering service get it. Usually it's someone who wants to sell me something that, if I wanted, I'D CALL THEM!
Getting mail was a treat. Now I get several trees worth of junk mail every month. I get spam, I block senders who, again, are trying to sell me things I don't want and I use pop-up killers to avoid pop up ads. Grrrr. Now granted a lot of this is advertising which is still communication. I used to work in advertising so I can say that with a straight face. It's just irritating communication.
But the way I communicate has changed too. Seems like anytime I talk to or send an email to anyone there's something in the back of my brain that runs a little security routine to the effect of, "Who does this person know and who's likely to hear about this conversation". Sound paranoid? Sure, hell it is. But then I'm in an industry that breeds that and in fact people do get fired because Bob told Sally what Randy had said to Paul about Alice etc.
Email, blogs, ICQ, cell phones, www, pop ups, phone solicitors, teleconferencing, etc. Our ability to communicate has increased a thousand fold even since the party line. I'm just not sure it's a good thing. I can't remember the last time I hand penned a letter.
by Shawn 1:37 PM
010100110110100001100001011100100110111101101110
I flip bits. Off-on-off-on-off-off-on-on... Indirectly, I communicate in a world of light switches. All systems can be reduced thus. A decision is made, a condition met, a neuron activated. Off-on-on-off.
There is a comfort-zone continuum in communicating with the components in my overall system. Close to machine language, dealing with if...then statements, trees and flows, communication is concrete, exact, and unambiguous. An unanticipated result, tackled with pen and paper, can be traced to the exact moment it diverged from the expected path. Programming is comfortable.
Phone menu trees can often be satisfying. I request precisely the information I want, and I usually can get it. Most often, though, they are implemented poorly. On the continuum, reality diverges from the ideal.
Conversations with other gearheads can often be held in a low-generation language, talking in pictures and modules, loops and truth tables, nested layers.
Then there are The Others. Call them what you will—customers, business partners, users—communication has to ratchet to another level. We often fail to connect, even when we use the same words. Especially when we use the same words. "Interface" is a noun; it has nothing to do with golf courses.
Finishing the continuum where it started, and within every element along it, there is the mind. Decisions, reactions, neurons: All beautifully Binary.
[Aside: How much do I love Google? I typed in "Binary translator" and received as my first hit a Binary translator. Bliss.]
by Sharon 1:34 PM
Hi, it's me again.
So I got the job with "Misteria The Magnificent". We ran a great stage act where she'd read the contents of envelopes that I'd open in a sealed booth and other stunts of that nature. We even submitted to James Randi's $1,000,000-dollar challenge. We passed it and split the money.
That's the day that ruined my life.
After the test, a team of military scientists "appropriated" Misteria for further study. I haven't seen her since. Fortunately, they ignored me. Well, all but one of them. Alan showed up in my apartment that evening. He made an offer that was really quite fair. He was developing a comminications tool a lot like a cellular phone, but with some twists that I didn't completely understand. He wanted to study my brainwaves - something about "theta syncronization." He offered me 49% of the stock in the corporation: BrainWave Communications, Inc.. "We're sure to take off like a rocket when we hit the street. It'll revolutionize global communications as we know it!" So I agreed.
In the months that followed, I learned a ton. Alan learned about my "leaky brain" and made a device that "plugs the leak" as long as I'm wearing it. I learned enough about science to really understand how Alan's transceivers worked. The most recent model can send and recieve sight, sound, and smell to and from any location on the planet occupied by another living, conscious person (It has to do with the brainwaves generated by the human mind and how they interact with the magnetoshpere of the planet. Very complex.).
The kicker is that you don't need the permission of the person at the place you're looking at. That person doesn't even need a transceiver and can't detect that they're being observed until you tell them. It's the ultimate communications device. No more secrets ever again. Heavy stuff, right?
So... Alan disappeared three days ago. He was in the lab when I went to lunch, but wasn't there twenty minutes later. His glasses were under his desk; one lens cracked. He hasn't returned. I'm the only shareholder in BrainWave Communications now.
I recieved a phone message yesterday. All it said was, "Where are the plans?"
I'm scared...
If I don't contact you again within the week, bury the package I sent you somewhere safe and leave the country.
by jal 1:08 PM
"Paul," she says, "we have to talk," and right away he knows that something's wrong. He can hear it in her voice. This is her we-have-to-talk voice, a serious voice, comfortable with uncomfortable situations. This is the voice she practices on clients behind closed doors, the one she perfects on men and women who have lost everything and need to face hard truths. This is a voice familiar with words like foreclosure, bankruptcy...divorce.
He sits up. "I'm going to get a glass of water," he says. "Do you want anything?"
"Paul," she says, but he is already gone, in the hall and then shuffling down the stairs. The kitchen tile is cold in the quiet dark beneath his bare feet. He grabs a glass from the cupboard, fills it with water, and stares out the window above the kitchen sink. There are no stars out tonight, or none that he can count, and the street light at the end of their driveway flickers on and off, on and off. He really should call somebody about fixing that, he thinks. That's not the sort of thing you want to leave untended.
He leaves the glass, now empty, on the counter and shuffles back upstairs. She is sitting up in bed, but she hasn't turned on the light, and so he walks around her to the other side and lies down. In a minute, he can pretend he is asleep.
by Fred 9:21 AM
Communication in my office... first, some background.
Item One: We are a technology consulting company based in New York City. We specialize in document management & imaging solutions; in other words, we facilitate our clients' transitions to paperless offices.
Item Two: Despite a mandatory recycling program in NYC, our office does not recycle.
Item Three: Not only do I believe in using the technology we promote, I also happen to be a tree-hugger.
When we receive new business, we generate a proposal, or a Statement of Work. Historically, these were printed out, mailed to the client, a signed copy was received back in the mail, and that signed copy went into a binder for the record.
Today, we generate the document and email it to the client in PDF format. They can affix an electronic signature, or print it, sign it, and fax it to our electronic fax boxes.
At the moment we are between sales reps - the person who would normally handle these tasks. So we're all being asked to pitch in (which mostly means me). But Debbie, the woman who used to do handle proposals, feels a huge sense of obligation to continue to control the process. (She's a power-monger.)
A recent conversation with Debbie:
D: "Faith, when you finish that Statement of Work, please print out a copy of both the proposal and the email in which you send it to the client, and place them both in this binder here? When the signed copy is faxed back, you can print that out and put it in here, too."
F: "No."
D: "What?"
F: "The proposal is saved to our document management system under the client's name, and the email is on the server. If you like, I will save the email to the document management system also and then relate the two files so that they can be located easily."
D: "But we need a copy for the records."
F: "Those are copies for the records."
D: "But that's not the way it works."
F: "That is exactly what we sell to our clients. They use our systems every day for this very purpose."
D: "But we need a printed copy!"
F: "We have an electronic copy which can be called up from any desk on demand, is backed up to tape every night, and will remain ad infinitum."
D: "I WANT A PAPER COPY!"
It was a stand-off. I told her where to find the files, and she went back to her desk, called them up, printed them herself, and put them in her sacred binder on her own.
by Faith 8:09 AM
I have instant access to thousands of sites, places across the globe, suddenly popping in to say hi to afghanistan or Russia or wherever; places I'm not really allowed to go when I'm not seated at a computer.
In real life, I just sort of initiate nonconverstaions with people who don't want to talk and don't want to know that I know where what they're looking for is sitting. A woman today said she was in the store another day, and noticed that our current guest was coming in. She had a long talk with him about her past career. She said, "It's the first time since I've been in Austin that I've had a conversation with a person who was alive. You know?" She looked at us as we tried not to punch her, "Like, alive in their minds."
I'm not allowed to tell her what I'm thinking.
"Alive doesn't mean 'familiar with your crap.' It means 'living.' Even 'alive in the mind' means 'thinking,' not 'putting up with you talking about your crap.'"
Dammit. I mean, it's not like we were standing there while she called us stupid, was it? Also, she was married and had son. Her husband and son are brain dead? How lovely. Dammit.
It's odd. There's a ban on our communication with the customers in the store. They can insult us, and we can't say a damned thing for fear they won't buy a book.
On the first day here, the CEO said to us that the difference between us and our chain competition is that we see the customers as people, not machines that come in and buy books. This, he failed to mention, at the cost of the personalities of the workers. Dammit.
One of the second floor employees has taken to wearing a multi-colored construction paper necktie and calling herself Miss Eileen Dover. She gives other people new names. One of us is now named Gavin. She carries a briefcase made of paper, labled "Briefqueso," and papers labled "Importunt docu mints." She has little varied colors of business cards she hands out. The one she gave me says "M. E. Dover Do you know how important I am?"
See? Proof that it drives you insane, thinking how stupid people are and not being able to say it. She just went ahead and parodied half our clientelle. Beautiful. I think she'll make an appearance in my speech for Toastmasters on Saturday. I have the topic. I just have to write it down. Yay.
by MisterNihil 1:08 AM
Word for the day: Communication
It was going to be clowns, but since we just did balloons...Maybe next week.
by Shawn 12:33 AM
Thursday, June 20, 2002
Most people don't know that there's quite a bit of evidence that a balloon-like rubber was discovered around 100BCE in a lost walled city in what is now known as Turkey. It was going to be used as a device with which to deliver boiling oil onto enemy soldiers, in the event of a possible siege. While the compound was strong enough to hold the burning contents, the container tended to pop when in transit by the baloon handlers, maiming several soldiers. Sarif al Adya, head of the Akidaq tribe, wrote about the early tests: "The object inflates when oil is poured into it, but the shira fa (literally 'shapeless holders') often explode when overfilled, or jostled. Particularly skilled handlers can, if lucky, deliver five to seven containers over the side of the wall in a small time."
Unfortunately, the cost of each balloon was exorbitant, and the amount of burning oil each held relatively small, and the technology was allowed to pass into obscurity, only the al Adya account surviving into the modern day.
by Remi 8:33 PM
I make balloon animals. I don't have a large repertoire, but enough that I can get by. Monkey hats are my most showy; ladybug bracelets are my favorite.
For my birthday one year during college, my Grandma Sandy gave me an instruction book (Captain Visual's something-or-other) and two gross of balloons. Two gross is a lot of balloons. 288, in fact. So I practiced, I taught other people in my dorm, I tucked it into the back of my head in the Goofy Things I Can Do drawer, right next to "Recites Jabberwocky in German," and "Wiggles Nose Like Rabbit."
I was actually able to put this skill to use—somewhere other than a children's birthday party—about six months ago. Every six months, Toastmasters districts hold their District Conferences. It turned out that our fall conference was in Round Rock, Texas, a rare thing, given the size of our district. That meant that we were the hosts. My friend Tonya was tasked with (or may have volunteered for) running Friday Night Fun Night, which in the past has been a lipsync showcase. Which has to be the most boring evening on the planet. Tonya was having none of that; she assembled a team of volunteers to provide Carnival Night. Some of the games were Toastmasters-themed; some were just ridiculous.
But Tonya tossed out, some day before the conference, that she really wished she could find someone who could make balloon animals. Well, I happened to know someone. I happened to be married to another one. Sign up the Leistikos!
So we made balloon animals for a crowd of adults who make speeches for fun. And it was a great evening.
(Speaking of Toastmasters, as of today, I am an Advanced Toastmaster--Bronze. W00t!)
by Sharon 5:23 PM
The room was full of balloons. Not in the usual sense of there being balloons all over the floor, either. The room was literally filled with balloons, so tightly packed that entry was impossible. They tried anyway. A considerable amount of squeaking later, they conceded that further means were necessary. “We could pop the balloons,” he said. “Don’t you think they’d expect that?” she replied. “They?” “Whoever put all these balloons here. Obviously, they put them there so we wouldn’t be able to get in, but, just as obviously, they knew we’d think of popping them. Therefore, if they’re serious about keeping us out, they’ve put in some sort of trap.” “This is such a shock to hear you arguing against a violent solution.” He shook his head and leaned in closer to the wall of balloons which they had found behind the door. Thankfully, the door opened outwards, otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to open it. (Perhaps that had been an oversight. Had the people who had placed the balloons intended to keep them out entirely? It didn’t seem any less implausible than the balloon-filled room did in the first place.) She picked up one of the balloons which had fallen from the room when the door had been opened. It made that irritating stretched-rubber sound which defies onomatopoetic description. “We don’t know what’s in these balloons. Poisons, inflammable gasses, more balloons… we’d be opening a can of worms.” “You think they put worms in there?” She shook her head. “Not unless they’re some sort of killer attack worms.” “We could take one and pop it in a controlled location.” “Only a small percentage might be booby-trapped. The ones near the door might all be clear to lead us into a false sense of security.” “We could take the balloons out one by one.” “Yes, but I have a better idea: Let’s tell everyone that we didn’t need to go in the room.”
by Dave Menendez 4:55 PM
"More cotton candy!"
Sigh. Taking young children to county fairs is seldom a good idea in the end, however much fun it sounded that morning at home.
I explain that any more cotton candy will make her stomach sick and her little teeth rot out, but Sarah pouts regardless. I think that I am being infinitely patient. My husband seems to question this, given my graphic and overly unpleasant description of said consequences. He gets to answer the next one.
"Oooh, ooh, Daddy, can I have a balloon?"
Sarah seemed to know it was his turn. Darn kid. How come he gets all the easy ones?
"Sure, Sweetheart! Do you want the teddy bear or the big Barney one?"
"Big! Barney!"
We purchase the balloon for her and tie it to Sarah's wrist. She insists on a slip-knot so that she can take it off when she wants; she is, after all, a big girl and can take care of her OWN balloon, thank you very much!
Passing the rides, we come first to the Tilt-a-Whirl.
"Leave your balloon with the nice man taking the tickets so you don't lose it, okay?"
"NONONONONONO!"
Okay, okay, just don't scream and your mother will stay sane. Tilt-a-Whirl with one balloon, coming up.
Now for the big surprise... the slip knot slips, the balloon floats up and away amidst a particularly vigorous whirling stint. At first she doesn't notice, the whirling is so much fun! But then the ride ends, and the trauma begins.
For some reason, she is not consoled by the idea that Barney has gone to play with his best friend, Tinky Winky. We move on...
... and pass a vending stand.
"Want cotton candy!"
Surprise, it's Mommy's turn again.
by Faith 4:07 PM
“Balloons!, You’ve got to be shittin’ me. We traveled 400 light years to talk to a bunch of balloons?!” Glen was clearly pissed.
“No one said anything about talking to them. We’re simply here to observe. To study.” In truth Jane was disappointed. Not as put out as Glenn but disappointed none the less. The deep space exploratory crew of the Song of Orion had in fact traveled some 422 light years to make contact with what advanced probes showed were organic life forms. The first mankind was find. And well, they did look like balloons. Clearly living if not sentient balloons but balloons nonetheless. Their bodies were covered in a reddish translucent skin with no clear bone, brain or recognizable organs. They were sort of jellyfish-like but not aquatic. Instead these twelve, strange, bulbous creatures bobbed and drifted in the clearing floating above thermal vents on the forest floor.
“OK, so what are we supposed to do now”. Glenn fidgeted. He was the muscle of the group. Military background and thus clearly out of place when it was time to start taking samples and “making with the science stuff”.
“Well, we study. We take samples. Um, look around for droppings” Sheila looked uncomfortable asking this of the mission leader.
“Samples!? What the hell kind of samples do balloons leave?”
“They’re not balloons! They just look, like, well, balloons. They’re organic life so they probably leave excrement. So look.”
“Great”. Glenn started looking around the clearing.
The six scientists started their diagnostic. Suddenly Mark stopped, jaw dropped and stunned. “Holy crap, look at that…” The 12 creatures were no longer balloon–shaped, but instead they had changed themselves into dodecahedrons. “Look at that! Hot damn they know geometric shapes. They’re intelligent!” Mark fumbled for his camera.
Then the 12 creatures formed themselves into three strings of 4 meeting at the center suggesting an x,y,z axis-based model. The scientists were dumbfounded. “They, they think 3-dimensionally…” Then the model changed to a representation of a tesseract. A multidimensional cube model made of balloon creatures floated and bobbed before the scientists.
“Oh man, I don’t even want to think about what that means.”
by Shawn 2:40 PM
My father is afraid of balloons. Well maybe not afraid exactly, and not of balloons themselves, but you can definitely tell that he's uncomfortable with the idea that at any minute they might pop. He always seemed to have something else to do at birthday parties; he was occupied with the cake or the camera, greeting guests or ordering food. He never blew up balloons. My sister or I would sometime joke, kid around with him, but we knew they made him uncomfortable as their multicolored skin expanded with air. I suppose they always seemed a little too unstable, too fragile, too ready to explode. I'm sure he knew it was silly -- he'd laugh right along with us -- but sometimes instinct takes over. And instinct, by its very nature, is pretty dumb.
I'm like that with biscuits and oven-fresh rolls -- you know, the sort that come from Pillsbury in round little tubes? They're packed under pressure and there's a quick pop when you open them. I know it's silly, I don't expect any danger, but I can't seem to convince my body of that. I cringe every time I open a new container, find myself holding it as far away from me as I can. I feel like an idiot when I do that, done in by a flight-or-fight response that was supposed to help my ancestors defend themselves against predators, not the popping sound of buttermilk biscuits.
by Fred 1:33 PM
I have a problem: My thought balloon is leaking. It started subtly enough: Odd looks from other people; pedestrians crossing the street to avoid me.
I really suspected that something was up at a one-on-one meeting with my manager. The room was pretty cold (Texans just love their AC.), so I couldn't help but notice that her... Well, that meeting ended pretty abruptly. Two weeks later I was laid off. "Economic downturn," they said, but I saw the look on her face as I left. They gave me a nice chunk of severance pay, so I wasn't going to complain.
My best friend is the one who clued me in. We were watching a lousy movie, so I was thinking about other things. He kept poking me in the ribs and telling me to keep it down. Other people nearby nodded in agreement. Now, I knew that I wasn't saying anything. That's when it all clicked together. For the rest of the day I tried to keep my mind blank. It worked well, but it's harder than you'd think.
I've been looking on the web and in the libraries. No one has any advice for how to patch a leaky thought balloon. I've tried tinfoil beanies and other crackpot solutions, but the stares I get from that are almost worse than without it.
I saw an ad yesterday for a magician's assistant. I wonder if he's interested in a mind-reading act?
by jal 1:01 PM
This is not a balloon post. This is my (late) Death story.
*ring, ring*
“Death support, this is Jon speaking. How can I help you today Peter?
“It’s our job to know those things, sir."
They always ask that: “How did you know my name?” It freaks them out every time. You know, I wish to high-heaven that management would let us ask for their name instead of giving it to them, but I guess they want to start the conversation off strong.
“How can I help you today? Mmmmhm. Okay. Well, that’s actually an ingested poison, not a topical poison. I strongly suggest that you get in a shower, wash it off, and then take some time to compose yourself before you do anything rash."
Freakin’ suicides. Always wanting to rush things along; make us work on their scehdule. Pisses me off. They’ll get their time like everyone else, you know?
“Mmmhmh. Yes. Thank you sir, and have a very pleasant day.”
It’s not a bad job, and the hours are really flexible. My call times are short and my stats are good, so I should get badged in a month or two. I tell you, they have some killer benefits - no pun intended.
*ring, ring*
“Death support, my name is Jon. Am I speaking with Wolfgang?”
Aw geez! I freakin’ hate these calls.
“According to our records, Wolfgang, you are currently Undead. Is that correct sir? Yes? Then your complimentary Death support period has expired. You’ll need to contact the Department of Unnatural Life Semblance. Do you have their number?"
He starts to argue his case with me. Hey, I don’t make the rules. I haven’t even been trained in post-mortem relations yet.
“I see. Well, I’m terribly sorry, but I won’t be able to assist you today. Thank you for calling.”
Another day, another dollar.
by jal 12:31 PM
Today's topic (just for a change of pace): balloons
by Fred 12:22 AM
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
I hadn't really forgiven him telling me that the only reason I visited them was to get into the will. It doesn't matter now, Grandpa's dead, and it turns out there was no Will. Mom and dad told me that he had been sick for a long time, and that this had made him paranoid and angry, but his words stung. It was all over a letter that I had forgotten to send, thanking them, the grandparents for a birthday card. I thought I had felt guilty then, but the anger had lasted for almost a year and a half. The last time I had spokent to him was about looking out the window and watching young women play volleyball and run track. It gave him hope, instead of being surrounded by the old and the frail. I had just returned from a friend's wedding when I was told.
She had died, and I hadn't known it. Not for two weeks. I found out about it from an ex-girlfriend who then stopped responding to my e-mails after delivering the news that the girl was dead. I had been in Austin for less than a month, and didn't feel like I could trust anyone. I hadn't talked to either of the girls in more than two years, and will never talk to either again.
I wore his bathrobe to school. Great Grandpa Dad had died peacefully, I had visited him in Tampa with my father two months before. The robe had $20 in the pocket. The administrators didn't bother me for wearing it, but some kids did. Maybe the lion slippers were too much.
I was visiting Minnesota, my first trip without my parents, I was 11, maybe 12. My great grandma Momp had congestive heart failure and slowly died over the month I was there. The trip wasn't much fun, but I was the last in my immediate family to see her.
by Remi 11:12 PM
And Start:
A small cricket is crawling up the side of a building. It looks only ahead of itself but senses all around. It feels the bricks, heated to oven temperatures by the noonday sun; it hears the occasional car drive by, and smells the exhaust from the bulky SUVs passing on the streets; It knows about the hungry pidgeons flying around the next building over, but it also knows it is safe because they have found one of their own to snack on. The cricket continues to crawl.
It has been displaced from its daytime home under the carpet of the building upon which it climbs by a careless shoe from one of the people who lives or works in the building. The cricket doesn't know. It only climbs to avoid them. They are big, smelly giants moving in and out across its home.
It pauses for a moment and absorbs some of the heat from the sun, feeling its insides soften more, feeling its tiny pulse quicken. Heat. Life. Its senses are sharpened now. It smells people on the street, across from the cars belching stink into its air; It can hear their odd mooing calls from the windows of the other edifices, and from far up this one; it can feel them moving around, restless, waiting to leave so they can stomp on its home; it can taste other crickets passage on the wall as it climbs.
Handy cracks in the mortar all feel taken, and it sees a spider in one of them. The spider seems not to notice the cricket, and both move along with their lives. The cricket begins now to move around the building, to the side still mostly shaded from the sun. It feels its insides gel again, and its pulse drop back down. Its senses dim. Now, all it can see is the brick directly in front of it; only smell its own musk; only hear the rumble of motion all around.
It pauses.
A shoe smacks into the wall, killing our hero.
"Damn bugs. Everywhere this time of year."
Life moves on.
by MisterNihil 10:36 PM
You know, I've never actually known anyone who died. Well, unless you count my gerbil or my lizard. Some day it's going to happen to a human, and I'm not going to know what to do. How does one make it into the second half of their twenties and have all of the relatives they did when they were born? It's not natural.
I'll tell you what else isn't natural: cockroaches. They're creepy. I mean, they just don't die, period. I live in New York City. I've tried. They sell these poisonous traps called "Roach Motels" -- and that's what they are! They set up little homes, throw parties, invite their friends. And laugh at me. And they don't die.
My first encounter with a cockroach was in Florida. I was in the bathroom and it flew out of the cardboard tube that lines toilet paper rolls. Nobody told me those suckers could FLY! I was 12 and scarred for life. But I'll tell you one thing: THAT cockroach died a long and painful death, indeed.
by Faith 10:29 PM
Never having died before I don’t know that I can speak with any great authority on the subject. Well, I suppose followers of Hinduism would disagree with me about having died previously (they’re probably fine about my stated lack of authority) what with resurrection and all. I had a teacher in high school who spent one lesson telling us about the Hindu world view, and I got into a brief discussion with him about how the concepts of reaching Nirvana and the endlessly-repeating universe interact. Specifically, if the universe we know is only a small part of a vast repeating cycle (I remember a phrase like, 1000 times the lifetime of the world is a single day for Brahma), and if some people are eventually able to achieve a state of Nirvana and leave the world, and if everyone is the resurrection of someone who already lived, then don’t we eventually run out of people? The teacher asked me if I thought that was likely, looking at the world around, but that’s something of a cop-out. The fact is, eternity is a very long time. Any length of time you can imagine, or even describe, is shorter than eternity. If there are a hundred billion souls out there, and we assume that only one achieves Nirvana every billion years, you still run out of souls after 10^20 years. That’s a long time, but it’s nothing compared to eternity. Eternity has barely gotten started by then. Once you get really going on eternity, you’ll say things like “Remember when 10^20 years seemed like a long time? Now it just flies by.” (And even then, you’re just getting started with eternity.) You can get around it by assuming that new souls enter the world at the same rate as perfected souls leave it, of course. That’s probably the real answer, although I have a vague memory suggesting that’s not the case.
by Dave Menendez 4:34 PM
(Oh thanks a load Remi. I had decided to do a children’s story today regardless of the topic)
Henry and Mike were best friends. Mike was Henry’s collie, although “Mike” was also the name of Henry’s older brother, which created some confusion. It also rather annoyed Mike (the brother) as he felt that Henry had named his dog that as a sort of insult. He was just never sure what it meant.
Anyhow, Henry and Mike (the dog) spent many long summer days playing fetch, chase, and simply exploring the woods and fields near the farm. They were the best of friends and were hardly ever seen apart unless Henry had to go off to Sunday school or to stay with his aunt for the day. She didn’t like dogs.
One day, while Henry was at Sunday school Mike (the dog) was hit by a coal truck. The road in front of the farm was straight and traffic moved way too fast. Needless to say Henry was very, very upset when he got home. The family had a nice ceremony for Mike and laid him to rest out in the apple orchard.
That night Henry wasn’t able to sleep. He went out to the orchard and sat by Mike’s grave. He wished and wished that Mike would come back. After a while Henry fell asleep and was awaken by the familiar, soft nose of Mike (the dog, not his brother). Mike was alive! Well, as it turned out he wasn’t really alive exactly. But he was back and that was pretty good in its self.
Over the next few weeks Henry discovered that he could bring other animals back from the dead too. He found a muskrat in a trap. He brought her back too and named her floppy. He found a dead snake that he named fluffy and a raccoon dead beside the road that he named Lazarus. Soon Henry would go out to his favorite spot in the woods and his mostly dead animal friends would sit around him listening to what he had to say. They didn’t’ talk back but they seemed genuinely interested in their sort of glassy-eyed way.
by Shawn 1:27 PM
Margaret has been dead for three days now. The truth is, she's starting to smell, but I can't just let her leave, can I? I can't just pretend she's like all the others. Margaret wouldn't want that. She came from a good family, and no matter how much she implores me that she "musssstttt eeeaaatttt brrraaaiiinnnsss," I know her parents wouldn't approve. There are just some things the daughter of a Congressman isn't meant to do. Eating brains has got to be one of them.
I used the sheets to tie her hands and legs to the bedposts, and she's stopped thrashing around as much. She keeps staring at me with those red-rimmed eyes. I know there's nothing but dumb hatred and hunger left in her skin, but I can't bring myself to actually end it. How would I do it anyway? Do I need to chop off her head, cut out her heart? How do you kill something like this that's already dead, these things that she and the other guests have become? The only weapon I have is the butter knife that room service left on a tray in the corner last night. I hung the Do Not Disturb sign outside our door, and that should buy us some time until the hotel is completely overrun, but frankly, I'm at a loss.
Never go to Zombie Island on your honeymoon.
by Fred 12:57 PM
I am Storming Fists of Death, delivering vengeance from the heavens, punishing the weak. I am an angry god.
Bug spray is a really satisfying way to kill silverfish. They writhe. And you can spray an area, say, around the drain of the tub, and come back a few hours later to find five or six of them lying on their little silver backs. Goddamn, it's satisfying.
This morning was a tense shower, though. After I'd climbed in, naked and thoroughly wet—committed—I saw one of the fuckers high on the wall, over my head. There was also a spider, descending slowly from the ceiling. With the silverfish out of my reach—and not really wanting it in my reach—we spent the shower in an uneasy truce, and I washed my hair with one eye open.
They move like mercury, so liquid and slippery.
And they're really useless, as bugs go. Their exoskeletons aren't remotely strong enough, meaning they squish messily, leaving a silver-gray smudge on the wall, if you so much as look at them cross-eyed. Okay, so their bodies are vulnerable, but surely they have another defense? No. They drown. What good are drain-bugs that drown?
But it's the way they move that inspires me to violence.
Long-distance, chemical violence.
I wonder if I can get Jon to vacuum up the corpses...
by Sharon 10:12 AM
Today's topic (just for Dave):
Death
by Remi 6:36 AM
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
Perhaps this is necessary after all."
There is no answer in the dark room, but he keeps talking, maybe to himself, maybe just for himself.
"I was gonna go out today, but I didn't find the key. There wasn't any way for me to get out. I wanna sleep."
He stands up, walks to the door, knocks twice, then walks back to the corner and sits down again.
"There isn't anybody there really, it just feels that way. I just don't know and I don't wanna know. What do you think, Frank?"
He cocks his head and fixes his eyes on a point that is either across the room or across the universe, and waits. He begins shaking his head violently.
"No, no, no, Frank, There isn't any way to do that. I wanna, but I can't walk through walls. I tried."
He absently reaches a hand up to his forehead and winces with the memory.
"I remember you told me I could, but you was wrong, Frank. Can you check is there somebody out there now? Is there a man waiting for me to do it again so he can catch me at it and make me stop? They can't make me stop. Watch I can do it now."
He reclines, and closes his eyes. A loud hum. His eyes immediately open, and he shrieks. A waft of the smell of burning hair moves through the tiny, dark cell.
"Dammit Frank, why didn't you warn me? They tol' me I'm not s'posda do that. Why'd you let me try to do it again? They tol' me, Frank. It's sposda not like I wanna an' don't you dammit I can' sthgrrhphh!"
He shrieks for a moment in gibberish, and then calms down.
"What'd you do today Frank? Did you see anything pretty?"
He pauses.
"Aww Frank, don't be like that. I'm sorry. I din' mean to make you mad, but I jus been shocked an I was mad. They say they tol me every time I try to do that, Baby Jesus cries. I din' mean it."
He pauses.
"Did ya see any birds today? I miss birds. An the sun."
He pauses.
Whispering, he says:
"I gotta sleep Frank. I don' care what they says, I can' do this no more. I gotta. I'm gonna die."
He pauses.
"Yeah, your right, but I miss my family. The're gonna wanna know what happened to me, and I can' tell 'em if I'm here an' the men tol' me I can' get out if I don'..."
He trails off, then pauses again.
"Yeah, I guess you're right. I ain't got no family anyhow. I don' know what I was thinkin'. For some reason, I remembered a wife an kids or somethin'. They was named things like 'Rita' an' 'Paul' an' 'Francis.' I think I missed Francis the most, but I don' remember her anyhow. She would have been so beautiful. I remember one time she was ridin' a bike an' somebody drove up in a black car an' hit me inna head, an' I woke up here. But that din' happen, did it, Frank?"
He pauses.
"Yeah. 'Bye Frank, I'm gonna miss you the most, because you was the realest. 'Bye."
He slumps over. The electrical hum begins again. He does not move. He begins to smoke, then his clothes catch fire. He continues to burn until only ash is left.
A man writes a check in a box on a chart.
by MisterNihil 11:24 PM
I break a finger. Fingers are easy.
I need the right answers. Nine remain. I ask again: Whom do you work for?
Hysteria, desperation—shameful—he offers, "You! I work for you."
No.
Eight. No, it's teaching that's hard. Fingers are easy. The noise is irritating, so I offer a hint: You work a...?
"I work a... lone! I work alone. Yes, by myself. It was my own idea. All alone. I don't work for anybody."
Good. I nod. He smiles weakly. We are getting somewhere. Operant conditioning is still the best kind.
Next topic: Why did you do it?
His eyes search for an answer. I heft the pliers. That has the desired effect; his thoughts focus. "Because I hated him. He had to die. ...Uh, I had to kill him. Alone. Yes, I hated him."
I have a bright pupil. I am well pleased. Who suggested the idea to you?
"It was..."
Oh dear, faltering is not allowed. I break another finger. Left-hand only, of course. He has a job to do, after all. He remembers this duty and that it will be his own idea. "It was my own idea. I was getting to that. God..."
One last point to teach, then. I flex the pliers. Open. Close. Open. Where will I find you?
No pause; this lesson he knows well already. "The Book Depository."
Good. Very good. .......... That's been in my head all day. Since a number of us were "clever" about the ambiguity of the word (which is why I liked the word), I thought I might try a more traditional interpretation. But mostly, that's been in my head all day, and I really needed to get it out. What a weird day.
I hope you don't mind that I posted twice. I think Ben said, the other day, that it would be all right. I'm telling you: "I break a finger" just wasn't going to leave me alone until I wrote its story.
by Sharon 9:27 PM
“So what’s today’s topic?” “Conditioning.” “Huh. Distortion, conditioning, black… it sounds like a high-school literary magazine.” “Oh, that’s unfair on multiple levels.” “I suppose you’re right. Not enough death. So what are you going to write about?” “I’m not sure. I’m really tempted to do something about hair styling, but I don’t know if I can spin that out for ten minutes.” “Hair styling, huh? More deliberate missing of the point? Irreverent irrelevance?” “I guess. Except that I don’t think I’ll write the piece about that. Not enough material. A pity, though, it’s a good joke.” “If you say so.” “It’s like the piece I didn’t write for the distortion topic. ‘Distortion gets a bad rap. After all, without it there would be no evolution or popular Nirvana songs.’” “How’s the rest go?” “That was as far as I got. I didn’t actually sit down and do the full ten minutes, because I couldn’t think of anything beyond that.” “Isn’t it cheating to think about these things before you start writing? You could get kicked out or something.” “Maybe. Since I didn’t end up writing the piece, I don’t think I actually did anything wrong.” “I guess not. You have the most experience with not writing things.” “Exactly, I— Hey!” “How long has that project of yours been stalled?” “Sixteen months?” “No, the other one.” “Hm… I don’t remember when I started that one.” “Convenient.” “Three or four years, maybe. Possibly five.” “That’s an awfully long time for a bit of inconsequential silliness to be ‘in development’, assuming we can call it that. ‘Abandoned’ seems equally appropriate.” “That’s the advantage of this project: deadlines.” “Speaking of which…”
by Dave Menendez 9:15 PM
Shuttle Monkeys
June 18/Cape Canveral (AP)-Nasa announced today that several monkeys completed a physical conditioning program designed to prepare them for the rigors of orbital travel. This is the first step of an experiment designed by Dr. Henry Falklan of Florida Atlantic University's Human Adaptive Experience Labs (HAEL).
"The idea is to study how the monkey's move in zero, or near-zero, gravity, and apply that knowledge to human movement in space shuttles and stations," says Dr. Falklan, "We received several reports from the recently declassfied records of the early Russian space program that monkeys generally did quite well in low gravity situations. The monkey's test runs on the 'Vomit Comet' are quite encouraging, as well."
The four monkeys, which include two rhesus, a java macaque, and a lion tamarind, were selected out of more than 100 specimens for these tests. The monkeys were chosen on the basis of physical durability, agility, and a host of other tests, most designed by HAEL to recreate actual astronaut training on a more simian scale.
"We did as much as possible to avoid interfering with their natural instincts in zero gee. Eventually, we hope to have humans moving as gracefully as our small, tailed friends," Dr. Falklan commented, depositing one of the rhesus into a luxurious glass cage, "this is just the first step."
by Remi 7:00 PM
Lather, rinse, and repeat.
She had beautiful hair for a time traveler. He had expected it to be greasy, strung-out, from bouncing around in the fourth dimension, but she clearly took care of it. It was vibrant, well-conditioned, not a split-end in sight. He was amused to see that styles had not much changed in thirteen hundred years. That's when she had said she was from anyway -- thirteen hundred years into the future, the year 3301. He saw no reason to doubt her.
Have they perfected the cream rinse? he wondered. And do they still give women perms? No, he thought, best not to ask. Best not to know the future. She hadn't offered any information. She'd just said, "Hi, I'm Estelle, I called from the future about an appointment?", and he had looked up from his book and shown her to the sink at the back of the shop. While he was running the warm water over her hair, she showed him her badge. Sure enough, it had the words "Time Traveler" stamped into the gold. He admired the font and sat her back up. They wandered over to a chair by one of the mirrors.
"Just a little off the top," she said, sitting down, "and maybe trim around the edges. I want to look pretty. Yesterday's going to be a big day."
by Fred 12:47 PM
Tull walked down the street lost in his own thoughts. Bummed really. He passed by Christmas shoppers scurrying from store to store searching for those last minute gifts, some would be given with genuine affection while others were for people they barely knew and cared for even less. After all, it was Christmas and gift giving was expected. "Conditioning" he mumbled.Tull was clearly in a mood and not a particularly good one.
He got that way every year at this time. And really it wasn't that he had anything against Christmas per se it's just that he felt even less a part of the world at this time of year. Even more invisible. He walked through the throngs of shoppers and no one even saw him, their eyes never met his but instead looked right through him. No really, they didn't see him, he wasn't a part of their reality. Not as though he was in another dimension or anything, he just wasn't a part of the accepted paradigm and so he didn't quite register. He was after all a demon, and not one of those charismatic, slick, smooth talking types either. Tull was a real fire and brimstone, huge, nasty-looking types that you see in movies and in computer games. And this is why he was for all intents and purposes simply invisible. Reality for these shoppers was very well defined by generations of cultural and environmental conditioning. Television, computers, medical miracles, global travel and even space flight were all perfectly acceptable but not demons. Not like Tull anyhow. His time had past. He had faded from the view of mortal man.
by Shawn 12:23 PM
Cheryl didn't look directly at her client, reclining on the black leather chair. Instead, she asked the woman about her job, how things were going there.
"A little stressful, but mostly good. I think I'm due for a promotion, if I can just deliver on this next project."
Some further probing into how that would make the client feel, and then Cheryl moved on to homelife, husband, marriage.
"Oh, great, you know. We haven't bought a house yet. I think we disagree on whether or not we should settle down here. But married life is great. It's an adjustment, y'know, but I'm happy with him."
Continuing in this discourse, Cheryl directed the topic to current events, the inherent stressors of living in a country that can't quite declare itself at war.
"Is this the world I want to raise my children in? I tell you, things are uncertain right now. I don't like it."
Their interview drawing to a close, Cheryl sprayed strong, warm jets of water onto her client's scalp, washing the conditioner away, creating a clean canvas into which to sculpt a hair style.
by Sharon 10:55 AM
So I've started reading "Trick or Treason". It unravels and disects the cloud of deception surrounding the "arms for hostages" arrangement that was supposedly engineered by the Reagan / Bush administration before Jimmy Carter lost the election and they entered the White House. This is also known as the "October Surprise" conspiracy.
Before starting "Trick or Treason", I'd casually researched the Iran/Contra scandal with Oliver North, the Gulf War, the attempted assination of Ronald Reagan, G. Bush Senior's stint as head of the CIA, the Whitewater scandal, and the Bush (jr) / Gore ballot fiasco.
I'm becoming more and more convinced that George Bush Sr. is a person with almost no regard whatsoever for the Constitution of the USA and only nominal capacity for moral behavior. His past is surrounded by questionable deals, a blatant disregard for the laws of our nation, and the all-too convenient death of key witnesses. He's been close to the reigns of power in our nation since before 1980. I assert that he's been steering the course of this nation to suit his own agenda for over two decades. Why doesn't anyone notice?
Conditioning.
We've been conditioned to disregard that which distresses us. We've been conditioned not to rock the boat. The Supreme Court effectively chose our last president for us. But we didn't complain.
Apathy is learned.
by jal 10:28 AM
conditioning
by Sharon 9:15 AM
Monday, June 17, 2002
There’s this idea in the back of my mind, probably dating back to childhood, that dressing in black has some sort of significance, signifying the wearer as a rebel or enshrouding them with an aura of dangerousness. It’s ridiculous, of course. I live in the New York metropolitan area, where people dressing in black are about as noteworthy as people with two eyes. Nonetheless, I’ll only wear black pants or a black shirt. Never both at once: then I would be dressed in all black and people would mistake me for a beatnik or something. It’s strange, really. Think about the people you might expect to be dressed all in black, and what do you come up with? Mourners, priests, artists, waiters, Johnny Cash, criminals, ninja… they all do it for different reasons. Priests wear black because it used to be inexpensive, then it became a uniform. Artists probably started doing it because no one else (except priests) did, and kept doing it because it became a social signifier. Ninja and criminals obviously prefer not being seen in the dark, although their outfits might make them more conspicuous during the day. They can probably get around that by acting pretentious; then people would assume they’re artists. I’m not sure where my own reaction comes from. I don’t really fit into any of those categories, so it may be a desire to avoid getting confused for something I’m not, but rationally I know that few people are going to confuse me for a priest or an artist. Possibly it’s a desire to avoid doing something so obviously trendy. I don’t know. Whatever the reason is, I’ve managed to amass a considerable number of half-black outfits (mostly T-shirt-related). I’d finish this thought, but I’ve run out of time.
by Dave Menendez 7:23 PM
Black is the color of magic.
Black: In laboratories and universities for centuries, theorems have been twisted and crafted on boards of slate. A blackboard is unlimited by possibilities.
Black: Stars and planets set against a field; the boundless firmament of the universe.
Black: Tabula Rasa, a blank slate, the state of the new-born mind.
Black is not void. Okay, perhaps it is void, but it’s void to be filled.
A child’s mind to be filled with love and lessons; experiences and memories.
Space. A vast frontier for us to explore, not only with telescopes and radio receivers, but by actually being there; launching machines and people in small metal boxes.
A blackboard to create on, only limited by the imagination of the user. Not long ago, the default for a CRT was green letters on a black field. The foundations of the technology I’m using to write this started with an empty black field.
Fields of slate, or phosphor-doped glass.
More magic: Traditional magicians wear black. The top hat, the tails, the bow tie. When was the last time you saw a magician pull a rabbit out of a pink hat, eh?
Video Arcades are black. Like any child of the 80s, I recall arcades as shadowy dens of excitement, challenge, and wonder. There’s a certain joy in plunging into the cacophony of aural and ocular stimulus of an active arcade.
Black is the color of magic.
by jal 7:21 PM
Black. In this case darkness, I mean real darkness. I’ve had some great times in the dark. No, I didn’t mean it that way. I mean that to me the darkness often suggests comfort and imagination. I like to sit outside in the dark because it’s easy on the eyes and the mind. Especially here in Texas where we’re about two exits down from the sun. It always seems so bright to my rather weak eyes but when it’s dark I can sit outside and listen to the crickets and let my mind drift. No subdivisions and strip malls, I can’t see the lawn that needs mowing or any of that. Just black. Black and stars. There could be anything out there in the black. Anything I imagine might be there.
I like to talk to people in the dark because you can’t see each other’s expressions. Not sure why this is good. It just is.
In Oregon once there was a group of us up in the mountains at a hot springs, way out in the old growth rain forest. It got dark and we decided we should head out. Then we realized how absolutely black it got out there at night. Pitch black. Not the best prepared hippies we; no one had a flashlight but one woman had a candle. I’m not sure why but they decided I should lead the group out. So candle in hand I led this group of complete strangers through the forest and, amazingly, back to the cars. The thing that sticks with me though is the feeling that out there, in the complete blackness we could’ve been anywhere and anytime and the forest filled with whatever we imagined. All we had to connect us was the sound of our voices and an overwhelming feeling that everything would be fine despite the blackness. Without the blackness we would’ve just been 12 people walking in the same direction.
by Shawn 1:34 PM
"Light in the absence of eyes illuminates nothing." - Aeon Flux
Black, they say, is not so much a color as it is the near or total absence of light. In complete darkness, one can see nothing. One's eyes will never adjust. Shape and form and color, then, are granted only through the senses and are not inherent in the objects we see. The door to my office, for instance, appears green only because green is the light it reflects; all other wavelengths are absorbed. My eyes interpret this, and my brain provides the word, searches my memory and finds green lying in wait. An object that appears black does so only because it allows almost no light to reflect into one's eyes. This is the polar opposite of white, which is itself not truly a color as it is the reflection of all visible light. We see darkness, then, only because light is absorbed and our eyes require light to allow us to see.
But it is certainly possible that our eyes could work differently somehow, that evolution might have followed a very different path that would not rely on light for our perceptions. Bats view most of their world and hunt prey using radar. What a strange world it would be if we did the same.
by Fred 11:48 AM
Black.
Black.
Thinking about black.
My VP is black. My Director is black. None of my teammates is black. One of my cube-neighbors is black. Three members of the FISH Committee are black.
My best friend is black (half). One of my closest Texas-friends is black (half).
The maintenance man who just walked past my desk is black.
Should you capitalize "black," when it refers to people-color? Race is an artificial social construct, encumbered by verbiage. And I've been taught that I should be ashamed if I notice that someone is black. Or any color at all. But they are, and I don't mind. And I'm still scared to post this.
Magicians' cloths and silks and hats are black. Tuxedos and velvet and felted wool... places into which small trifles can disappear. And transform.
The universe is black, and full of small points of intense blackness, holes into other places. Pinpoint gateways to other wheres or, perhaps, some very much Not Heres. Is every black hole an Einstein-Rosen bridge? Is any?
I think I remember the night once being black. It isn't, in Austin, land of eternal summer and eternal twilight. New moon in the middle of the Alleghenies—that is black.
Full of pinholes into other Places.
by Sharon 10:37 AM
It's my mood as often as I can remember. I only remember the ones like this. "Everything's darker in the rearview."
It's My First Cooking memory: It was a pretty typical weekend day. The season doesn't matter. Actually, it could have been a weekend in the fall. I don't know. I know it was damn hot and we were cooking. I wanted cookies, which are mom's specialty. She's good at cookies. They're little hard lumps of devotion to a family in a downward spiral. No, not really, but I'm in a mood. I wanted peanut butter cookies. It was one of those moments:
I-"I want cookies. Do we have any."
Mom-"Nope. Somebody'll have to make some."
I-"Can you make peanut butter cookies? I like them."
M-"I sure can. We have everything you need for them."
I-"Great!"
M-"You want peanut butter cookies, then?"
I-"Yes, please!"
M-"Then you'd better damned well get started."
And so I did. From the moment I started, she was over me like a hawk. Wrong measurements, wrong ingredients, wrong mixing style, wrong bowl, wrong spoon, wrong seuquence, wrong, wrong, wrong. I was wrong. They made it to the pan with me still being in a good mood, although the kind that is strained with fear of a Big Person allowing a little anger to slip my way when I didn't feel I had done anything. I'm sure I did something. I don't know. I've been informed that we were not grateful for anything we had. I suppose that could be the reason (she's not in the room, or even the city with me. I was informed a lot of times while growing up). The sheet went into the preheated oven.
Peanut Butter cookies burn easily. It's their nature. These burned. She was furious. The whole pan had to go into the garbage, even the not-so-burned ones. Especially the not-so-burned ones. While she was yelling, I forgot to take the other sheet out of the oven and it burned.
Dark days. If I had to guess, that's why I don't make cookies.
Black, though, is a guitar. A Gothic Les Paul, a beautiful thing. I saw it online and I loved it. I was collecting ideas for my custom guitar and saw a picture of the gothic. I knew that a)there was some Great stuff there, and b)I could do better. Now I have both the custom and black, the gothic. I suppose it could use a better name, but I'm gonna call it Black until it names itself something better.
Black is Ebony, pitch but textured with whorls and moments, with beautiful chocolate patches. I love the ebony with lighter "flaws." I'm spoiled with the ebony fretboards. Ahhhh. Beautiful spoilage.
That's ten, and a big dump of baggage on you all. mwahaha. Sorry. I'll cheer myself up.
by MisterNihil 2:51 AM
Ooooh!! New Day!
today's topic is
Black
Have fun with it.
by MisterNihil 2:38 AM
Sunday, June 16, 2002
and start:
It's a day without rain, a field wth no hay,
That's how it feels when my baby's away
Like a fish all alone, or nothing to say,
That's how it feels when my baby's away
I don't know what to do
When I'm alone without you
Crippled, blind and untrue
Missing all of my cues,
Alone unfocused and tired,
Pots of thought go unfired
Reclusive, shy and retired
(...)Alone, without you
(A pause here, for an instrumental bridge to bring us to Part Two; David Byrne says words are just a tool to make people listen to music longer anyway)
Like a street and no car, a night with no day,
That's what it's like when my baby's away,
A cat on a leash, a June with no May,
That's what it's like when my baby's away,
The words don't come out right,
Every moment's a fight,
To let me shine out so bright
and She's only been gone one night,
And stop.
I keep getting distracted by stuff. I'll finish later. Dammit.
by MisterNihil 4:39 PM
I like the weekends. No rules. Just Write.
My personal topic for today (y'all can pick y'all's own) is My honey, Toshi.
by MisterNihil 4:02 PM
Saturday, June 15, 2002
Ten minutes of parenthood
Part of me wants to sit and think on this so as to compose some great and insightful words of wisdom for all of the non-parents out there. Something to say, “hey, it’s a lot of work sure, but there’s big pay off too”. And this is true but, like this posting parenthood is very much an impromptu, stream of consciousness exercise that you never really know if you’re getting right.
There’s no rulebook on how to be a parent, or if there is, no one ever told me about it. It’s not well planned and controlled, it’s snippets of inspiration and instinct. It’s the same primitive lizard brain that tells us when we’re in danger; tells us instinctually how to find a mate and to live near water. It’s some latent sense of keeping the species going that has served us so well for thousands of years; it hides us when the lions are near; it tells us what to do when a child cries. And of course television, video games and action figures help when all else fails.
I never wanted to be a father and never really cared for kids. But when the midwife laid my son in my arms for the first time something clicked on from the most primal of places, something buried deep inside the monkey-brain of my people’s beginning and there was nothing on earth that could compare to that. Had a sabertooth wanted my kid just then I would’ve kicked his furry ass.
Parenthood is ear infections, diapers, potty training, broken arms and broken hearts. But it’s also the laughter of kids, first words, first steps and seeing the world through a child’s eyes as a fresh and mysterious place. A view we only vaguely remember from the dim memories of our own childhood. Parenting is done ten minutes at a time over a lifetime.
Ironic side note: This may have been more than 10 minutes, I really don’t know. After all I had to stop to play action figures, discuss the next X-Men movie and feed the kids while I was writing it.
by Shawn 8:44 PM
If y'all are around today or tomorrow (Go outside! Spend time with friends and family.), then anyone is welcome to offer a topic. You can see, below, how nicely posts for older topics can fit into the thread. Or we can reserve the weekend for catch-up time, so no topic will be offered, but older essays can be posted. Perhaps the weekends would be the time to write conversationally to each other here, like this post.
It's all good, yo.
by Sharon 10:21 AM
Friday, June 14, 2002
Heavenly Shades of night and all that, yo, Shawn.
Parenthood; and Start:
Love and hate and strawberry jam, summer with the girl,
There's no place I wanna be in the whole great big world
She'll dance balet and scream at me,
one minute to the next
She loves the lunch, she hates the world,
she wants to break my neck,
She's the why when I get up,
The reasons that I leave
She screams at ghosts and burning toast
why won't she believe?
(love and hate and strawberry jam...)
She knows the rules, she wins the game,
she only always cheats
When she's happy I'm the one
She always never beats
She makes art that stops my heart,
She loves to sing off key
She pushes back when I come near,
I leave and she wants me,
(Love and hate and Strawberry jam...)
by MisterNihil 11:13 PM
Twilight (BTW- I'm posting this a day late so I hope it's in the right place)
Twilight. Twilight had always been Maya’s favorite time of the day. It was that magical in-between time tucked gently between day and night when one had ended but the other not quite begun. Maya was fascinated by the prospect of in-betweens. Doorways, neither inside nor out but a transition between the two. The sky’s reflection in a still pond was an in-between after a fashion and certainly that point at which you’re drifting off to sleep but are still just a little bit awake. Definitely an in-between.
Her grandmother always used to say that anything could happen at twilight and that this was the time when the veil between the faerie and the mundane worlds was the thinnest. They would go down into her grandmother’s garden just before twilight and wait. If they were still enough and patient enough the beautiful ones would show up. Shy at first and cautious they knew this was a place not of their world and would step lightly like the doe entering a wooded glade. Maya and her grandmother would watch from their hiding place exchanging smiles but certain not to make even the slightest of sounds. This was a magical time. This was twilight. Of course Maya always wondered what the other place was like. The world beyond the veil, the world of the visitors. Grandmother said that she had been there long ago and described it as strange and exciting full of things unimaginable. Maya had to go.
One day the curiosity was simply overwhelming, she could stand it no longer. Grandmother was away and twilight was coming. The beautiful people came with their singing and dancing and frolicking about. Maya hiding in her usual place watched patiently, or as patiently as she could, and finally decided this was the time! She scampered from the secret spot and ran towards the visitors and where she knew the veil was the thinnest. The golden ones looked shocked at first but then laughed and squealed with delight. They hopped up and down and clapped their hands; they had after all never seen a real live faerie before.
by Shawn 6:53 PM
The egg is not supposed to hatch.
Right away Seth knows that something's wrong, but he can't call anyone or let Dr. Beecham know. He's not even supposed to be there. The lab has been shut down since Wednesday, and if it wasn't for a glitch in the security system, Seth's pass-key wouldn't even still work. He shouldn't be doing this, he knows, but the local paper offered good money for photographs of the egg, and these days Seth has been a little desperate for cash.
The egg is a funny-looking thing -- pale brown speckles on its shell, twice as big around as Seth's fist -- and when it first starts to crack open, Seth is sure he's imagining it. The lab is a little creepy with no one there, the windows shuttered, the hallways dark and empty. Seth is used to seeing it full of life, activity, other students. The crick-crick-crick he's hearing can't possibly be what he thinks it is.
It can't possibly be something pecking its way out.
But when he looks, there it is -- the beak, the lizard-like eyes, the suggestion of leathery wings still enveloped by the shell. Seth looks at it, and his camera is forgotten. It looks at him and almost seems to smile, and then it says:
"Mama."
by Fred 5:35 PM
I used to say that all babies looked like tiny Winston Churchill's. I think I got that out of a book. I still think it's true. Can't imagine why people would want one.
I was a summer camp counselor for a summer a couple years back. The kids hated me. I didn't care for them much either. I was that hidebound, rules-lawyerin' counsilor that's always making you do the crafts project, or the scavenger hunt, or whatever. I'd get them to do it. Pushing, and shoving (metaphorically) them until they got in gear. _Then_ once they were going, the other, fun-loving counselors, would take over, and lead the kids in a merry sing-a-long, or whatevertheheck we were doing. I always got stuck with the grumpy stick, but at least the kids did something. They'd just hang around in the shade all day if there wasn't anyone poking them.
Kids are like that, though. Not always. Sometimes you find something that grabs their attention and they just go to it like ants or monkeys or something. But most of the time you have to remind them that there are more interesting things to do than sit and gossip, or watch the same TV show over and over again, or just chill. I kind of remember being a kid, and hating those counselors who made me get up and go into the hot sun to play some ridiculous game that involved running (God, I hated running). I also remember the counselors who were fun to be around. I remember the games. I don't remember what I said to the fun counselors.
by Remi 4:40 PM
[I've set the blog to auto-convert line breaks into <br>s, to make it easier on my less webby friends, but that will thwart the geekier folks on their first pass. Sorry, Dave. Looks like you figured it out, though. And, hi!]
by Sharon 3:28 PM
The key to a lasting marriage is vitality: a playful attitude towards the every-day, frequent demonstrations of appreciation for your partner, a joie de vivre that keeps each day fresh. Sally knew this; Cosmo had told her. Or was it Redbook?
So for her anniversary, she had a Plan. She'd made a date with Jim for Saturday. She also made a date with Ray's Steakhouse, the hairdresser's, and Jim's pal Tom.
Jim woke leisurely, late Saturday morning, to find his wife gone from the bed, and fresh biscuits and orange juice in her place. All according to plan. Tucked next to the strawberry jam was a note in Sally's charming script: "Tom will be over at noon. The game is on channel 13. Beer is in the fridge. Get rid of him by 4. Dress nice."
At 4:03, showered, shaved, and groomed, Jim looked up expectantly when the front door opened. Like the day I met her. The thought leapt into his head, and made him smile. With a quick peck on the cheek, Sally looped a playful arm through Jim's bewildered one and dragged him out the door.
Oh, yeah. She'd rented a convertible. She tossed Jim the keys. Off they dashed to meet their reservation at the swankiest place in town you can get a pile of beef.
That evening, tumbling and laughing, Jim pressed his face against Sally's neck and whispered, "I couldn't conceive of a better end to this day."
"Don't say 'conceive.'"
by Sharon 3:24 PM
I never saw Parenthood, although my parents have seen it and said it’s quite good. I’m a fan of Steve Martin, but for some reason it just doesn’t appeal to me. I probably shouldn’t pay too much attention to that. There’s plenty of movies I wasn’t enthusiastic about before seeing that turned out to be pretty good. Like The Princess Bride, for example. Don’t look so shocked, let me explain. Around the time The Princess Bride came out, there was another movie called Maid to Order, about a rich girl who for some reason ends up working as a maid to another rich family and thereby learns not to be a snob or something. Probably she ends up falling in love with some working-class guy whom she takes with her back to her life of weath and ease. (I’m guessing here, as I’ve forgotten the exact details, but that’s certainly the formula.) Anyway, I was young at the time and I couldn’t remember the exact title of the movie, which I had only heard about in commercials. So when my parents informed me that we would be going to see The Princess Bride, I thought they were talking about Maid to Order, which I was not terribly interested in seeing. Imagine my surprise at the theater. The Princess Bride turned out to be one of my favorite movies ever, and to some extent my first viewing was enhanced by the fact that I had no idea what I was getting into. Somehow I had missed its publicity, or had forgotten it, so I had no idea what direction it was going in. That’s a feeling you don’t get too often. Hollywood has learned that movies where the trailer pretty much tells the entire story seem to do all right, and has concluded that they must describe all the plot details in the trailer. That does help you avoid clunkers, but it also prevents pleasant surprises. Some of my favorite experiences have come from movies or television programs where I had zero knowledge going in and the story moved in one direction before suddenly made a sharp turn and revealing what it was “really” about. I did eventually see Maid to Order, by the way, and I did enjoy it. Nothing special, but it’s sure no Batman and Robin.
by Dave Menendez 3:23 PM
One of the things that keeps Shawn away from his computer is:parenthood
by Sharon 12:50 PM
Thursday, June 13, 2002
Twilight:
The midnight of a soul? The bridge between night and day, or day and night. Alaska has days of continual twilight at the right (or wrong) time of the year.
Nautical twilight. There's technical definitions for different types of twilight. Did you know that? The differences in types of twilight are dictated by the number of degrees that the sun is below the horizon. I learned about this while working as a secretary for the Forensic Climatology department at AccuWeather.
"Forensic Climatology." Doesn't that sound cool? Occasionally they'd be called upon to give expert testimony for court cases dealing with the visibility on a certain road at a specific time on a given date. That's when terms like "Nautical Twilight" would come into play. It conjures up images of brave explorers on many-sailed ships in the 1600's, doesn't it?
I think of twilight as the period after sunset instead of the period just before the dawn. Why is that? Is a twilight a bad thing? I can't help it. Twilight is what follows the day, not what preceeds the day.
What if I change that thought? If twilight preceeds a day instead of following it? Does that change how I feel about it? Does that add or subrtact from the quasi-mystical nature that we atribute to twilight? Why do we attribute mystical attributes to twilight?
The border of possibilities. The mingling of light and dark.
Perhaps we see ourselves reflected in it.
by jal 6:27 PM
"This ain't like home, kid, and this ain't the simulation. This is for real, and it's dangerous. We go down there, we get what we came for, and we get out. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Okay. Planet's in perpetual twilight most of the year. Gases in the atmosphere, sun doesn't always get through. It can be like walkin' through a haze. Might even start to burn. You stay in-suit the whole time, though, understand? You don't wanna start breathin' that air."
Again, I nodded.
"These things, kid, they're real. I know some of you recruits...you think it's a joke. First time off-world, you forget yourself. Nobody believes in vampires, right? But these things are tough as hell to track, kid. And they're dangerous. This time of year, they're mostly in the northern continent, which is good for us. That's where we'll hit. They like the cold and there's more animals there for them to feed on. They'll be more exposed."
I stared at the map, said nothing. He looked and me and sighed.
"You ever seen a bloodsucker, kid? They almost look human. Hell, couple hundred years ago they probably were human. Miners, settlers, archaeology crew. Then things went bad. The sun went out and they turned. Nobody's figured out why."
"But we need their blood."
He grinned. "Well, yeah, kid. That's the rub, ain't it? Goddamn fountain of youth just waitin' down there, bein' wasted on those things."
He hoisted his pack, shouldered his weapon. "So, kid...you ready for a couple dark days down in the shade?"
by Fred 2:52 PM
"Heavenly shades of night are falling..."
Laura picked up her fork, contemplated it, set it down, deciding it would not, in fact, be an effective means for getting out of this. The ruffles at her collar itched, and she squirmed again. Looking out across the other tables on the lawn, she saw love, blossoming, everywhere. Scores of countless couples, blushing and giggling, mocked her. Brad brayed out another raucus laugh at something he'd just said; Laura looked pointedly at her fork.
The night was warm, making Laura glad she had opted for the sleeveless dress, unquestionably the prettiest from the second-hand shop, and the sky still held onto its purple glow around the edges. Paper lanterns attempted to create an air of magic. "Punch," she said, picking her chair up and plunking it behind her on the soft earth. Brad twitched his head in her direction to indicate he had heard, and then continued his story about the time he scored the winning touchdown after the team had been demoralized by the cheerleaders' pyramid collapse.
Out, into the sweet air, surfing over conversations, Laura felt like she could breathe again. She wandered indirectly to the punch bowl and ducked her head under a paper lantern to ladle out a cup's worth of over-sweet, flat, pink juice. Her hand bumped another, destined for the ladle. It was that shy kid from calculus—what was it, Michael? He smiled, excused himself, and fished out a cup of punch for Laura.
by Sharon 8:11 AM
Is it Thursday already? Well, by my watch just barely. Still, the topic for today is...Twilight
by Fred 12:21 AM
Wednesday, June 12, 2002
The story that old, deaf Beethoven had the legs taken off his piano, so, through the floor, he could feel the vibrations when he hit the keys (and thus experience the music in some small way) is beautiful. Experiencing a guitar by feeling the noise generated by it through a tiny, overdriven amp over a drumset being battered into submission in a small room, feeling it, because you can't hear it over the din and the earplugs, isn't quite as pretty, but the ideas are similar. The guitar was missing the D string and playing it consisted of simple two-note chords, like the Presidents of the United States of America suddenly struck dumb. Vocalizing words was pointless, and Talking Heads 'Sugar on my Tongue' gave way to inhuman bellows and sqeaks. Throat went raw, but the voice never gave out. Even though loud was the word for the day, the fuel was not replenished. Once released, the impetus behind the anger dissipated. It's the sort of thing that sounds good in the heat of the moment, but should certainly stay in the small room at the top of the stairs.
by Remi 10:17 PM
Distortion isn't what you were looking for
He said.
"It sounds good," he lied. He didn't like it, and it wasn't what he was looking for, but it would do. The fact was, it didn't really matter what it sounded like in the beginning; when it was done, it would sound like all the rest.
By the time it'd been beaten properly and run through three petals and the amp's "dirty" channel, it'd sound like all the rest.
He took it again from the man, and tried it through the blues amp one more time, listening to the squeeky-clean happy surfy sounds of it.
When he made it big, there'd be no stopping him. The biggest electric gerble player ever.
OK. sorry. That was silly
It started out as work. Only work, every day. They'd say hi, do the job, and go home, each providing a valuable service before calling it a day and walking back to their cars and going back to their other lives, the ones where they didn't wear nametags or think about dress codes. Work. He only saw her at work, and she only saw him at work.
Then there was the party. There always is the party, the unavoidable one, and they bumped into eachother, said hello to the respective dates and moved on. The revolutions of the wheels having touched, they moved apart, almost unchanged. Then back to work the next day, then back home, back to work, back home do you want to join us for dinner one night? back to work, back home, dinner, back to work back home.
And by the end of it, they couldn't stand eachother. Every time he looked at her, he saw the difference between work and home, and every time she looked at him she saw what in incompetent boob he pretended to be. The cycle had spun off into oblivion and the end hit them suddenly. He quit showing up at work. She quit going home. It's just the way things can happen.
by MisterNihil 9:17 PM
"Time travel for fun and profit," the sign said. "Serious inquiries only."
She went inside and filled out a complaint form, sat in the lobby for half an hour thumbing through month-old magazines. Eventually they called her in and she told them her story.
"This isn't my life," she told one of the men behind the desk. "This isn't how it happened. I don't know who he is, I've never seen him before, and yet...now we're getting married. He changed things, I know it. You sent him back and he changed things."
"Ma'am, I can assure you," said the man behind the desk, "our operatives are all fully licensed. We monitor them closely -- every step, every permutation -- and we most definitely don't allow distortions for personal gain. We respect the continuum."
"But it doesn't make sense," she told him. "Everything's jumbled. Everything's gone funny. I remember this differently."
"Well, I'm sorry," he said, "but I don't know what to tell you. And judging by my watch...your time's up."
by Fred 8:05 PM
The Reflected People
Sarah’s earliest memory was that of a visit with her mother to the house of mirrors at the county fair. Too young to really grasp the idea of optical distortion she was pretty sure that the people on the other side of the glass were in another world. People much like us only with huge heads, long, spindly arms and at times short and squat. But for the most part they were just like us. They were just…in there.
Of course she did eventually outgrow this idea but it still lingered as a fanciful notion to be explored when she sat gazing into a pond, water glass or frozen mud puddle. Mostly it faded. It wasn’t until years later when she was in college that the idea arose once more. Of course there was a fair amount of acid and no actual scientific study involved but the idea occurred to her that, maybe she was right. After all, if what defines our dimension is a set of hard and fast physical laws, who’s to say that a place not governed by these laws is not in fact another dimension? It was with this idea in mind that she returned to the annual county fair and made her way to the house of mirrors. They were still there, the same distorted mirrors she remembered from her childhood only now weathered and dulled with time. Now the image that stared back at her was that of a grown woman, elongated and awkward but familiar nonetheless. And yet, as she stared at this warped face there was something else. Recognition. The knowing gaze one gets from someone else who shares a secret that only the two of you are privy to. And then a wink.
From then on Sarah shared her secret with the reflected people. Not those literal types seen in the austere polished surfaces of bathroom mirrors and plate glass windows. But their more casual counterparts seen in calm pools, silver balls, and of course, funhouse mirrors. Some day maybe they’d come for a visit.
by Shawn 6:24 PM
He said, "Feel free to be yourself." And he visited often.
I'm told, upon moving to Austin, most people do not experience cedar allergies. No, instead, it is a thing that develops over time, an irritant building itself a home in your system. My initial impressions of Texas were that my allergies were lessened; there were fewer green, growing things than in Pennsylvania. Since then, gradually, air ways have constricted, lungs have built up layers of plaque, and generally, I'm back to where I started: Sniffly.
So what can one do about this creeping intolerance to the environment? Resent it or leave, I suppose, given that iron lungs seem to be in short supply. So far, I'm still dealing with it. I've grown up with hayfever; this is nothing new.
It's just that... I thought it would be different. Not that I would be immune, but that there was nothing to be immune to. It seemed idyllic, but that was only because I didn't have all the information. Over time, irritation grows.
And so he left.
by Sharon 8:07 AM
It's my turn on the great wheel of 'blog. Today's topic is:
Distortion
by Remi 3:07 AM
Tuesday, June 11, 2002
Oh brave new world that has such pencils in it...
Sometimes, late at night, I can still hear the screams. The natives, whose strange language we have slowly begun to learn, call it the sharpener, and they keep clear of its growling maw. We have not been so lucky. It stands atop the book-lined mountain near our base camp like some angry god, and I have seen friends wander too close, hardly suspecting danger, only to be eaten away by its ravenous teeth. I have watched as their yellow flesh is stripped away to expose the blackened bone. I have seen them whittled away to nothing. There were twelve of us when we began this expedition, so far from our motherland of Ticonderoga, and now there is only myself and three of the officers, one worn almost down to the nub. Without reinforcements I do not think that we will make it through the winter.
by Fred 7:31 PM
On the Subject of Pencils
Do pencils still hold a relevant position in today’s world? If I want something written, I want it to last, not degrade into gray smudges over time, so I use a pen. If I want something temporary, I represent it in ones and zeroes on my computer. These days, there are only two situations in which I use pencils: to write in my planner, which is both mutable and concrete, and when there is no other writing implement I can lay my hands on. Ah, and on character sheets.
The Dungeons & Dragons character sheet is sacred ground. Woe to him who uses ink on this embodiment of id, ego, and THAC0. It is a persona in flux, hindered by anything so permanent as a ballpoint pen.
In a brutal world of warriors and thieves, wounds are par for the course—as are healing potions. A player must be able to update his running total of hit points, his wellness indicator, in a limited amount of space. A pencil is ideally suited for this task.
Nothing lasts forever. This is especially true of equipment. Again, a pencil is essential for keeping a tidy, accurate list of the items in one’s pack. Equipment, weapons, and armor aren’t free, either, so the tally of gold and copper in one’s purse is, at times, unsettlingly dynamic. Not to worry, however; every creature, no matter how lowly, carries at least a small sack of coins. Just be sure to loot the bodies.
Lastly, we are nothing if we do not grow. Every few episodes, if one slays sufficient numbers of bad guys, he will have the opportunity to increase his hardiness, his skill, and his intrinsic abilities—an abbreviated course in self improvement, requiring a whole host of erasing and revising. In this case, it may just be time to print out a new sheet.
by Sharon 6:53 PM
Pecil Pusher
Always had a weird relationship with pencils. They don't explode when you chew on them and they're erasable. The downside is that when you chew on them too much they fall apart. When pens get past a certain point they, like skunks or squid, release a warning substance that coats the area around your mouth with blue or black or red or purple or whatever color. Pencils just start to disintegrate, or you get to the writing core which is always an unpleasant experience. If it's a mechanical pencil pieces just start falling off until it's unusable. I hate chewing on erasers, but I'd do it anyway, just to give my aching jaws a rest from chewing through wood.
I suppose it's a disgusting habit, and marks me as one with a hideous oral fixation, but I've come to terms with that, and at least it doesn't stink up my breath, or give me cancer (at least, I hope it isn't giving me cancer). Since I got out of school, my pencil chewing has gone way, way down. I only encounter them now when I need to use them, and it's hard to chew and write or chew and draw, especially when you have handwriting as poor as mine.
I never understood why they reminded us that we needed No. 2 pencils all the time for scantron tests. Did the school supply shops, other than the hallowed 'art section', _sell_ anything other than No. 2's? I can only remember encountering non-No. 2's once or twice in school, and both times it was blatantly clear that the pencils were not meant for writing, because they were too crumbly and dark, or far too light to read.
I never like colored pencils.
by Remi 6:24 PM
10 Minutes Worth of Pencils
Ok, pencils, something near and dear to my heart due to the fact that I am, at times, an illustrator. Further, I'm an illustrator in an industry entirely dominated by digital tools, computer games. This is a field where most try to avoid such dirty little things as pencils while I in fact embrace the elegant and unique qualities of the noble pencil. And unique they are. There are hundreds of variations on the pencil splayed out across lead type and even manufacturer. The 4B made by Staedtler Mars is quite different from that of any other company. Why? No idea. But it's true. There are subtitles of lead, wood, and eraser (for the non-illustration pencils) that make each line laid down unique. I am a pencil snob. Drives people crazy but there you are.
And yet there's more. Mechanical pencils. I've never cared for them much but have recently come to appreciate the blue blooded cousin of the lowly mechanical pencil, the drafting pencil. I'm sure you've seen them, push in the button on the top and a heavy, solid piece of lead slides down to be clamped into place by what look like metal claws. I love this pencil. Not so much for the convenience or the fact that it never gets shorter, but the fact that you can use it dull. I love drawing with a dull, almost rounded lead because it gives you such a wonderfully ambiguous line. It's soft and slightly blurry and can be worked and reworked for a long time before you finally commit it to being a specific bit of detail or allow it to define the edge of the space ship or the expression on a face. A dull pencil is the clay of the 2-D world.
by Shawn 6:15 PM
Inaugural topic: pencil
by Sharon 6:06 PM
Welcome, friends, to 600 seconds. Yesterday, Ben tossed out a writing exercise: Spend ten minutes—no more, no less—writing about pencils. So I took a shot. Some friends tried their hands at it. The results have been entertaining enough, that I want this to continue.
To offer the next topic, I suggest making it big, to make it easier to catch the topic without reading others' essays. The following bit of html, replacing the word "topic" with your, uh, topic, should serve nicely: <blockquote style="font-size:1.4em">topic</blockquote> If you, too, would enjoy the challenge of a daily writing exercise, please let me know by sending an email to sharon AT invisible-city DOT com.
by Sharon 5:25 PM
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The Rules:
- Check in for today's topic, or offer one on your appointed day.
- Log into Blogger.
- Once the edit window loads, start the clock.
- Write for ten minutes. Then, stop.
- Select the text, press Ctrl+C to capture it, then publish the post.
- In the unlikely event that Blogger consumes your post, thank your lucky stars (and Sharon) that you copied it onto your clipboard. You're welcome.
The Feed:
Atom Syndication
The Contributors:
Ben
Sharon
Fred
Dan
Shawn
Margaret
Bryan
Jonathan
Faith
Glen
Mary Ann
Erik
John
Christy
The Rights:
Copyright 2005 Sharon Cichelli, Mary Ann Borer, Martha Cichelli, Blythe Christopher, Fred Coppersmith, Faith Drewry, Dan Gabbett, Ben Gibbs, Jonathan Leistiko, Josh Martinez, David Menendez, Christy Roy, Shawn Sharp, Bryan Storti, Remi Treuer, Margaret Whaley, Glen Williams, John Williams, Erik Wilson
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