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

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

 

[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

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 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

 

Today:

"You can't get there from here."

by Fred 6:37 AM

Wednesday, June 26, 2002

 

“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

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

 

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

 

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

 

“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

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

 

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

 

"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

 

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

Thursday, June 20, 2002

 

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

 

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

 

Today's topic (just for a change of pace): balloons

by Fred 12:22 AM

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"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

 

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

 

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'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

 

"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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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