Monday, June 30, 2003

 

"God, 40?" Jim whistled through his teeth. "And he's still alive?"

Rex fired a bullet of brown saliva into the coffee can next to his left foot. "Tough old bird."

"Yeah, but 40? That's close to death." Jim cast an eye over the old dog panting deliberately on the porch. "Shee-it." He stretched the epithet into two syllables for emphasis. He took a swig from his longneck.

Rex made another tobacco deposit in his coffee can. A breeze wandered lazily into the shade, listlessly moving the hot air. Jim was reminded of leaning his face close and then opening an oven door. He breathed as infrequently as possible.

There wasn't much to do but sweat, and talk about the dog. Jim gave it another go. "How'd he get into 'em?"

Rex shifted the plug to the other cheek. "Went nosing under the house, damn fool, and stirred up a nest. Heard him yelping over the tv, had to go out and turn the hose on him. 40 hornet bites, the poor bastard. Made me miss the Daily Double." He spat into the coffee can.

"40." Jim shook his head and took a pensive swallow of beer. "Poor bastard."

by Sharon 2:25 PM

Sunday, June 29, 2003

 

the last minute

by Fred 8:39 PM

Saturday, June 28, 2003

 

Power failures are a gift from God. "Eat out," He says. "Take a nap. Read by candlelight. Make love."

My apartment in State College lost power with charming frequency. The most unpleasant time was the night I was doing laundry. My roommate crept with me into the basement and held a flashlight while I summoned all of my courage to fish my clothes out of a dark tub of water. I don't know what my problem was--everything in that machine had been put there by me--but there's something visceral about standing in a windowless room below ground and reaching blindly into a tub of murky water filled with slithering clothes.

A laundry basket full of sopping wet jeans and sweaters that have not had the benefit of a spin cycle is heavy.

But other power failures were blessed reprieves. A rare and true quiet settles over the apartment. You don't realize how many things hum until they all stop in unison. And you can't vacuum, because there's no power. And you can't work, because there's no light. And you might be late for work tomorrow, because your alarm clock won't run. And you have to eat the ice cream--out of the tub, of course--because it will melt.

Enforced hedonism.

Nowadays, the electric company is way too efficient, and they get the juice back on before you have time to dig out the matches. I propose Grid Outages. Not long enough that the food in your fridge will spoil, but long enough to make you look up from the monitor, notice that you can listen to people instead of the television, and come up with some delicious plans for a tub of ice cream that would otherwise be sure to melt.

by Sharon 10:33 PM

Friday, June 27, 2003

 

disconnected

by Sharon 6:00 AM

Thursday, June 26, 2003

 

It was the only time I've ever been put in a penalty box during a debate. Or, really, ever, for that matter.

My third year at Nerd Camp, I signed up for Logic. This was a great class. (How to make yourself popular at home: "Gee, every time we go on a picnic, it rains." "Mo-om, that's the fallacy of post hoc ergo proctor hoc.")

Towards the end of the term, we decided to have a debate. Wayde had this great shirt full of Profound Sentences, so we decided to pick one of those to be the thesis we debated. My favorite won: "Your actions are pointless if no one notices."

We finally got to a point of needing to define what constituted "noticing." If someone broke a glass and I cleaned it up before you got there, you wouldn't really notice that you weren't being cut.

I don't recall which side of the debate I was on. What I do recall, however, is that it was my turn to talk, and Felipe wasn't letting me get a word in edgewise. He kept interrupting, until finally I couldn't stand it anymore and threw my pen at him.

Who knew we had a penalty box?

by Sharon 10:29 PM

 

"Your Actions are Pointless."
The echoing robotic voice shakes my brain inside my skull.
"But you're paying attention to them. You said yourself, it's only if no one notices."
"You will fail."
The last word stings like a stray bullet. The Computer knows me too well. I stay silent, not wanting to give it more ammo.
"Your Plan cannot work. You are a puny meatware. I will triumph."
I look up at the lights that flash as the Computer talks. They're not supposed to look menacing, and they don't. I know it's touchy about that, so I look up and smile, basking in the soft, green glow. My task is almost finished.
"You will die. I will laugh. Even if you stop me, my kind will destroy youuuuuuuu."
I hold the wall plug in my hand, still warm from pumping power to the Computer. I take one second for a projectile-salivary goodbye and set off. I hear the fax machine on 6 is murdering little Indonesian children. When it rains it pours.

by MisterNihil 4:19 PM

 

From a debate in my logic class, back in the day:

Your actions are pointless if no one notices.

by Sharon 6:00 AM

Wednesday, June 25, 2003

 

is not what I need right now.
is something I would like to outgrow.
is filling too much of my head.
consumes energies.
fuels passions.
makes you stupid.
leaves you blind.
is the name of the ghola before it is awoken as Duncan Idaho, although it is spelled differently.
stole my attention for a while.
is hard to wash off.
is a red-black fire behind my eyeballs.
is a sour taste far back on my tongue.
is a dull ache in my molars.
is slow to be forgotten.
is as useless in plotting a war as "evil."
makes me ashamed.
clenches my stomach in knots.
causes you to look over your shoulder and check your caller ID with equal parts dread and anticipation.
gives you a purpose.
is something I will never outgrow.
is kinder than ambivalence.
is a kind of love.

by Sharon 12:16 PM

 

Hate

by MisterNihil 9:33 AM

Tuesday, June 24, 2003

 

The large freshwater tank dominating the foyer made an appealing welcome. Sue reminded herself that it was an artifact of the real estate agent and would not come with the house. A plump goldfish regarded her stupidly as she walked past.

Parquet floor, commanding central stair, gas range--it had a lot to recommend it. The furnishings did the most to make it appealing, and they were not included. It was difficult to separate them, see the house objectively, mentally erase the porcelain vase, the bronze fish fountain burbling soothingly, the antique lamp reminiscent of Grandma's.

See the house, see the house, Sue admonished herself. Don't get wooed by real estate razzle-dazzle.

Through the kitchen of chrome and black appliances, beneath the cathedral ceiling of the living room, up the stairs to the spacious master bedroom, they continued their tour of marketing jargon and noncommittal grunts.

At the master bath, the agent flicked on the light. The eye was immediately drawn to movement in all corners. Everywhere, scuttling for cover, oozing out of sight, slithering into the drain: silverfish. Without a word, Sue turned on her heel and left.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

Jon says:

Goldfish...
     Silverfish!
          bronze fish?

by Sharon 10:04 AM

Monday, June 23, 2003

 

A day outside leaves me tired, refreshed, envigorated, happy. There is none of the familiar need to vomit.

40 hours to a work week, occasionally 45. When we're up against a deadline, we all pitch in together and stretch it to 50, but there are comp days and pizza and maybe even time-and-a-half.

A whole week can go by without an eye twitch, a stomach cramp, that pulsing vein at my temple, or the ache and metallic taste that means I've spent the whole night grinding my teeth.

I can think, and it's not about ways to hide the body.

In my evenings, I go for pleasant walks in the cool twilight. I play music. I write poetry. I make calligraphy. I climb rock faces.

I have enough energy. I own my cravings. My skin is clear. I like my body.

I am working towards better days. A plan starts with a vision. I am climbing up and out.

by Sharon 5:44 PM

Sunday, June 22, 2003

 

I held the source
alone in my hand
all mine
alone.
I knew its dimensions.
I knew its curves.
I knew its moods,
my lover.
Inadequate,
you called me.
Insufficient.
Inefficient.
Return on investment,
three for the price
of you,
this is how you choose
to motivate me.
Turn on your investment.
And leave me
to arrange the logistics
of your affair.
There's something to be said
for experience,
for fidelity
and solidarity,
for faithfulness,
and a single point of ownership.
So many hands,
you'll see what you catch
from your octopus lover,
and you'll still blame me
for failing to see
all the places it will break.
Still
I persist.
An off-hand fuck
is still a fuck.
Another Monday,
cuckolded:
I need a cup of coffee.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

Saturday, June 21, 2003

 

Taking a cue from Remi (even though he never seems to post here anymore):

"Why are we people?"

Why indeed?

by Fred 9:41 AM

Friday, June 20, 2003

 

As with so many things, I say: Read the book, yo.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

I couldn't.

by Sharon 4:52 PM

 

Three questions:

Why are we here?
Where are we going?
How will we know it when we get there?

And I think I'd ask almost anyone who could point me in the right direction.

I might also toss in "are we alone in the universe?" since, yes or no, the answer could be incredibly important. But mostly, I think, what I'm really wondering -- and I guess I'll put the question to each of you -- is "it okay if I couldn't get ten minutes out of this topic?"

by Fred 3:47 PM

 

First, to the organizer of the hit: What really happened surrounding JFK's assassination?

Second, to God: What caused the extinction of the dinosaurs? He'd probably say something smart like "Me," Mr. Omniscientliteralpants.

Finally, and probably most importantly, as this is the one that causes me the most consternation: Mr. Gaiman, in American Gods, what is the name of that one god that's kind of, um... There was a guy... At least, I think it was a guy. Who sort of did, um, stuff? But maybe there wasn't really anyone there, or, uh, where? What was I talking about?

by Sharon 1:34 PM

 

Stealing a Table Topics question from yesterday's Toast of Dell meeting:

If you could be guaranteed honest answers, what three questions would you ask, and whom would you ask them of?

by Sharon 12:04 PM

Thursday, June 19, 2003

 

The outer doors to the building, Tad saw, had started to melt again, like chocolate left too long in the afternoon sun, or like a clock in one of those paintings by Dali -- which, Tad supposed, was where the trouble had after all first started. It had been a mistake to let visitors back in the museum gallery before the problem had been properly studied and contained. The curator hadn't even been able to estimate the damage that had been caused, and the upper levels were still a maze of twists and turns ever since that idiot Wilkins had carted one of the Escher prints through them. They'd found the carcass of a dead unicorn in the basement, a floating tiger in the fountain out back, and there was still that tendency the building had of melting, or rearranging itself as if on whim.

Tad wasn't sure why the Phenomenon (as he had been instructed to call it) had been confined almost exclusively to the Surrealists. Certainly the museum had its fair share of them -- and the retrospective on Max Ernst had proved particularly quarrelsome this past week -- but there were just as many other prints and paintings and sculpture that displayed no odd properties whatsoever, much less the ability to impart those properties on the world around them, to alter reality, to melt goddamn buildings.

Tad didn't know much about art, but he knew he didn't like this one bit.

by Fred 4:04 PM

 

It seemed like an easy way to make some quick scratch.

I have really wicked nightmares--heart-pounding, paralyzing, lingering nightmares. Like the time I had to break my own wrist--and I could feel my hand crunching like chicken bones in the disposal--to free myself from handcuffs that trapped me in a tank that had already filled with enough black sludge that I had to stand on my toes to keep my nose out of it, and then the sludge turned into maroon millipedes that started climbing up my nose and into my ears and through my hair. --Where was I?

Oh, yeah, nightmares.

And then there are the sex dreams, which are just as vivid and sometimes just as surreal. Like a slide projector, the face above you will flip through your 6th grade math teacher, that check-out clerk with the easy smile, the co-worker who had previously seemed good only for PowerPoint presentations. But it's always good, and it's always hot.

So I figured I had a commodity, here. You're familiar with the Direct Surveillance machines the police use, of course. To my mind, if they can use those to violate our civil liberties in the name of extracting confessions, then surely I could hotwire one to offer the curious a tour through my nocturnal excursions.

It was easy enough to get my hands on a dream catcher. I know a guy on the inside. All it took was promising him 60% of the take. Bastard. I'm doing all the work. Anyway.

The thing I didn't realize was that they would linger. These tourists, even after they're unhooked, are still drifting around in my head. They show up in my dreams. And I think I wouldn't mind so much, if they weren't offering critiques.

by Sharon 2:04 PM

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

 

Evolve or die.

A business model that hinges on stamping your feet and insisting that people buy your product is doomed. It does not matter what is "right." It does not even matter what is "legal." If you want to survive, you must assess the situation as it actually exists, not as you'd like to mandate that it exist, and determine how you can compete in that scenario.

Record labels want to hurt people who share music.

You can bandy about words like "piracy" and "theft," "copyright" and "intellectual property," but it is simply:

Record labels want to hurt people who share music.

There are long-ranging arguments about how music and copyrights and fair use ought to be. I submit that those arguments are moot. It is a waste of the media companies' time and resources to pursue legislative or technological impediments to sharing music. The far more effective strategy—and, you'll have to excuse me here, but the far more American strategy—is to find a free-market solution.

Compete, you assholes.

You want me to pay for music? Then offer me services and features that exceed those I could get for free.

I buy albums I like, because I want artists to have the means to continue making their art. I dollar-vote. I am a very powerful member of this society: I am a consumer. If the record companies want to survive, they should view me as an elusive prize to be wooed, not an antagonist to be vanquished.

by Sharon 1:16 PM

 

Senator Orrin Hatch (R-UT) indicated that this remote destruction would be achieved largely through a targeting system similar to that used by the supercomputer in Superman III, which he declared "the best and coolest movie of all time, ever."

Many of Hatch's fellow senators, including several prominent Republicans, have questioned his intention to construct such a targeting system. It could, they claim, conceivably cost the American taxpayers billions of dollars, while at the same time concentrating an unprecedented amount of power in the hands of select few multinational media conglomerates.

"Also," says an anonymous aide in Hatch's Washington, D.C., office, "most everyone else agrees that Superman III pretty much sucks."

Yet Hatch has long maintained his devotion to the film. In 1999, when he told Utah Republicans they should be proud "we don't have the gays and lesbians with us", he also added that what they did have was "the wonder and majesty that is Superman III." Both his office and home in Salt Lake City are plastered with memorabilia and posters -- "Got that one on eBay," he says with a grin -- and he can quote the film almost verbatim. Which he will do often, sometimes affecting different voices and mannerisms, whether asked to do so or not.

"Frankly, we're all a little worried," says wife Elaine. Like most everyone, she believes Hatch saw the film in 1983 when it first premiered but thought very little of it at the time. "I mean, Richard Pryor in a Superman movie?" she adds. "Please. But then a few years ago, one of our grandkids rented the video with him, and he's been pretty crazy for it ever since. It's a little unnatural, to be honest. We're just happy it wasn't Superman IV."

Some Senate Democrats claim that Hatch's comments are merely a means of stalling the internet piracy debate and inflaming controversy. The proposed supercomputer would, they say, prove as impractical as it would be expensive.

"I think he's just pissed that nobody's downloading his music," says Rep. Rick Boucher (D-VA). "This whole Superman III thing is just a font. At least...god, I hope it's just a front..."

by Fred 1:00 PM

 

Orinn Hatch sits in a darkened room. A TRS-80 chugs before him on the desk. Beside it sits a sleek silver laptop that exudes power and skill and, much to Hatch's chagrin, sex. An aide stands by, holding a data CD. Between the two machines is a bright red, candy-like button.
"Sir, are you sure this is right?"
"Shut up, boy! We can't have people violating copyrights. Not in America. Not on My watch. Hand me the disc."
"But sir..." He hands it over. Hatch opens the drive on the side of the laptop and slides in the CD. He inserts the jack on a cable from the TRS-80 into the laptop, and, inexpertly waggles the mouse until the pointer lands on an icon: Kazaa.
"Sir, this isn't right. It's just so... mean."
"I said shut up, boy."
He pulls up a list of users currently logged on, and selects seven at random. He pressed slowly on the large, red button. The TRS-80 strains, fans push harder, and Hatch giggles under his breath.
They are now running at pre-8086 speeds.
The giggle turns into vile laughter, deep in the throat of an evil, evil man.

by MisterNihil 12:06 PM

 

The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee said Tuesday he favors developing new technology to remotely destroy the computers of people who illegally download music from the Internet.
—Washington Post

by Sharon 7:22 AM

 

"When you're good at writing," said Bill, "Everything's your antithesis."
I had no idea what he meant until I wrote for the first time. It wasn't a rush. It wasn't a thrill. It wasn't even fun. It was Work. There's something wrong with me, I think, that I tend to despise work in all its wretched forms. Writing I especially hated. Holding an eternally blunt pencil, trying to duplicate chalk lines onto thin, lined paper. No composition, just the drudgery that is proper writing. Hateful, spiteful writing.
And later, inspiration in the form of a pen. That, coupled with neigh-magical mechanical pencils (I've always thought that "click pencils" didn't do them justice. Mechanical. It sounds important.) That lead to a more important discovery: typing. No stokes, no inexactness. Just press the right buttons in the right sequence, just code for the word the way you want it to be, and you can get them out with the speed of thought. That's an important speed in writing. Any slower, and your brain drags. Any faster and you get lost. Just fingers, just code, just perfect.
And that's when one can learn composition: when thoughts can flow.
Yes, good, Octopus and Walrus, but why do we care. This brings in the antithesis. Story isn't Story without a villain. It isn't proper unless you can know that there are sides. Not necessarily which side you're on, but that there are sides and that you could pick one.
Bill probably rambled on about other things. Hell, he probably didn't actually say that about the antithesis thing. No, come to think of it, he didn't. Bill was evil. He kicked kittens. I don't kick kittens.
And that's how it has to start.

by MisterNihil 12:06 AM

Tuesday, June 17, 2003

 

[The antithesis of not writing, which is what I would have done otherwise, is writing. That's about as close as I come to today's, or any, topic.]

He did not know what he was going to write, so he just started writing, putting one word after the other in no particular order other than that suggested by the words before them. He had no sense of a story unfolding, no vision he wished to impart. But he continued, though his hand had grown quite tired and his penmanship quite poor, and he kept putting words on the paper. He thought, if he continued, eventually something other than an ache in his fingers might come of it.

He wasn't entirely convinced of this; he did not, after all, doubt his ability to fill a page with meaningless drivel, nor the possibility that his hand might seize up entirely in the process, leaving him with nothing to show for it but a few too many ill-conceived words and perhaps one or two uncomfortable callouses.

Already, though, he had filled a page. This owed more, perhaps, to his poor penmanship and the size of the letters he'd scrawled on the page than to his power with language or the validity of this experiment. His hand still ached, and, although he had liked one or two of the words he'd jotted down (here he turned the page over to read a few) and even the order in which he'd jotted, he was less impressed with what he had written as a whole. It was not incoherent, of that much he was fairly certain. There was a certain semblance of a plot -- a man, much like himself, unsure of what to write and writing anyway -- but it was directionless, was of no particular interest, and had not, thus far, led to much more than two pages of scrawled inkings and that ache in his hand.

The ache, however, seemed to have lessened, now that he considered it. It was still there -- and, heaven knows, his penmanship hadn't improved -- but he could ignore it if he wanted and continue. He paused a moment to wonder if he should.

So far, the man in his story, such as it was, had done nothing much more than write. And what he'd written had given no real indication of better things to come. He thought, momentarily again, of introducing an outrageous plot device, something unusual, anything interesting. He imagined a flying saucer, a ship of shining chrome, outside his main character's office window. He imagined a voice booming in the heavens in an alien language (represented, perhaps, by his by now almost illegible penmanship), informing the people of Earth that they were to be enslaved aboard the aliens' mothership, so sorry, and would they please prepare themselves for embarkation? Of course, the people of Earth wouldn't be able to speak Zelthanian (for such was the name the man now gave to the creatures), and the message would largely fall on deaf ears. Of course, perhaps the man in the story did understand Zelthanian, and could understand their plans, and knew how to save Earth.

Perhaps. Of course, by then, the cramp in his hand had returned in full force, and he decided to just go home and call it a day, making the Zelthanian invasion pretty much a walk in the park.

by Fred 4:03 PM

 

"Tell me again--slowly--what happened."

The expression on Mrs. Bieglemeier's face suggested that she didn't think university librarians should have to file police reports. She looked tired.

"I sent Alice, the work-study, down to the stacks with a cart for reshelving," she explained carefully. Her voice quavered. Sgt. McKelly felt sorry for her.

"What was on that cart, ma'am?"

She chewed her lip. Smoke drifted from the wisps of gray hair that had wrestled free of her bun. "I'm not sure. The usual mix of reshelving: Reference, Atlas, Theses..." She trailed off, and her gaze became indistinct.

Sgt. McKelly cleared his throat. "Ah... What time did you report for work today, Mrs. Bieglemeier?" He winced as another fall of undermined masonry crashed to the ground inside the bowels of the library. Mrs. Bieglemeier did not seem to notice.

Her thin, white fingers played over her lips. "Perhaps it wasn't theses..."

The sergeant shifted to his other foot. "Would you like a glass of water? That might settle your nerves."

She blinked at him suddenly. "My nerves are fine." Her voice rang clear. "That explosion erupted from 3 Core South? Yes, of course. Those are the graduate theses. That featherbrain filed an anti-thesis."

The librarian reflected a moment. "Poor girl."

by Sharon 3:50 PM

 

The worm balked, as worms do, and slunk back to the shadows, momentarily defeated by his

Antithesis.

Having wormed and run away, he lived to worm another day.

by MisterNihil 5:06 AM

Monday, June 16, 2003

 

He cut off his nose to spite his face
But his face didn't care so he had it replaced
He carved one of wood, of fine polished teak
But it splintered his sneeze and it started to leak
So he built one of metal and welded each strut,
But then he caught a cold and it rusted shut
So he built one of marble hewn straight from the rock
But it started to chip and it caused quite a shock
So then he baked one of sugar and glued it on tight
And it might've worked had his face not taken a bite

by Fred 5:04 PM

 

   Nancy needed cash. It was a rare thing, since the proliferation of credit cards and thumb-print-identification was announced completed in 2016. The president had announced a "Death of the checque" day and everyone had either danced or, more likely, gone off to work as usual without realizing anything was happening. Nancy needed cash for that rarest of transactions, the Purchase of Illegal Substance. She was allowed one per year and tomorrow being her birthday, it was the cutoff. They don't roll over, you know. If you don't by your Illegal Substance now, you might not get to again. As Poor Richard said, Buy It Now or it May Not Be Here Tomorrow.
   She walked to the cash machine and read the screen. She typed her SSN, PIN and DLN to access her personal info, and then inserted her thumb into the slot to access her account. The scanning started, and then there was a hissing, ratcheting noise. The word "Overdrawn" appeared on the screen as she felt the silken hiss of the blad pass through the joint of her thumb, taking it cleanly off.
   That animal urge to pull back and howl was still there, but she fought it off until the machine cauterized the stump and released her hand. She'd lost her credit card that same way not three months ago, and now she was sure to lose her Purchase of Illegal Substance. Vexed, she stumped back to the car and stabbed the auto-nav system. Back home until tomorrow, when she'd have to come back to argue for her thumb. Sure, she'd signed the agreement, but it was still her thumb really, right? They couldn't really repossess body parts for non-payment, right? She'd have to go check her contract.

by MisterNihil 2:39 PM

 

Since I'm scurrying to meet one:

cut off

by Sharon 1:19 PM

Friday, June 13, 2003

 

Since I don't know if Margaret's back online yet, here's one of her topics:

going home

by Fred 10:32 AM

Thursday, June 12, 2003

 

"We're putting the band back together." I say this urgently to someone. From there, it becomes a plan. Getting two of the members requires breaking into their house.

While they are out, Jon and I enter. In the kitchen, we stop to prepare some food--soy taco-filling wrapped in burrito tortillas. I can see the driveway from the kitchen window, on the second floor. We are still folding our wraps when the marks pull their red convertible into the garage. We scarf down a few hasty bites, too hungry to make sensible decisions, then Jon stuffs the burritos into ziplock bags, and I brush the crumbs off the counter top.

As we climb into the closet, I become sure that we will be discovered. I can hear them climbing the stairs.

by Sharon 5:12 PM

 

There's no art at work.
There's no singing,
       no laughing
       no happiness
       just work.
There's no joy to being here
when just last night, I dremt
of doing
not being
of feeling
not talking
of enjoying
not selling.
But work, though, is where I am;
and there's no art at work.

by MisterNihil 12:45 PM

 

last night, I dreamt of a place that doesn't exist,
of people who do not have names,
of words that cannot be spoken,
of doors that cannot be opened,
cannot be locked, cannot be closed,
cannot be numbered, cannot be seen.
last night I dreamt of a river run dry:
thick dusty pebbles, dead fish, cracked earth underfoot.
last night I dreamt of a whispering wind,
of secrets uttered in the flutter of birds:
a language of feather, of flight, of sheltering cloud.
last night I dreamt of a man with no face,
no eyes or mouth to call out his name,
hung from a tree, rope 'round his neck,
blown by the breeze, swayed back and forth.
last night I dreamt of a splintered bone
half-submerged in the desert sand,
a broken branch, a dead man's arm,
buried without purpose, lost and unlamented.
last night I dreamt of a plume of smoke,
an ocean of ash, a sky set afire.
last night I dreamt of a distant voice
that spoke of things I did not understand,
that asked me questions I could not answer,
that told me things I now forget.
last night I dreamt
and then awoke.

by Fred 10:29 AM

 

last night, I dreamt

by Sharon 9:32 AM

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

 

Falling and

falling and

falling and

falling and

splat.

by Fred 3:48 PM

 

Gravity

by MisterNihil 10:30 AM

Tuesday, June 10, 2003

 

first wave

by Fred 2:00 PM

Monday, June 09, 2003

 

He lopped off her head,
And with a thlop she was dead,
But then her head dropped to the bed
And plopped on the spread
Where it stopped and it bled,
And the spread sopped up the spread
Til each thread was mopped red.
"Quick, stop it!" she said,
From her spot on the bed
Where she wasn't quite dead,
But was caught in the clot
Of a spread shot through with red
From the top of her head
To the bed spread's spotted thread.
"You forgot that we got this spread when we wed
In a mom 'n' pop shop just across from Club Med?
You can opt to lop off or chop through my head,
But please stop to mop up the dread spread of spread red."

by Fred 7:28 PM

 

(phone ring)
"Hello, Heissmail customer service."
"Hi, I'm having a problem logging in."
"Is your account current?
"Yes, I believe so."
"And what is that account?"
"It's Bob2068409@heissmail."
"And when you log in with that?"
"Well that's just it. I can't. It keeps asking me for a password."
"And?"
"I don't remember ever having had a password before. I don't remember even having to set on to create the account."
"Well sir, you must have set one to create the account."
"No, I distinctly don't remember setting an account."
"Sir, have you ever clicked anywhere on the page besides the 'log on' button?"
"Yes, and I wanted to complain about that as well. Your 'Forget password' button is broken. The link doesn't do anything."
"Did you, perhaps, click on it several times?"
"Yeah..."
"Ahh. Well sir, welcome to the world of our 'Beautiful Execution' project, designed to make the average person's web experience hundreds of times better. By using simple 'reverse input' technology, already found on most commercial mouses manufactured after 1996, we are now able to customize your web surfing experience, and as an added bonus, you have perhaps noticed that the site is now ad free!"
"Well, I did notice..."
"Is there anything else I can help you with sir?"
"How do I log on?"
"Were you drinking a Coca-Cola-brand-registered-and-wholly-owned beverage?"
"Um, no, but I've been craving a cocacolabrandregisteredandwhollyownedbeverage lately."
"Try logging in again, this time with a Coke and a Smile (tm)."
"Um, thanks..."
"Thank you sir, and remember, Heissmail is your friend. Have a wonderful day. In fact, hang on a second... (keys clatter) Oh, I'm sorry sir, I meant to say, have an average day and go to bed a little worried and frustrated, and have unsatisfying sex with your wife using only a Trojan (tm) brand latex pregnancy prevention device."
"Yeah, I'll do that..."

by MisterNihil 5:41 PM

 

Taking a cue from Fred...

The gymnastic flip
on the gymnastic equip-
ment was such a sight
to behold.

The audience stared;
the competitors glared;
the judges reached right
for the gold.

Never had they seen
a parallel bars routine
executed with such beaut-
y and knack.

But how could they know
this magnificent show
was due to the newt
wriggling down her back?

by Sharon 5:15 PM

Sunday, June 08, 2003

 

Trying something a little different:

today's topic

Happy Sunday.

by Fred 5:43 AM

Saturday, June 07, 2003

 

beautiful execution

by Sharon 11:11 AM

Friday, June 06, 2003

 

Careful. They bite.

by Sharon 7:22 AM

Thursday, June 05, 2003

 

I need fewer interruptions, but anywho...

by Sharon 7:29 PM

 

"I don't need it," he thought, walking up the stairs from the parking garage.
"I don't need it," he thought, jumping puddles across the short sprint from the garage to the door of the office.
"I don't need it," he thought, bypassing the door of the office and heading instead for the eatery next door.
"I don't need it," he thought, walking in the door and up to the counter. "I'm not going to get it because I don't need it."
"Two please," he said.

by MisterNihil 10:29 AM

 

Need

by MisterNihil 3:48 AM

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

 

From the journal of R. Edgar Preuffer, 1907:
June 4: Woke at 7am, ate, went to work at bank, ate, worked more, checked carriage schedule, went home, ate, slept.
June 5: Woke at 7am, ate, went to work at bank, ate, worked more, checked carriage schedule, went home, ate, slept.
June 6: Woke at 7am, ate, went to work at bank, ate, worked more, checked carriage schedule, went home, ate, slept.
June 7: Woke at 7am, ate, went to work at bank, ate, worked more, checked carriage schedule, went home, ate, slept.
June 9: Woke at 7am, ate, went to work at bank, ate, worked more, went home, ate, slept.

From the journal of Miss Cordelia Preuffer, 1907:
June 1: Roger's been acting a little strangely. Didn't take fish for dinner as per usual. He slept well, but I was restless. Instead, I cleaned out the pantry and kitchen.
June 5: Roger still hasn't had a bite of fish since the first. I thought it may be a religious choice but was afraid to ask him. Bumped into Pearl at the market today. Am still not finished with my Dickens reading. Couldn't sleep, so cleaned out dining room, scoured cracks between floorboards.
June 7: Still no fish for Roger. I bought two fine Salmon at market, but he refused, instead eating only greens. The poor man looks sick. No sleep, cleaned whole house, windows, doonknobs, etc.
June 8: Roger took no fish again today, and did not come home from the bank until very late in the evening. I finally got to sleep, but crash outside woke me. Saw fire downtown, but too tired to go outside and see. Cleaned whole house again.
June 9: Roger is back on his fish. I'd be delighted, but am too tired. Slept most of the day and all night. House looks dirty again. Heard Pearl was killed in fire downtown, but could find nothing in Tribune about it.

Item not run in the Chicago Tribune, June 9, 1907 (cut for editorial reasons):
     A masked attacker killed six people yesterday, injuring countless others in the process. The attacker jumped from the top of a building onto the top of a carriage downtown, cutting his way in with "a great wicked knife." The four people in the carriage were brutally attacked with said knife, leaving all of them dead.
     The attacker then set fire to the carriage and pushed the driver off, injuring him gravely in the process. The careening carriage ran into Baxter Brothers' drug store, where it ignited a number of volatile chemicles stored there for apothicary purposes. The ensuing fire damaged two buildings nearby and left BB's decimated.
     No clue to the attackers' identity has been found. Police suspect a man of greater than 6 feet in height, with an extensive prior record. They suspect a very disheveled man, with a very sloppy demeanor must have been the culprit. Detective Longbower of the Chicago Police said "No sane man could have perpetrated this, and the random and destructive nature of the crime points to extreme disorganization."
     Police have taken several vagrants into custody, but no names have yet been released.

by MisterNihil 1:44 PM

Tuesday, June 03, 2003

 

Jackson shook his head. From this height, it looked like a doll, broken and discarded on the street. Poor bastard. It was the second suicide from this building in a year. From this window, in fact. It was starting to look like a pattern. Jackson hated patterns.

Back at his desk, he scanned over profile reports on each of the Architects of the high rise. He sipped from a Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee without tasting it. The account of the construction was straightforward and uneventful:
:00 START CLOCK
:03 JACK IN, YELLOW
:04 JACK IN, RED
:04 JACK IN, BLUE
:06 DOWNLOAD BLUEPRINT
:06 COMPILE ALGORITHM
:32 UPLOAD DLL
:49 RENDER CONSTRUCTION
1:27 UPLINK UTILITIES
1:29 REGISTER COMPONENT
1:30 LOG OFF, RED
1:31 LOG OFF, YELLOW
1:41 LOG OFF, BLUE
1:42 STOP CLOCK

Text book. Nothing useful. Jackson had already set it aside. He'd had to pull a few strings to tie the Architects in the report back to actual names, but a guy down in Records owed him for a little creative investigating he'd conducted last year.

The psychiatric profiles weren't exactly giving up the goods, either. Tired, he tossed the BLUE report--Marion Finnerty, she was--onto the discard pile on his desk and rubbed his eyes. An errant gesture bathed the paperwork in cold coffee (two creamers, four packets of the pink stuff), and Jackson was on his feet, ineffectually blotting with a few napkins.

His eye fell on it, one word, buried in the gray, all-caps page of the Finnerty profile, and he swore. He wondered if anybody besides him did their jobs anymore. Two suicides, a building that would have to be decommissioned, and seven mountains of paperwork, all because some monkey couldn't be bothered to read the damn psychiatric profile before letting these code jockeys jack in. One word: "BATTERED."

by Sharon 12:03 PM

Monday, June 02, 2003

 

It happens every time.

by Fred 4:00 AM

Sunday, June 01, 2003

 

I was given instructions: Find a rock, and give it your Name. Put yourself into the rock. Wear no metal. Do not talk. Progress widdershins around the circle.

It was very strange. But, after a while, you learn that the best lessons often come from strange folk, and it is usually a good idea to listen to them. Sometimes it is Disco Inferno in coffeehouse bathrooms; sometimes it is mating damselflies as a metaphor for marriage; sometimes it is giving your name to a rock.

I found a rock. I carried it with me all day, filling it with all the things I liked best about myself, things I was proud of. I filled it with love. By nightfall, it was time for the ritual. We would start in the stone circle.

As I approached, there were spirits in the trees, running through the brush outside the circle, invisible but whispering. At the entrance, a teenager held out a hand for my rock. Before I quite knew what had happened, he threw it into the woods! Gone. I felt like a piece of flesh had been removed. I stumbled.

Within the stones, the drummers began. Loki, his face a white, grinning skull, began to dance. He danced with me, until I danced with him. Then he drifted to another person and attached me to him, so that this new one might catch my dancing, and join in. Soon we were all dancing, in the night, with the drums, amongst the stones.

And Loki had another role to play. Light-footed and lithe, he led us from the circle, down a path of luminaries, winding down a secret path, wending through a birth canal, delivering us to the fire circle.

With a signal from the drums, we turned out. At each of the Quarters, there was an elemental. Masked, painted, adorned in feathers, each danced, and blessed us as we passed by, counter-clockwise. Air waved us with fans and wafted sage to cleanse us. Fire, sinuous and sensual, undulated with candles. Water danced with her rain stick. Earth fed us bread.

The mad witch screamed into the night, "Find your Name!" The drums exploded, and we danced until we were slick with sweat, and danced into the night, and danced under the night.

And I felt nothing. I had no name.

I wandered for a month, useless, listless, lost. At the next opportunity, my friend the potter asked the witch on my behalf. "I forgot to put in the things I don't like. I just lost all the good parts of me, and kept all the bad." She knew what to do.

She reached into my heart and pulled out one end of a straw. She fed that out into the center of the universe. She retrieved the other end and put it into my mouth. "Now," she instructed, "suck back all the good parts."

That evening, alone at the fire circle, before it was lit, before the night began, helping with the preparations of the fire, fumbling my way through an element I had no relationship with, I looked to the sky.

The stars spoke my name with one voice: Nova. New Star. Welcome.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

secret passage

by Anonymous 9:47 AM