Tuesday, December 30, 2003

 

I'm swimming in my new shorts, and school starts next week. Mom says I'll grow into them, but they were too big on my birthday and they're too big now. I haven't grown in the three weeks of Christmas break, and I don't think I'm going to grow this weekend. They're too big.
My shoes, though, are too small. They fit three weeks ago and they're too small now, and they pinch my toes and make them sweat in slippery and hot ways when I walk. My heels hurt and I've got a blister starting on my achilles tendon that I wouldn't wish on anybody, not even JoJo the Dog-Faced Monkey-Boy, otherwise known as my brother Joseph.
I look bad, but he's Jojo the dog-faced monkey-boy, and everybody in school knows it. Before the Holiday break I told everybody in his class and mine that I called him that, Jojo the dog-faced monkey-boy. They all laughed and called him names. He yelled and hit me in the ankle with a stick on the playground and now they're all careful what they say to him. He hit me in the other ankle too, for good measure, when I wasn't looking, as I was limping home. He told me to watch out and that he'd do worse than that.
My shoes fit better now than they did that day. The blood on them from the knife gash made them all stiff and made them shrink a little. I liked those shoes, but Mom said not to worry: she was going to take me shopping for new clothes. We rushed through the store, picking out bad pants and ugly shoes. Dad didn't say anything at all. He just sat in his chair in the living room and smoked. Jojo the dog-faced monkey-boy sat there with him, watching cartoons.
After we went to the store, Mom said we were going to go visit Aund Rhonda, and we drove out to her house in Smithville which is like twenty minutes out of town. I never spent Christmas with Mom's family before, 'cause we usually have Hannukka and Aunt Ruth comes over and we light candles. Mom's family does weird things, like they only give presents on one day, and they have a tree.
The new year starts tomorrow night, and Mom says I can stay up all night and watch the hands go 'round my watch and watch the date skip over from 31 to 1. She says I can dance with Aunt Rhonda's neighbor's daughter and that we'll have a good time. She keeps telling me that and crying. She says I'll get the casts off my ankles tomorrow, and I can walk and I can dance all night.
She says all kinds of things, and I just smile 'cause I know I got Jojo the dog-faced monkey-boy good. He's gonna be sorry next week at school. You'll see. Mom says I won't 'cause she says I'm going to school in Smithville now, but you'll see. Tell me how it goes. Just watch out what you say to him if he has a stick.

by MisterNihil 4:01 PM

 

I talked with Bryan last night, and he mentioned that he couldn't think of anything to say for "Oof," and I confessed that, lately, I've just been writing whatever's been on my mind, and never mind the day's topic. So, what's on my mind today?

Sandman, largely. Work that I can't focus on. The knack to happiness. And friendship.

Jon gave me somewhere around 9 Sandman books for Christmas, filling out the collection he had been gradually chipping at over holidays and birthdays in one overwhelming fell swoop. I gots me lots of comic books, yo.

In book four, Season of Mists, Desire makes a passing taunt at Dream about his first mortal love, the "sparkly" one. My brain leaps immediately to Killalla of the Glow, from Dream's story in Endless Nights, "The Heart of a Star," written more than a decade after Season of Mists. He'd had this planned?

One wonders whether it is Morpheus or Neil who better wears the title Lord of Stories.

A bit of internet searching turned up more questions, namely what is the DC in-joke that Gaiman snuck in there? From his journal:

I finished Miguelanxo Prado's story for Endless Nights yesterday -- a very strange story, in which we get to see one of Dream's first relationships, and learn weird things about the DC universe at the dawn of time (so there will be some people who will find it really cool that Killalla of the Glow is from Oa, and some people will simply go "What a short name for a world").

Well, the internet really does know everything. I was finally able to coax from it a few facts: Oa is the planet that the Green Lantern rings come from. (Killalla is green, and she glows.) Rao, who also makes an appearance in "The Heart of a Star," is the god/sun of Krypton.

So, and this is news to no one, I'm sure: Neil is a comic book geek.

by Sharon 2:18 PM

 

"Be careful what you say to Jojo, the dog-faced monkey-boy."

by Fred 6:00 AM

Monday, December 29, 2003

 

When the bugs moved in,
Eating out my skin,
Crawling into empty spaces
And creating them,
I didn't complain.
It didn't occur to me
To complain.
Now they pull the strings.
Cavort and dance,
Funny puppet.
Tell them I'm normal.
Tell them I'm pretty.
Tell them I'm sane.
Slide up my flagpole,
Run down the rabbit hole,
And remember to smile, smile,
Smile.
Wave to the bugs,
As you sail by,
Funny puppet.
Don't let them see the blood
On your gums.
With twisted up hair,
Tied up in knots,
And a vaseline grin
That belongs inside my pocket,
Waxed and shined and buffed
'Til I'm gleaming with the effort,
Tell them I'm normal.
Tell them I'm pretty.
Tell them I'm sane.
And don't let the bugs
Call you collect.
They wear pretty gloves
On their clever black hands.
White kid gloves,
Stained with raspberry sauce
From the party,
Hung out to dry,
Purple in the sun,
Washed in cold
And regret.
The bugs that wear my skin
Will invent a new game tomorrow.
It will have tricks and trumps,
And you can play it with checkers
Or an old deck of cards
Or discarded eyelashes
That fall from my face like lost wishes.
The only thing you can't do
Is win.
Tell me I'm normal.
Tell me I'm pretty.
Tell me I hurt.
But don't tell the bugs
Where to find me.

by Sharon 12:44 PM

 

It's the sound of being hit in the stomach; it's the name of an egg in French; it's

Oof!

(or, oeuf in French)

by MisterNihil 10:11 AM

Monday, December 22, 2003

 

I will not put a book through anyone.
It's busy today. The floor's a mess, the people are stressed and mean and doing stupid things. My head hurts. People are asking for things we clearly don't have or can't do (Do you have the out-of-print edition of this? Do you have this book in any other colors? Can I have a discount, not on this open display copy of the two volume slipcased editon, but on the shrink-wrapped one that I'm special ordering?). When I got into work today, I was whistling. Maybe when I leave I will still whistle.
I will not put a book through anyone.
We can't send hard-cover books to prisons. We can't send large softcover books to prisons. The fellows there will kill each other with them. Even this tool for learning or amusement is a weapon. The ones I've been walking around with, trying to shelve despite the spate of questions dropped on me are good weapons. They clock in at better than two pounds. They have sharp corners. They have a handy cover to keep the blood off the pages. They'd look so good popping somebody in the base of the skull.
I will not put a book through anyone.
Maybe once I've written it one hundred times, I'll belive it.

by MisterNihil 2:26 PM

 

"Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right."

by Fred 6:00 AM

Friday, December 19, 2003

 

Sometimes I'm amazed at how much I've changed. Binding contracts between two departments within the same organization seem not only normal, but a good idea. SLAs, we call them. Service Level Agreements.

I spent yesterday writing an SLA where I represented the service provider (i.e., the support group), trying to protect us every which way and ensure that we weren't getting trapped into unending, all-hours support for an environment that just isn't that important. I specified the hours of support (M-F, 8-5, CST), and wrote more than once that the business partners were responsible for having a contingency plan always at the ready, in case the environment could not be made available.

We'll see if that flies.

Today, I'm writing an SLA where I'm the business partner, and I need to wring as much out of this service provider as I can. (The need for an SLA is evidence of the state of the relationship. I'd kick people if I thought it would help.)

It's a strange role reversal. I'll tell you who really has the power, though.

Nobody reads anymore. Nobody here really writes much, either. People go to great lengths to shirk the responsibility of writing. So the one who makes sure that the SLAs say just the right things is the girl whom everybody expects will write them.

Heh heh heh.

by Sharon 1:55 PM

 

one ring to rule them all

by Sharon 6:19 AM

Thursday, December 18, 2003

 

My mother, whom I have no reason to doubt, once told me that the world was going to end. She did not believe in god, she told me. She did not expect the second coming, or even great catastrophe, but she knew the precise moment when everything that was would cease to be. She had mathematical formulae to prove it, she added, although she did not fully understand them herself, and it had only been the guidance of the aliens from Tau Ceti who had revealed to her their true implications. Before their arrival, my mother said, she had mistaken the formulae for just another set of missed answers on a little girl's fifth grade math test. That she had, at the age of eleven, accidentally guessed the date on which the universe would come to its end had not, she said, ever occurred to her. She had, in fact, failed that test. It was only the aliens, who she said appeared to her later that day on the playground after everyone else had gone for the day, who had explained the truth. The world was going to end. In the grand scheme of things, there was very little time. The aliens, my mother said, offered to take from her this knowledge and allow her to forget. The end of existence, they told her, was inevitable; it would profit her little to know of its precise arrival. Of course, she declined. It would be important, she said, to remember. Knowing that the end was nigh made the now all the more precious. The aliens, she said, had deliberated over this for many minutes, and had seemed poised to erase her memories anyway without her consent. But, in the end, they had agreed that perhaps the knowledge was important, and so they would leave it with her.

And that was that. My mother remembered, and she told me the day when the world would end, as I will tell my daughter. There is very little time left. The last moment is approaching. On certain nights, I look up into the sky at what my mother's books tell me is Tau Ceti, that yellow-orange dwarf only some twelve light-years away, and wonder how the aliens that met my mother on the playground are preparing for the end. I can only hope we do as well.

by Fred 10:07 PM

 

"I might just skip it this year."

I looked up from my knitting. This was typical--my husband and I go through this every year--but it still warranted a response. I looked over the top of my half-moon spectacles at him.

"You can't skip it, Chris," I said gently.

"Sure I can. Who would notice?" He shifted his weight grumpily. "eBay and Amazon could certainly pick up the slack."

"Well, that would be good for the economy, yes." Sometimes it is a wife's job to goad. It had the desired effect.

"Economy?" he huffed. "Humbug."

I focused on my knitting to suppress a smirk. I could feel his narrowed eyes on me. Finally, he decided.

"Fine, fine. I'll go." Chris heaved out of his easy chair. "Tell the damn reindeer to get back to the barn, if they haven't drunk all the eggnog yet." He stumped out of the living room.

You've got your Christmas traditions, and I've got mine. Try to remember the cookies, though; it makes him feel appreciated.

by Sharon 2:19 PM

 

Better at the Last Minute than Never

by MisterNihil 11:28 AM

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

 

"But underneath
There's another expression
That the makeup isn't making
Life under the big top
It's about freedom
It's about faking
There's an art to the laughter
There's a science
And there's a lot of love
And compliance" - Ani Difranco, "Freakshow"

At the bottom of the page, it read, "Orders may be adjusted for compliance with vendor restrictions." Ted had seen this, but skimmed over it, along with the "Prices and availability subject to change without notice" and all the other fine print. Nobody really read those lines. Well, lawyers maybe, and people standing in line or holding on the phone when something went wrong. Then contracts were important. Then you read the fine print. But he'd just ordered a book online. Nothing special, no cause for alarm, no binding, problem-causing contract that would have given him any reason to review the paperwork. It was only out of habit that he'd printed a copy at all.

Except, the book that came wasn't the one he'd ordered. "Vendor reserves the right to adjust orders in any way it sees fit," the encolsed invoice read. Your order, 'Jack Russell Terriers Complete Owner's Manual' does not meet vendor restrictions and has therefore been replaced with an item of equal value. The vendor apologizes for any inconvenience."

And, sure enough, the dog book Molly had wanted wasn't encolsed. There was just the invoice, the packing material, and something called the Necronomicon, in which there was almost nothing about puppies at all. Molly wasn't going to be happy about this, and it was doubtful that any of the incantations in the book were going to stop Max from piddling on the carpet. Ted wondered what he should do. He supposed a lengthy conversation with customer service was in order, although he wasn't much looking forward to that.

Not now that he'd seen the "Vendor may sacrifice first-born to eldritch gods" clause.

by Fred 10:49 PM

 

It would probably be a code-of-conduct violation if I talked in any detail about what I have to do to comply with our Change Management process, for changing a bit of code. I'll say this, though: There is much tape hereabouts, and most of it is red.

My department's stance on Change Management reminds me of digital watches. "Digital watches?" you ask. Yes, digital watches.

See, digital watches exemplify the foibles of precision without accuracy. Your watch (or, if you're me, your father) can tell you that it is 3:23:04, :05, :06... which is certainly precise. And wholly inaccurate. It is much more accurate to say that it is "a little before 3:30," but much less precise. Rather, because it is much less precise.

I mistrust people who wear digital watches. These are people who demand exacting details and are comforted by being lied to. It isn't any such thing as 3:26:34. At the moment that I type this, your computer clock says something utterly else. Even if we all went out to time.gov (where we set our watches last January 1st because, after all, it was a Geek Party) and clicked "OK" at the same instant, 3:28:16 would still be a lie. It isn't the same actual all the way across a time zone. We just all agree it is.

For that matter, the whole notion of minutes and seconds exists only because of mutual consent.

Analog watches are much more honest.

And no matter how many approvers sign off on my change ticket, it doesn't amount to a hill of beans if none of them have looked at my code. Ho hum.

by Sharon 3:32 PM

 

compliance

by Fred 1:20 PM

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

 

Say what you will about them, the Zealians were an energetic people.

At first, nobody was really sure where they came from, but once they were there, you couldn't get rid of them. You could be tunneling your way through the dark recesses of some forgotten asteroid in some far-flung corner of the galaxy, some place that wasn't on any star charts, and you'd turn some corner and there one was, wanting desperately to chat with you about the stock market, or Denebrian interest rates, or how it was just marvelous that time of year on Rygel-5 and for just a small investment you could be well on your way to a beautiful low-rent condominium atop one of its eight luxurious mountains. They never let up. They'd talk and they'd talk and they'd talk. Their enthusiasm for time-shares and pyramid schemes was astounding. It baffled scientists back on Earth for years. When they discovered that the Zealians didn't sleep, and that in place of a brain they had some weird mechanism that did nothing but spit out buzz words and loud, upbeat music, nobody was really surprised. The question became, what to do with them? They were everywhere. Their enthusiasm wasn't infectious, but they seemed to be, popping up where you'd least expect them, always there, always talking, always loud. When they finally discovered their home world, after who knows how many years of searching, it was only natural that they decided to carpet-bomb it back into the stone age. And then bomb it some more. You have to understand, the Zealians were just really annoying. Nobody goes to Rygel-5 in the summer. It's a scam. And nobody wants to hear about the same scam over and over by really eager people. Maybe they didn't know better. Maybe those machine-brains didn't let them be anything else. They were always friendly.

But thank god they're finally gone.

by Fred 5:18 PM

 

I was running reports directly against the database. It's easier that way. Gooeys are for sissies. And I was doing my best to tune out the incessant din of arguing men that serves as the constant backdrop in a cubicle farm full of software developers.

I had just left the where clause off my delete statement (14357 rows deleted.), when the character of the susurrations changed. It was more agitated, more indignant. I figured they'd started a conference call with Change Management.

But no, these were shouts of alarm. People were running (Programmers? Running??) into the main corridor. I needed to focus on the SQL statements I was composing. (rollback and press--)

A fleeing Frenchman arrested his flight and ducked into my cube.

"Alain, why is everyone arguing?" I asked him.

"Zeal! Zeal!" he cried.

"So it's zeal instead of anger. But what's going on?"

"Zeal!" he shrieked and dashed back into the flow of panicked programmers.

I couldn't remember what I was doing. I shook my head and turned back to the SQL window. Something made the monitor shake and the floor quiver. Something... big. I reread my last statement: delete from--

That was a seal.

A seal. A large aquatic mammal. Galumphing down the aisle. A seal. Big.

I closed the database window (Auto-commit is turned off. Do you want to commit your changes? Um... Yes.) and joined the pandemonium.

by Sharon 3:32 PM

Monday, December 15, 2003

 

He woke up one day and the whole world was gone.
It just wasn't there anymore.
It wasn't under the bed or out on the lawn.
Not in the dresser. (He checked every drawer.)

He thought it quite strange his house was still there,
When everything else had gone poof.
But there were the walls, quite solid, not bare.
There were the windows, the the doorway, the roof.

But out through that door, past grass, was just void,
A gray and empty expanse.
The whole world, it seemed, was vanished, destroyed.
He stared as if caught in a trance.

Well, nothing to do but go read a book,
He thought with a hint of chagrin.
But then he glanced at the void and visibly shook.
"I hope what's not out there doesn't get in."

by Fred 5:08 PM

 

"The Love Has Gone."
Not the best title for a monster flick, but I've heard worse. I hear it's an oblique Violent Femmes reference, and that the director wanted, originally, to call it "Beautiful Girl, Love the Dress," but the studio decided it was too oblique and too long. I sat through this one for the review, but I knew when I walked in that it was just too off center for my tastes. The plot unfolds about like you'd expect: boring characters bad dialogue, gratuitous sex, a shadowed figure stalking the cute heroine. From there, it gets weird. They catch the monster right away, in the first twenty minutes of the movie. You think it's over and maybe you just lucked out 'cause it's really just a half-hour movie, when everything goes to shit. The cute victim, it turns out, is actually a woman who travels from town to town, accusing men of horrible crimes so as to have them jailed. Then, she bilks the families out of huge sums of money, changes her name, and moves on to another unsuspecting town. This time, though, the man jailed really is a horrible killer, but he's also an alien monstrosity (watch for the Bad Tentacle Scene about 42 minutes in. You can see the fishing lines) and also spreads a viral disease that makes zombies out of Swedes. Why only Swedes? Because they filmed the movie in Minnesota and your choice of extras is limited to Swedes and Norwegans, and one group has to be the good guys. It's funny, really, seeing a group of thirty extras tromp through the snow in bad zombie makeup, only to be stopped by another group of extras tromping the other way. It's kind of "when an extra meets an extra a' passin through the rye." Following the Extra Battle Royale is a continuous shot, fully fifteen minutes worth, of two men shaking hands in front of a window with snow falling outside. By the end, fully twelve inches of snow have fallen, and you can see the level rise. There is no dialog in this scene. I hate to seem the philistine, but I just don't get it. Then, the movie jumps to an unknown hero who has not appeared previously in the film stabbing a ten foot pole through the monster and the woman from the beginning of the film (remember her? It's like she came from another story and just stumbled into the end of this weird, stupid monster movie thing.)
I give it three stars out of five. I don't know why, but I left the theater with a warm fuzzy feeling. The movie was terrible, but I felt good about it. I think some people will like it, I think I'm not one of those some people.

by MisterNihil 2:24 PM

 

if only you had seen it.
promises woven
in weft of wheat,
crystals kissed
on each sweet leaf,
where the sun rose
from a golden sea
and turned it to blood
and hope.
Every morning
it was mine alone.
until they mowed it,
turned the earth under
to let it dry hard and yellow
and dead,
ripped the trees by the roots
and left them
straining desperate thirsty fingers
into the callous air,
hid it behind a wall
of tall white stone.
i could write to you,
tell you about it,
but the field is gone,
and it is the feeling
(special, once.
trusted.)
I miss.

by Sharon 12:01 PM

 

gone, daddy, gone.

by Sharon 11:59 AM

Saturday, December 13, 2003

 

Who? Me?

by MisterNihil 3:40 PM

Friday, December 12, 2003

 

Get moving indeed. Question is, where?

I turned down a job interview today. I stumbled upon the company only last week and saw that they were hiring. I dusted off my resume (which has gotten more dusting than my apartment recently), and sent it along with the writing sample they requested. A couple of e-mails, another writing sample, and some traded phone messages later, and I was all set for a phone chat and editing assessment -- which is a far better response than I've gotten from most of the applications I've sent out. Except, I went and asked when they wanted the position filled. And then I went and told them I didn't think I could move across the country in that time frame, that I was really sort of hoping to stay where I was for at least four months longer than that. Which effectively killed my chances of getting this particular job. My contact there said she understands, and they'll keep my resume on file.

To be honest, I feel sort of guilty talking about this here, since I grumble and moan about it enough on my own weblog. But, given the topic, there's not much else that comes to mind. I need to move. I accept that as a given, and I'm taking steps to ensure that it happens. I've focused on Austin because it's a little less of an unknown than everywhere else. I was there for the second time this fall, and it's a nice enough city. It's interesting, and there are opportunities there. But it's also frightening, far away, and more than a little hot. (Really, what is it, like 70 degrees right now? In mid-December?) Moving there will take a lot of courage, blind faith, and the inability to tell the two apart. It will also take something more than a vague promise of writing or editing work. I feel like I've passed the point where I'd move for just any job -- not to be confused with any writing or editing job, however -- and if all Austin has to offer me is its heat, bad drivers, and weirdness, I'm not sure moving there is the right decision. I'm not going to work at an Austin McDonald's just so I can live in Austin. The city itself just isn't enough of a draw. The jobs in my field are more plentiful in New York, and, last I checked, rent was free at my parents' place.

But I'll figure it out. I hope. Or I'll kill myself trying. But I will keep moving.

by Fred 3:32 PM

 

(to the tune of "Corkscrew Bicycle")

Happiness will kick you in the ass and steal your wallet
Leave you lying in the grass wearing a grin.
A spade is just a spade when you must call it
You can have your satisfaction ordered in:

The star in the window
calls the dance in line,
Give in to the urge and
Call me some time.

Have your cake, and eat the balance of the moon
the stars in your eyes will tell the tale
There's a time and a place commence to swoon
visiting the queen of France who's out on bale:

The star in the window
calls the dance in line,
Give in to the urge and
Call me some time.

by MisterNihil 2:29 PM

 

Faith: put a new, better topic up if you feel like it when you post later.
The rest of you yahoos:

Get Moving!

by MisterNihil 2:20 PM

Thursday, December 11, 2003

 

I'm fishing today.
Jesus has made me a fisher of men.
Actually, it wasn't "Jesus" Jesus, it was Jesus Gonzalez, my manager, but who's counting, right? He calls me Eagle-Eye to my face, but he still calls me Billy behind my back. It's my name, so I shouldn't be sore about it. I try not to hold it against him.
I'm a fisher of men. And women. They tell me that the people to watch are the middle-aged women with purses. The bait is out, the stage is set, the fish are jumping, the cotton is high. My dad, though, isn't rich, or I wouldn't be working retail; I'm not the guy to judge my Mom's hotness.
One of these days, I'm gonna rise up singing.
As soon as he walks through the door. A man, forties, has slipped a small gift book under his arm and closed his coat around it. I follow at a discreet distance.
He walks toward the door, nonchallant, fast but not looking hurried. He's walking casually, but trying not to look like he's walking casually. He passes the security post and the alarm sounds.
"Sir? Could you please step back in here?"
Yeah! I live for this. I signal a manager, who takes over the distasteful bit involving the police and charges. I drift back into the store. There's a gaggle of people "admiring" our mini-book selection. I saunter by, noticing the skinny teenaged girl slip a journal into her purse. It never ends.

by MisterNihil 3:14 PM

 

Where is Sherbie this week? She is learning

see sharp

by Sharon 8:37 AM

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

 

I have a dream that comes back to me in the blackest part of the night. In it, I'm walking alone along the boardwalk, when I realize that I'm not in San Francisco: I'm back in Dheli. Old Colonel Baker is walking toward me from what seems to be miles away, and I can see him along the main street. There are two small children between us, huddled and crying. I see what is about to happen again, and I call out first to them and then to the Colonel. He looks directly at me, and I see that he didn't know there were children there until I called out. I know it's too late now, and that I'm going to have to see it again.
In the dream, Baker seems to grow taller, thinner, and his already intimidating canines grow longer, running lasciviously down the sides of his cruel mouth. He holds his hands out like a vampire in a bad German movie, and rushes toward the children. They are still crying, oblivious to him. I call out, but they do not hear.
Just like reality, I do not remember picking up the rock in my left hand, but I feel its weight. I hoist it to my ear and throw it like shot. It strikes the smaller child, the boy, on the leg. He howls and looks up, still not seeing the fiend bearing down on him.
Baker looks up at me as he rushes the urchins, and winks on horrible, red-rimmed eye. A tear of blood runs down the side of his nose. The moment freezes, and I cannot move.
This is, generally, when I awaken.
Last night was different, though. The moment froze there, with Baker poised over these two tots, a hideous characature of evil attacking a pathetic characature of innocence. Then, all of us unmoving, the real Baker stepped into the tableau. Time unfroze, and he and the tall, evil thing stood side-by-side. They couldn't have been more different.
"I'm not like that, you git," he said. The slur sounded foreign to his refined accent that I could never place. Sometimes I'd be sure he was from the north of London, and others from the south of Scotland.
I couldnt' speak. I moved my mouth, but the only sound that came out was a roaring moan that seemed to shake the whole world.
"I'm giving you latrines for a month," he snapped. Then, he took firm hold of the vampire's arm and marched it away toward the barracks. The children and I stood dumbfounded. They turned to look at me, looked a little bored, made eye contact with each other and sodded off down an alley.
I stood there in what looked less and less like a street in Dheli and more like any street anywhere. Now that I examined it, there were no details I could place. There were no stores or people; no landmarks or buildings peeking over the top of the alley; no horrible begging lepers, spitting diseased teeth at tourists; no signs of the war that had called us to Dheli. I must have assumed that, because the Demon Baker was there, this was the city of my several years' service.
I walked the streets of this generic dream city for several hours and awoke feeling refreshed and invigorated. I could not find my barracks, nor did I run into Baker again, demon or man. In fact, I saw no people in my nocturnal ramble, and I am quite satisfied with this.

by MisterNihil 12:40 PM

 

Try this on for size:

Lying Bastard

Enjoy.

by MisterNihil 7:53 AM

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

 

This isn't my story, but I'm dramatizing it. It actually belongs to Toshi's friend, who is far cooler than I, and who has better stories.


We were driving to California, the two of us, and we didn't want to stop on the way. For you who've driven from Texas to California, you know full well that means driving at night, through some areas where weird things can't help but happen. It's like there's so much nothing that the accumulated vacuum calls strange things into being.
We made it as far as the Grand Canyon, and took the road that would take us nearby. I suppose that the hope was to see the Canyon at sunset, which was beautiful. We took pictures of the big hole surrounded by flat nothing and marveled at the beauty that the absence of anything can have. Once the sun was set and we were through being tourists, we started on our way, in the dark.
In that area, the road makes many turns, blind in the darkness. As we turned through one of those, there stood a black man, more than six feet tall. This is nothing unusual. He wore a sequined mini-skirt and blouse, and stood, the skirt hiked up past his waste, slapping his bare ass. I looked at my fellow passenger, and he looked at me.
We just kept driving.

by MisterNihil 4:36 PM

 

Given Faith's new purchase (and that it's past noon):

just keep driving

by Fred 12:30 PM

 

(I am secretly posting mid-morning on Tuesday but backdating. Just so's you know...)
ahem
Mister's Mountain of Paperwork Weekend
or, What I Did On My MidWinter Vacation Between Work Weeks
By Mister Nihil, esq
Backdated, December 8, 2003
The week started with paperwork. It ended with paperwork. It's the week after Thanksgiving, and every bozo in the world feels the need to come into the store and, "Oh, Just Browse..." Particularly as Hillary Rodham Clinton just signed in the morning here on Friday. I needed to get away.
I'd been promising a friend of mine and his girlfriend (both of whom I can call by their first and second initials, MK) that I'd visit, and it was out of town. It sounded good, but first I had to deal with A Huge Work Project and Christmas Screwing The Bookstore Up, and then my Scheduled Saturday Amusements.
No big deal. I'll spare you most of the details, other than work=paperwork. Then, I had a guitar lesson, which was very nice, but added a little paper to the pile, and then therapy, which added the kind of mental paperwork that you just have to file away and worry about later. These made the promise of some light drinking with good friends not just a comfort, but inevitable. Flash forward to Sunday at noon. I'm feeling good, relaxed and happy, taking a kind of aimless drive, like ya' do, heading home and then to climbing from out-of-town, when my little car is hit by a big truck.
I'm avoiding referring mentally to the driver as "some asshole." His hitting me doesn't make him an asshole. It's just more mental paperwork, followed by verbal paperwork on the phone to the insurance.
And Monday was jury duty day. It's odd: they never needed to see any form of identification from any juror. I mean, you'd think, but no. There was no paperwork involved. They threatened to have to see our summonses (summoni? how do you pluralize summons? Is that plural? grumble.), but never did. The least paperwork of the last week, at least for me, was my direct involvement with government bureaucracy.
When I got back to work today, I couldn't see the surface of my desk. The most paperwork: an "independent," company that professes to be free of "corporate influence." Corporate is my job title. I oughta know better.

by MisterNihil 1:05 AM

Monday, December 08, 2003

 

Instructions: write a story in which the phrase "an avalanche of paperwork" is taken to its most logical and literal extreme. Mountains accumulate. Intrepid climbers prepare their ascent. "Because it's there," someone says, despite the weather-worn face, the hands still scarred with fresh paper cuts. At base camp, a memo is discovered, an invitation to the company picnic. "Wasn't that like eight months ago?" asks another. He peers up into the unfathomable distance between their camp and the summit of the in-box. "Too late to RSVP now, I guess." In the morning, they begin to climb. The going is difficult, the terrain ill-suited to their equipment: carabiners fashioned from paper clips, staple removers serving as crude pitons. If they were wise, they would turn back now. The air becomes thinner, the paper just the opposite. They reach a territory of bundles, held together with rubber bands, twine, wishful thinking. The crags become difficult to negotiate. They stumble over words like merger, interface, workshop, bake sale, disciplinary action. An outcropping that turns out to be a discarded invoice nearly kills one of them. He worries that the last thing he will see is the itemized tally of sales taxes long since spent and forgotten. They each think of their children, their families, their lovers, all those whom they may never see again. But it is too late to turn back. They will reach the top now or they will die. And then there it is: the peak, majestic in the afternoon sun. They straddle it, triumphant, and a victory cheer escapes their leader's lips.

And then, of course, some idiot opens the office window and a breeze sends all the papers tumbling down.

by Fred 4:12 PM

Friday, December 05, 2003

 

Ruth will learn magic.
When I was seven, more or less, Dad came home from a magic shop with the best toys ever. Part of the joy was that we didn't know he'd just come from the magic shop. Part of the joy was that magic is the coolest, best, most wonderful thing ever, hands down, at least when you're seven and don't know about all-night ice cream parlors, 24 hour coffee shops or the beauty of sex between two consenting adults with a couple of hours to kill.
But I digress.
Dad had two tricks: a lightbulb that would light if you hid a penny in your hand with it, and a coloring book that would change, depending on how you flipped through the pages. He held the lightbulb out to us, to prove it was a normal lightbulb. When you're seven, you don't ask why your dad is carrying lightbulbs, or at least we didn't. He screwed it carefully into his hand, and it lit up. We were dumbfounded. He then handed the lightbulb back to Angelbob, and we pored over it, looking for the gimmic. Angelbob is my brother. Now you know.
"I also bought a coloring book for you, Angelbob," he said. We were puzzled. He showed it to us: the Life of Christ. He flipped through to show us the pictures, all blank line drawings. "But I know Angelbob doesn't like to color, so I figured he'd like one that was already colored in," and he flipped through the book, the drawings now filled in with bright colors that were not, I am absolutely sure, there before. "But of course, Angelbob doesn't like to read, and would prefer to draw." And the book was blank.
We were shocked. We were mystified.
And now Ruth will learn magic. I got her a book of tricks geared to her, and we're planning a trip out west where I know of a little magic shop. She'll be the most popular kid in her class. Admittedly, her class is two kids, combined with another class of two kids, and she's arguably the most popular kid in the class already, but that's not the point.
The point is, she's going to learn magic, and eight's a good age for that.

by MisterNihil 12:43 PM

Thursday, December 04, 2003

 

"Memory, prophecy and fantasy -- the past, the future and the dreaming moment between -- are all in one country, living one immortal day. To know that is Wisdom. To use it is the Art." - Clive Barker

"You're looking at now, sir. Everything that happens now is happening now." - Spaceballs

There's a lot they don't tell you about time travel when you sign your name on the dotted line. They don't tell you about the future, how that's not really what it is, how it's just one of a million million different possibilities, like branches on a tree. They don't tell you that time's a big goddamn tree. See the future, that's all they say. Marvel at its wonder. But just by using their machine and going into the future, you're affecting it. You're changing things. Which makes it surprisingly difficult to apply anything you might learn. You can't go ahead and see yourself, for instance, because you're visiting a future in which you don't exist, in which you disappeared who knows how many years ago by using a time machine to go into the future. They don't tell you about that, how confusing it can get. And they don't tell you how everything you see isn't necessarily guaranteed to happen, how an infinite number of permutations divide then from now. And they definitely don't tell you what to do when then follows you back home. Those alien invaders, for instance? They only came into being in the future because they followed me back from that future into the past. If I hadn't gone ahead eighty years, they'd have never been here to invade. The agency doesn't tell you about that sort of thing, about paradox, about how going into the future can create the future. Or stop that future from being created. When I went ahead seventy years -- you know, before the aliens came out of hiding and invaded -- I discovered that the time machine had been sitting in a wharehouse for decades, that they'd tried to sell it real cheap seventy years ago, thinking it didn't work. A fella could make a fortune with that kind of machine. Except, by going back, I proved to them that it did work. And they decided not to sell. Instead, they decided to market the thing, offering rides into the future to anyone who could afford them, and keep the fortune for themselves. But hey, it's not all bad, I guess. At least they lost it eighty years from now when the aliens take over. At least, I think they take over.

by Fred 4:04 PM

 

There's always tomorrow.

by Fred 1:39 PM

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

 

It takes great courage to write without knowing where you're going. To just sit down and put one word in front of the other, which is all writing really is, when you think about it, but if you think about it too much, you're thinking, not writing, and that's where the trouble starts. The thing you need to do is keep typing, keep writing, keep putting one word in front of the other. Don't worry if they're not any good. They're not. Accept that as a given. Forget about it. They can't all be gold. Some are going to be absolutely dreadful. But that's why the good lord invented editing. Writing is about putting words on the page, and sometimes the only way to do that is to just put words on the page, one after the other, without caring which words or what order or how they connect to one another. Take this, for instance. I have no idea, really, what I'm writing about. I'm just typing. Putting words on the page. One after the other. Because that's what writing is. I think I covered that. I was going to write something really interesting, something about courage, but that requires thought, more thought than writing, really. I was going to quote Mark Twain. Mark Twain knew about courage. He called it the mastery of fear, not the absence of fear. Courage isn't about doing what you know you can do. Courage is about risking yourself, trying something you think you can't do. If you think you can't write, courage is sitting down and writing. It's persevering even when what you're writing isn't any good, or when it's unclear if it's any good. I was also going to mention the Cowardly Lion, from the Wizard of Oz. He calls himself a coward, but he's not, because he acts in spite of fear. He's really the bravest of them all. You find that a lot in the story: the Scarecrow has no brain, but he's the smartest; the Woodsman has no heart, but he cares the most; Dorothy always has the power to go home; and the Lion is actually quite courageous despite his fear. I was going to put this into a terrific essay, something much more than just one word after the other, typed out in a mad rush before I leave work for the day, but that's not what writing's all about. That great essays are produced is wonderful, and a writer should of course always strive to be better. And I'm not trying to imply that one should try to publish complete crap. But sometims it's necessary to write complete crap, to not care if it's crap, to just write. Sometimes, that's all that matters. Fear of failure won't go away if you don't try. Nobody cares if you have great unwritten novels inside your head. Sometimes, you just need to start writing. That's the theory behind Nanowrimo. And I tried to follow through on that, but stalled after about a thousand words. They were better words than these, chosen much more carefully, and maybe that was my problem. I overthink my writing. I agonize over sentences, paragraphs, words. What I need to do is what I'm doing here, just write. None of what I've written here is particularly brilliant or interesting, but it's a start. Every story, every essay, every writer needs someplace to start. Everyone needs the courage to start with crap and dig for the gold.

by Fred 4:04 PM

 

Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, my fellow Americans:
I won't waste a lot of your time on flowery language. I'll just start with something I received in a letter from a 12 year old girl from Vermont named Molly. Molly says: Americans are dying. Why, Mr. President?
Well, to you and to the rest of America I say this: They are dying overseas, they are dying at home; they are dying in the heat of battle, they are dying ambushed and scared in the streets; they are all dying to protect your way of life. Every American who dies, anywhere in the world is dying to protect the way you live, so that you, who are not dead, do not have to change.
It takes great courage to die for your fellows, and I think we all understand this. To give ones life for ones country is the highest honor one may receive. The conviction to fight for what others believe in is the noblest conviction.
It is that conviction that allows us to continue to be Americans. We don't have to speak other languages, and that right is guaranteed with blood. We don't have to understand any history, ours or others', and that right is guaranteed with blood. We don't have to plan for the future, look toward a distant horizon or do anything short of watching television, and those rights are guaranteed with blood. We can cut down any tree, rape any landscape, burn any bridge, and the right to do so is guaranteed in the blood spilt by those who have cut, raped and burned before.
My father told me a wise thing: They give you the amount of money you will spend. How do they know how much, you ask? Blood determines it. How do they stop the money you wouldn't spend? Blood sucks it away. How do they obtain the money you will spend? We spend the blood of Americans to obtain the GNP of Americans.
It's as simple as that.
You ask my why Americans die, Molly? It's so you can slog your way through twelve, sixteen or twenty years of school and come out knowing nothing and thinking you know everything. It's so you can live your tiny, soft, ignorant life and never be bothered by the harshness of what we call the "real world."
What is that real world. I'll give you this insight into it: It's where the blood is spilt and spent on your behalf. It's where your freedom to be who you want to be is guaranteed.
It is a harsh reality, and you can avoid it. Just remember: they die so you never have to.
Thank you, and good night.

by MisterNihil 3:15 PM

 

It takes great courage.

by Sharon 9:06 AM

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

 

Whee!
Just another ten minutes left in the day!
I'm bored and I'm tired, but they can't make me stay!
Whee!
Just ten minutes more says the clock on my screen
'til I can run out the door like a work-quittin' machine!
Whee!
Now there's eight minutes left; time's goin' fast,
But I can't think of a rhyme -- another minute's now passed!
Whee!
Now six minutes left. Soon it'll be five.
And I'll have to stay late just to make this thing rhyme.
Whee!
See, already I've flubbed it with just four minutes left
The rhymes should be simple and witty and deft.
Whee!
But with two minutes left, that's hard to accomplish
Without resorting to nonsense like a blackberry swamp fish!
Whee!
I don't even know what that's meant to mean
But there's just one minute left on the clock on my screen!
Whee!
And now it appears that it's time to go
(Well actually it's passed; hey, I typed slow.)

by Fred 4:05 PM

 

Hush, little Panda, don't you fret.
Sherbie's gonna buy you an Ice House set.

And if that Ice House set stabs your foot,
Sherbie's gonna buy you a Get Fuzzy book.

If that Get Fuzzy book don't deliver,
Sherbie's gonna buy you an Iron Chef dinner.

If that Iron Chef dinner makes you puke,
Sherbie's gonna buy you a baritone uke.

If that bari uke should go flat,
Sherbie's gonna buy you a new crash mat.

If that crash mat turns you to sticks,
Sherbie's gonna buy you some Hero Clix.

If those Hero Clix have no rares,
You can still slaughter the neighbors upstairs.

If those upstairs neighbors move away,
We'll just play Inevitable all day.

by Sharon 3:45 PM

 

Whee!

by MisterNihil 3:03 AM

Monday, December 01, 2003

 

Paul poaches eggs.
His dog, Stanley, begs
Paul offers the dregs
So Stan bites his legs

Frank fries a fish
That won't fit in the dish
So he splits it with Trish
Which earns him a kiss

Sam sautees some shrimp
With Mongo the chimp
That arboreal imp
Who escapes in a blimp

Bea boils lobster
For an unscrupulous mobster
Who only just robs her
Of the bibs and the pots there

Keith cooks kangaroo
(It's either that or stewed gnu)
With nothing else left to do
You'd cook kangaroo, too.

by Fred 4:12 PM

 

Great. I have a topic and nothing to say. And it's nobody's fault but mine.
It's like, and I'm stretching, the feeling of seeing something that you don't really want, like an old couch on the side of the road, and you drive past it three or four times on the way to and from work, looking at it and thinking "I don't need a new couch, and that one's got some strange stains on it anyway," and then somebody puts a sign on the couch that says "FREE!" and you take it home and, and here's the rub, you have to fight off three other people who you know also drove past it for two days to and from work and didn't want it.
And here I am, coming up with a slow ten minutes worth of words. Maybe I can at least think of some good words. I like "Didactic," but the irony there is a little much right now, as my stomach isn't quite stable enough today for irony. I could just have written for ten minutes on the topic for yesterday, but the only thing I had to say, really, was "AN E SHAPED PIE!" which doesn't strike otherse as quite funny, or, more accurately, it doesn't hit them as haven't read Martin plays as quite funny.
So, yeah, I'm poaching the day. Maybe Jon will post anyway and I can do a sorta more real one on his topic.
But it's only been seven minutes.
And seven minutes is, lemme think, um, four hundred twenty seconds. Oooh, now it's 8 minutes, so four hundred eighty seconds. That leaves just a scant hundred twenty seconds.
I wonder if I know any words that sound like "Poaching." Sure I do. I mean, there's the old standbys, coaching and stoaching. Also approaching and encroaching. And Poachling.
And I wonder why I didn't finish my novel. Sheesh. I mean, here I had a perfectly good topic and I wasted it. Oh well. Next time, then.

by MisterNihil 12:10 PM

 

Since Jon hasn't posted a topic yet, I'm

poaching

the day from him.

by MisterNihil 12:00 PM

Friday, November 28, 2003

 

Three fingers
Point, to show
One to lead us
Forward, hard
Won, but worth it.
Fie! Very soon,
Nein, very late.
Too late.
Sick, so sick. So late.
Five soldiers,
There.
Five soldiers, l
ate, showing the
Nigh nails, bones,
Severed tendons.

by Sharon 12:24 PM

 

pie

by Fred 6:30 AM

Thursday, November 27, 2003

 

What would celebrating Thanksgiving look like? I nod and acknowledge its passing, and I take my day off from work with a good will, but I don't hold much for rote observance of commercially sanctioned events, and I don't spend a whole lot of thought on Pilgrims or American Indians or Plymouth Rock. Unless I focus on it, the historical significance is more about contruction-paper feather headdresses and paper hats with strange, wide buckles.

We get together, I try not to eat too much, I feel faintly sick, and I try to avoid stores playing Christmas carols.

Truthfully, at the moment, I'm feeling rather sick. Probably from eating too much, but also from the stress of holidays (more the upcoming one than the one just past), and from too much people. I need to run away for a while.

Regarding Christmas--I can't even articulate how much I wish Christmas would just stop occurring--my mother tells me to relax. Not "don't get presents for people;" not "we'll make sure no one gives you anything bigger or more awkward than a kiss on the cheek;" not "never mind making all the travel arrangements to visit family you want to see and in-laws you don't;" not "pitch the whole cheap, commercial, tinsel-strewn piece of shit in the trash and just visit when you can arrange a nice stretch of vacation days." Just "relax."

And Thanksgiving is the crest of the hill. It's that moment of breathless pause--when you sit in the front car--where the front of the coaster has tipped towards the descent but the rear has not cleared the top of the hill yet. The parabola's maximum. The last moment of innocence. The point of no return. After Thanksgiving, stores don't even have to be apologetic about playing Christmas carols and hawking their plastic trees. Thanksgiving is Day 1 of a month of teeth-gnashing, migrane-inducing stress.

No wonder I feel sick.

by Sharon 11:04 PM

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

 

The sisters were pretending to be invisible, so he was advised not to look directly at them.

"They'll know you can see them if you do," their butler told Henderson. "And that will ruin the illusion. They're very keen on their illusions."

"Oh," said Henderson. He'd heard that the sisters were a strange pair -- most everyone else at the firm had had some dealings with them apparently -- but he wasn't quite sure how to handle mock-invisibility. "I will need them to sign some papers," he said. "If I can't see them --"

"Best just to follow my lead, sir," the butler said. He stopped in front of two large wooden doors and swung them open. "This way," he added, and Henderson followed him into the room.

And there the sisters were, plain as day -- or, rather, quite a bit more noticable than day, as they were dressed in gold-sequined gowns and tiaras. They were absolutely impossible to miss. Henderson looked away.

"I was sure they were in here, sir," the butler said very loudly. "You don't see them, do you?"

He eyed Henderson and nodded.

"Oh!" the lawyer said. "No. I don't."

"I wonder," said the butler as he appeared to scan the room, "where could they be?"

"Yes," replied Henderson, trying to look anywhere but at the golden-clad women standing almost directly in front of him, "where could they be?"

The women tittered, but, as the butler chose to ignore this, so did Henderson. "Perhaps," he said after a moment, "they've gone for a walk."

"Um, yes," said Henderson. "They must have."

"Perhaps you should just leave those papers you needed them to sign over there," said the butler. He pointed to a table next to the women. "On that table."

"Oh," said Henderson. "Yes. I'll do that." And so he did.

"Something tells me it won't be long before they get to them," the butler said.

"No," said Henderson, "They're bound to turn up sooner or later, I'm sure."

by Fred 11:58 PM

 

There's a trick to it. There always is, of course.

It's like the rule about not picking up baby birds or bunnies. If you make direct contact, you taint them. You ruin them. And they know this, so they make themselves scarce.

But if you stand in the golden light that comes for twenty minutes in the late evening on only the best days, when trees and flowers are gilt and even buildings can look appealing, and you face west, so that the full fire of the sun dazzles your eyes and fills your vision with light, you can almost just catch them, if you turn your head at just the right moment.

It's like looking at faint objects through a telescope. The center of your retina is too worn, too used, but if you look just off to the side, allowing the desired object to fall slightly off center, onto the more sensitive receptors in your eye, you can catch a whisper of it, a hint of galaxy or globular cluster or planetary nebula. You know it's there, and you have to trust your intuition, because the moment you snap your focus back to center, it will disappear in the murk of your overused eyes.

You can almost glimpse them, as long as you override your innate reflex to lock onto fleeting motion. Otherwise, they will elude you, the way that a floaty in your vision skitters out of your grasp, moving with the motion of your eye. But if you can listen to your intuition, and trust the quiet part of the brainstem you never use, you can see them, only just.

They will retaliate, of course.

by Sharon 11:42 AM

 

Now, don't look directly at them. They take eye contact as a sign of aggression, and they'll rip your head off. You should know, they're also very inquisitive, and they'll try to make eye contact if they notice you are looking away. Also, they take obvious lack of eye contact as a sign of defenselessness, and they always attack the defenseless. Please keep your children on hand at all times.
No sir, please no flash photography. They react badly to sudden flashes of light.
I'm not sure what they eat, ma'am. I mean, the joke is that they can eat pretty much anything they want, but you know how jokes are, a-ha-ha-ha.
Please sir, don't poke them. They'll only- Oh sir, now you'd done it. I'm afraid that the waiver you signed at the door leaves us blameless if we can't sew that back on.
Now, did everybody notice the quick way that they strike? That's typical for their species, but in samples of their size it shows that they're in excellent condition, and also that they have been poked. Sir, if you don't stop bleeding you'll incite their blood frenzy, and I can't be responsible for what happens then- Oh, sir, there they go.
Does everybody see how they've started shaking uncontrolably and screeching. That- I said that screeching- I SAID, THAT SCREECHING IS THE SIGNAL THAT THEY'RE ABOUT TO SWARM. EVERYONE BACK PLEASE. OH NO, NOT YOU SIR. IF YOU'D JUST TAKE ANOTHER FEW STEPS TOWARD THE PEN. THANK YOU SIR. NO, IT DOESN'T MATTER NOW IF YOU MAKE EYE CONTACT. GO AHEAD AND LOOK.
(splort)
They'll be perfectly docile for a few moments now, which will just give us time to file out and lock the door.
Now that we've had our fill of mandrills, who wants to taunt a baboon in heat? Do you, little girl? They're so cute when they're that age. a-ha-ha-ha-ha.

by MisterNihil 8:49 AM

 

Don't look directly at them.

by Sharon 8:06 AM

Monday, November 24, 2003

 

"You never listen to a word I --"

"Say! Is that the remote? I've been looking for that thing all --"

"Over. There, I said it. It's over. You don't listen, we never --"

"Talk shows? Oh man, I hate talk shows. Do you mind if I --"

"-- change, but you never do. It's just no good, I can't take any--"

"More talk shows? Geez. I thought it was nine o'clock. Isn't that --"

"Time we just accepted it and moved on. This isn't --"

"-- working. Maybe it's the batteries. No, wait, there it goes. Man, there's nothing on but talk --"

"Shows what I know, trying to fix things. It's just not worth it. It's too much --"

"Work, damn it! Sorry, were you saying --"

"-- something I should have done a long --"

"-- time for these talk shows to end, don't you --"

"-- think we should break up."

"Exactly....What?"

by Fred 3:49 PM

 

I dangle a slice of cheese from my hand, and time slows. I hear each sound around me, and then again. I see myself extend my arm, and then extend it again. I feel myself brace with the change of gravity center, and then rebrace with the same shift. Time is a series of half-second delays as the slice of cheese which hangs from my two fingers moves away from my body and away from my body again.
The cheese, which I know should be swiss but has no trademark holes it it, was on a sandwich a half-second ago, and is again on the sandwich and is again off of the sandwich. I have often pondered a culture that can be so easily be duped into thinking that the difference between mozzarella and swiss is the presence or absence of holes. The cheese is hanging from my hand, and jiggling. The jiggling seems to go on forever, but time is merely slow and on a delay. I see the jiggling, the slow undulating, and then I see it again.
The cheese was on the sandwich because of an executive decision to put it there. I have made a much smaller-scale executive decision to remove it. I love cheese, and previously would not have removed it from a sandwich. Now, it hangs from my fingers away from my body and will not be put back on the sandwich. I am not allowed to eat cheese. A sad little voice inside my head whimpers because it knows it is beat. I am not allowed to eat cheese. It hurts me to remove it, and what I am about to do feels like a sin.
I drop the cheese into the garbage can.
It falls slowly, twisting under gravity's harsh grip, until it lands with a long thud on the plastic surface.
Time speeds back up, and the delay catches back up with the world. I eat my sandwich which, I tell myself, is still acceptable without cheese. Oh, cheese. I miss it so.

by MisterNihil 11:12 AM

 

Half Second Delay

by MisterNihil 10:12 AM

Friday, November 21, 2003

 

The question suggests that TV is not something of the modern age. I think it is the epitome of the modern age. How else do you determine the culture's zeitgeist, if not via cable?

The internet competes with television for our time, but only in so much as books, movies, and flying a kite do. On a substantive level, the internet does not replace television. That particular form of efficient lie propagation remains unique.

Nor is the internet a new kind of information. It is a new delivery method for messages, but those messages have no more or less truth (i.e., factualness, hence information-ness) than a stadium full of fans shouting into the wind. Enough voices create a kind of consensual truth, but there is often a large gulf between the consensus and reality. (cf., Lemmings don't jump off cliffs. Water does not run the wrong way down the drain in the southern hemisphere. Kathy Lee Gifford is not stylish.)

No, the internet is something else altogether. It is an outlet. It is a meeting place. It is a commercial. It is a diversion, a heartbreak, and a frustration. It is the biggest party line in the world. It is a vocation; it is a fad; it is a revolution.

It is connections.

by Sharon 4:09 PM

 

I don't watch a lot of TV any more. I mean, I have and always have had and will have for several more years until I die a love for movies, and so the television is necessary. It's not the same. On the Silver Screen, which is now usually white, it's great to watch even those movies I've seen plenty of times. On the "small screen," what's lost in scale is made up for in bathroom and snack availability (at Rock Bottom Prices!) (compared to the theater). On the "Teeny Weeny Screen," by which I mean my laptop, there's the whole bathroom availability thing, but I don't like to eat around it as cream cheese, and I mean this, is never really cleaned out of a keyboard.
Portability is nice. The idea that I can watch a movie by bringing only five-to-ten pounds of equipment with me and not exacly needing a house plug is nice.
On the Other hand, HomeStarRunner isn't on TV, and thank any form of goodness for that. It would lose something. Even the cinematic cartoons don't beg for a movie in quite the same way that South Park did. OK, they don't beg for a movie because they seem to like how much swearing they can do and could use much nastier language, should the whim overtake them. And it's only available on the computer.
On the same hand but a different finger, there's the fact that what the internet really provides to me is a way to read six or seven beautifull screwed up comics (like these, for example), and content to read forever. I'm kind of sad when I finish a book, and on the internet, I can read a bit of several books every day. For example, there's the one I'm writing on right now. Extolling the virtures of, even.
And, because a trite finish is like a bad wine, That's All I Have To Say About That.

by MisterNihil 11:46 AM

 

From Shawn:

The internet: evolution of information or TV for the modern age?

by Sharon 5:32 AM

Thursday, November 20, 2003

 

One can do many things with a drunken sailor. They can be used to prop open doors, scare away stray dogs with their noxious rum-covered scent, hold your place in line while you go to the bathroom, etc. They have a million and one different household uses. It's getting a drunken sailor that can prove to be the challenge. Where does one go if one does not live within easy travelling distance of the wharf? After all, not just any sailor will do. Your run-of-the-mill, yacht-club, regatta-racing, look-I've-got-a-captain's-hat-on type sailor might get plenty drunk (one can probably count on it), but he's more likely to be annoying and shrill than genuinely useful. Remember: rugged seafaring ability is just as important as lack of sobriety, and a stupid hat or a couple of beers on the weekend do not a sailor make. If one does not live near a body of water as sailor-happy as the sea, one may wish to seek alternatives. Drunken sailors are certainly useful, but, in a pinch, a drunken bowler will do just fine. One needn't be anywhere near water to find such a specimen, and if he isn't drunk one can rest assured he isn't properly committed to his sport. A drunken sailor who also bowls would be ideal, but they are rare and therefore difficult to come by. They spend most of their time between frames vomiting below decks. Which, of course, raises an important question: who puts a bowling alley aboard a ship? A question which, unfortunately, will have to wait for another time.

by Fred 7:34 PM

 

There are lots of reasons to hate tampons. But let's focus our energies on one attainable goal at a time, in the interest of effecting real change.

I'm currently reading The Curse (1999) by Karen Houppert, a book about "confronting the last taboo," and it is the source for today's rant. Er, call to action, that is.

In the very early 1980's, Proctor & Gamble made Rely brand tampons, the most absorbent ever. Their capacity to absorb, plus the synthetic materials used to achieve such, proved to be excellent breeding grounds for the Staph bacteria, causing severe cases of Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS). P&G didn't take action until the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) threatened to take their own action, which didn't happen until women died.

In the late 1990's, P&G bought Tambrands, makers of Tampax brand tampons. (The Justice Department did not take umbrage with this merger because they figured that selling the 50% market-holder in tampons to the 35% market-holder in pads would not violate anti-trust laws. Clearly those two products have different markets. Clearly.)

So here we are, 2003, and the purveyor of death has become the largest manufacturer of tampons. P&G is counting on consumers' notoriously short memory span. They also push the responsibility for preventing TSS onto the consumers, insisting that we use the least absorptive tampon that would still be effective, and change them more often. Conveniently, this means we need to buy more varieties of tampons--light days, moderate, embarrassing, and biblical deluge--and use more of them. Nice.

But who gets TSS anymore? Why worry?

Well, aside from the fact that people do still get TSS, there are more insidious poisons foisted on us by our friends at the tampon factories. Dioxin. It is a chemical used in bleaching wood pulp, and is found in most tampons. The tampon manufacturers will tell you there is no risk from dioxin, and the FDA has been happy to take their word for it. (Fox? Henhouse? What?)

The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), on the other hand, has much to say about dioxin. It can be linked to cancer, atrophied testicles, hormonal changes, the inability to bring a pregnancy to term, and endometriosis. The EPA asserts that there is no safe level of dioxin. It is cumulative, and it is slow to decay.

We consume dioxin as it creeps its way up the food chain, stored in fat cells. What effects would you expect from prolonged contact--not just with skin, but with the highly porous and permeable skin of the vaginal lining?

So what's to do? Like I said at the beginning, we should pick our battles. Let's start with something simple: Demand that tampon manufacturers print ingredient lists on their boxes. Armed with information, we can bring our considerable power as consumers to bear, as we reward woman-conscious companies with our money and shun the bastards who would hang us out to dry.

And today, right now? Talk about it. Stop being weird about one of the most normal things in the world. It's one of the few things that women in every country have in common. Don't let advertisers tell us we need to be ashamed of our bodies and our blood.

What's that? How does this relate? Well, you can't flush 'em down the head when you're at sea, no matter how drunk you are. So there.

by Sharon 3:29 PM

 

From the Pirates Constitution:
128.76.1 In the matter of appropriate actions to be taken re:drunken sailor (see sections vis a vis drunken, sect. 17.236.65 and sailors 1.1.1), this body shall a)pass no laws restricting the access to said sailors (drunken) by fellow crew-members who are defined, as per rules defined in section 17, paragraph 236, line 65 of this body of laws, to be sober; and b)shall have the right and duty to enforce any regulations upon the treatment of aformentioned sailors (drunken); Yarr, truth it be;
128.76.2 It shall be permitted for a sailor who may be shown to be sober to shave the belly, to be defined as the portion of the body between the navel and lower pectoral area, with a razor with not more than two weeks rust, verified at the time of shaving by captain of ship if seabound or oath of rustiness if landbound, and not less than three days rust, varified in same manner; Yarr, truth it be;
128.76.3 An officer of ship of equal or higher rank, as defined on a per ship basis (q.v.1.752.17), may at his discression lock said sailor proven to be drunken in a brig until such time as said sailor (drunken) may be judged to be sober; Yarr, truth it be;
128.76.4 At his discression, a captain may float said sailor (drunken) in a longboat...

by MisterNihil 9:37 AM

 

What do you do with a drunken sailor?

by Fred 5:31 AM

 

Can't spare ten minutes.
Must post.
Have to wake up in a little less than 5 hours.
Must post.
Felt tired all day anyway, need sleep.
Must post.
Technically missed posting today anyway.
Must post.
Couldn't read topic from blurriness of eyes after stupid ten-hour work day.
Must post.
The crazy season at work started last week and lasts until January.
Most post.
Don't feel like have anything to say.
Must post.
Need break; didn't get one.
Must post.
Still almost 1000 calories behind today; didn't notice.
Must post.
Fine; what's topic?
2 numbers. Ass.
Can't think of joke; brain locking up.
Must post.
Stupid persistant voice in back of head, won't shut up, won't let brain work at own slow-ass pace won't-
Must post.
Yeah, yeah. Must post.
Must post.
Have joke about prime numbers, but doesn't work, has to do with factors; bad joke; not worth putting on web. Have joke about multiplying numbers with prime results, from same. Still lame. Thinking hard about joke with magic trick. OK. Got it. Post about magic trick involves pick-a-number multiply by other number, come up with prime number, subtract square root, take fifth digit after decimal, multiply by nine, subtract current total from current total, add original picked number, write that new number on sheet of paper, wad paper up, swallow it and give magician $20 for cab fare. Not great, but is posted now.
Must sleep.
Shut up, you.
Must sleep.
<sigh>

by MisterNihil 12:24 AM

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

 

"Pull two numbers out of your ass and multiply them together."

"But sir," said Jenkins, "unless I'm mistaken, ass-numbers are by their very nature imaginary. That's going to make calculation rather difficult."

Henderson eyed the accountant. "I'm not sure I understand the logic underlying your conclusion, Jenkins," he said.

"Well, sir, it's like this: an imaginary number is a real number multiplied by i, or the square root of negative one. But, you see, our calculators can't handle square roots of negative numbers."

"They can't handle your ass?"

"Exactly. All we get are error messages."

"Well that's unfortunate. Management was keen on seeing those ass-projections by the end of the day." He paused. "But wait a minute."

"Yes, sir?"

"If you take two imaginary numbers and multiply them together, that's i times i, right? Which is i squared. Which has to itself be negative one. Which is a real number that we can work with."

"Hmm," said Jenkins. "I hadn't thought of it like that, sir. But that doesn't really help unless the two numbers I pull out of my ass are identical, does it? I mean, if I have 4i times 6i, the calculators still aren't going to be able to figure it out. "

"So you're saying we should just leave your ass alone then?"

"I think so, sir. Before my head starts to hurt anymore, too."

by Fred 2:44 PM

 

pull two numbers out of your ass and multiply them together

You don't post topics, you get whatever's current at my job.

by Sharon 11:47 AM

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

 

The rhinocerous sleeps in the apricot tree.
It does so very carefully.
One false move and it falls free,
Which would be bad, you must agree.

The kangaroo naps in a boat on the sea,
Atop a crow's nest as high as a tree.
It keeps in its pouch some biscuits for tea,
Which the captain and crew have each day at three.

The elephant dozes atop the TV
And wriggles its trunk at sit-comedy
No one's quite sure, but they think that means he
Would rather be sleeping in an apricot tree.

by Fred 3:30 PM

 

"I'm putting down the phone now, Mom."
"Don't you put down that phone, boy! You ain't so big or so far away I can't turn you over my knee!"
"I'm putting down the phone now. I have to go but you know I can't hang up on you, Mom.
"Boy! I'll beat you cross-eyed!"
"I'm sorry, Mom. I won't put the phone down. It's just..."
"Just what? What's more important than your poor old momma? One of these days, you gone give me a heart attack."
"I'm sorry, Mom. I promise I won't. It's just, there's this little thing I have to do outside."
"Outside? You gone wear your sunblock?"
"Yes, Mom. But it's almost night-"
"Don't You But Me! I don't take no buts from no scrawny little boy!"
"I'm sorry Mom."
"That's right. You best be sorry."
"Yes, Mom. It's just..."
"Spit it out boy. If it's so important you kill your own mother. What's your problem?"
"There's this rhinocerous..."
"You talking crazy again, boy."
"It's sleeping in the apricot tree."
"I'm gone send aunt Ruth down and kick your ass back into shape, boy you start talking 'bout a Rhinocerous in the apricot tree, boy you live in an apartment with no lawn. You got no Apricot tree."
"I'm sorry Mom. I have to go. I wouldn't mind, but it keeps looking at me..."

by MisterNihil 3:02 PM

Monday, November 17, 2003

 

I was going to go to the grocery store, but I was denied access. My buddy ralph says I should complain, but I'm just gonna go back and wait until I can get in. They put in this new door that only lets in as many people as they think will shop at once, so they'll buy the most stuff. There's this counter above the door that keeps track of how many people can still come in. When somebody goes in, it counts down; when somebody goes out, it counts back up. I was so in, when I was going to the store, but this old lady slipped in the door in front of me and I had to wait outside. Nobody was coming out, so I just went home. I mean, I don't need pop tarts that bad anyway. Ralph says go at like three in the morning, and I think I'm gonna. I'll go get my damn pop tarts just to show that old woman. When I want my pop tarts, come hell or high water, I'm gonna get them. So now I'm just waiting. It's like 2pm now, so I got about 12 hours until I can leave for the store. I'm gonna go get my damn pop tarts.
So, do you need anything while I'm out?

by MisterNihil 2:03 PM

 

I have a theory, and you're free to poke holes in it if you like, but it goes something like this: George W. Bush is, in fact, the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal. If you're unfamiliar with the Beast or its habits, allow me to explain. As any reader of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy can tell you, the Beast is a mind-bogglingly stupid creature, which operates under the basic assumption that if you can't see it, it can't see you. One need only cover one's eyes in its presence to avoid getting eaten.

As the American Civil Liberties Union will tell you, "During presidential appearances, the Bush administration has herded protesters out of sight into 'designated protest zones.'" The theory being, I suppose, that if protestors can't see Bush, Bush can't see the protestors. He is, after all, a man who prides himself on only glancing at news headlines and living within "a security-enclosed bubble". That he has yet to devour entire civilizations, and that one is likely to need more than just a towel to defeat him, is completely incidental. George W. Bush: Bugblatter Beast of Traal. I feel pretty confident about this.

I'm still trying to figure out who in the Administration is actually Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon, though. I have a sneaking suspicion it's Dick Cheney.

by Fred 1:18 PM

 

restricted access

by Sharon 9:55 AM

Saturday, November 15, 2003

 

It's altogether possible that we've written about zombies more often than anything else on these pages. I'm not exactly sure why, but I know that I've written about them here and here and here and here and here and here and here. Say what you will, that's a lot of brain-eaters. But what is it about zombies that intrigues us? Why do we find the undead so amusing? Is it the simplicity of their of their actions, ("Mmm...brains..."), the single-mindedness of their desires ("Mmm...brains..."), or are they in some way an extension or mirror of ourselves ("Mmm...brains...")? Or maybe it's just the word zombie that's funny. It's a proven fact that certain consonants are funnier than others. A duck walking into a bar, for instance, is funnier than most any other animal doing the same. Both the m and b of zombie would seem to fit the bill. (No duck pun intended.) Are we simply so amused by the way the word sounds that we write about them again and again and again? I'm not sure I completely understand the appeal, but I'm pretty much convinced that anything that's funny would be doubly so were it to be zombified. For instance: a flock of zombie ducks walking into a bar. If I had a punchline, that would be comedy gold. "Quack quack...brains..." But I'm curious, why do you write about zombies?

by Fred 3:00 PM

Friday, November 14, 2003

 

I had a post, but I'm afraid my browser ate it. In case it didn't I won't blow it up to be better than it was, but it was pretty OK. It was a history of the phrase "I'm On Fire," beginning with the Chicago Fire, referencing the Watts & LARiot fires, and then moving back through history. The big claim of the post was that this phrase is perhaps the most powerful 3-words in the language, so powerful as to have been invented long before written language.
I hadn't finished when IE ate the post, but it would have ended with a joke about the phrase having been one word originally, and grown into more. Y'see, 'cause the original way to say "I'm On Fire" was "Aaaa!" much like the original word for "I've been attacked by something mean," and "There's some mean thing now, come to mention it."
It's all a big joke, but the post got lost. Perhaps you, the mysterious person reading it (because of course I can't write to my audience if I pretend my audience hasn't got their names down the side of the page and that they aren't supposed to be doing this also right now, because that audience is too big. Yeah, that's it...) are able to appreciate what a silly joke it was just by my explaination of the goings on and the punch line-type-line.
If not, then I know a good one from Highlights for Children (one of my dad's all-time favorites):
Q. Why shouldn't you use a 4-leaf clover as a bookmark?
A. You wouldn't want to press your luck.
Thank you, and good night.

by MisterNihil 3:43 PM

 

Spontaneous human combustion aside, she’d had a really great time at the party. The food had been great, they’d had an open bar, and for a change the DJ didn’t suck. Sure, it had been kind of awkward when the bride and groom both burst into flames and burned until there was nothing left of them but smoldering ash, a couple of rings, and the charred remains of the bridal bouquet, but in her mind the open bar had really sort of made up for that. After all, who was she to judge? Everyone had their own quirks, their own rituals. Sally had wanted her wedding to be perfect, and her parents said she’d made some kind of pact with an ancient god to keep it that way. Sure, the god had come back to collect a little earlier than anyone expected -- and he’d turned out to be something of a firebug in the bargain -- but you really couldn’t fault him for that. Vengeful retribution and unexpected consequences sort of went with the territory. And besides, they’d had these little spinach quiches that were simply divine. She’d almost been tempted to ask for the recipe, but it had seemed like bad form with everyone running to escape the billowing smoke and unholy flame. She wasn’t entirely sure what Emily Post had to say about that. Still, in all, she’d had a really marvelous time.

by Fred 1:51 PM

 

I wrote an essay a year ago.
I'd link to it, but I only have 10 minutes.
It's about god, and it encapsulates an idea that I thought at the time was funny. Now I need material for a novel and I'm cannibalizing things I wrote in the past. Sort of. I haven't put that one in yet, as it was practically the plot for my last attempt. The last one only grew to 13000 words before it crapped out. I'm halfway there now with the current, and the story's just started.
That's the problem: the story's started, but I can't. I haven't found time to write in almost three days. I've painted, I've exercized (don't get me started), I've spent quality time with Toshi. Hell, I've even been trying very hard to abstain from reading so that I can maintain the voice I've been writing in. It's tough, and I know I can do it, but I just have to start.
But here I am writing again, and it's about something else, more or less. I'm writing about writing. Is there a better way to not actually write? Probably. I'm feeling good today, though, so I think I'm going to, as my mother used to say, buckle down and get to it. She is quite a pragmatist, and efficacious.
That used to be a word, when I was learning to read. Now it's kind of archaic. Efficacious has been replaced with Effective, which ought to mean something else. It doesn't, though. Efficacious is just a better word for pretty much the same thing. "Having An Effect," or "Able to Do Something."
In comparison, I'm kind of noodly. Noodly isn't a word either, but it's the opposite of efficacious. It never was a word, but is in relatively common use. Besides the fact that it is an antonym to Efficacious, it actually is, etymologically, the opposite of efficacious.
The word "etymologically" was, until a brief visit to Dictionary.com changed my muddled mind, the word "entomologically." These two are not the same word, no matter what I would have you believe. One is the study of little crawly black things; the other the study of insects.

by MisterNihil 12:05 AM

Thursday, November 13, 2003

 

Jerry didn't believe in God, so when God started talking to him and telling him to do things, Jerry just naturally assumed he was crazy.

"Well, you sort of are crazy," God told him. "Just a little bit. That's kind of how this works. But that doesn't mean it's not me, you know. You're just easier to reach this way. I mean, I don't make the rules."

The rules, Jerry thought, would be exactly the sort of thing God would make.

"But if you're all-knowing and all-powerful...?" he asked.

"Yeah," God said. "That's sort of a widespread misconception, that whole omniscient omnipresence thing. I mean, I'd like to think I'm smart, sure, but..."

"And the omnipotence?" Jerry asked.

"Yeah, not so much," said God. "I mean, I can open jars by myself, no problem. And I've never been sick a day in my life, but --"

"That's not really what I meant," Jerry said.

"No," said God, "it never is. People want a whirlwind or a burning bush or a pillar of fire. They want a flaming sword and a booming voice and the heavens parted. Let me tell you, all they want are magic tricks."

"And what do you want?" asked Jerry.

"A turkey sandwich," said God.

So Jerry made God a turkey sandwich. He didn't skimp on the mayo and, true to His word, God opened the jar all by Himself.

"What is that, a kaiser roll?" God asked at one point. "Yes, that pleases me. And don't forget the pickle."

And thus it was that Jerry had lunch with God, and if he was disappointed when all God wanted to talk about was the latest episode of Friends and "did you see what Britney was wearing at the Music Awards last week?", Jerry tried not to show it. Somehow, he thought that would just be rude.

by Fred 5:17 PM

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

 

I'm three days late. I must write my self-assessment (although it is tempting to submit the one that Ben wrote for me). I don't want to. I've been distracting myself for days. So here, to kill another ten minutes, I will offer a few more words. And, since I promised yesterday, they'll be about my theories on the psyche.

The notions of the Conscious Mind and the Unconscious Mind have entered the common parlance. (The "Subconscious" doesn't come from Freud. I don't know if that really fits into anybody's theory, or is just a permutation of "Unconscious" perpetuated by laymen.) The theory posits that part of your psyche is the You part, that talks in your head and talks out loud and reminds you to take out the trash; and part of your psyche is a strange, unknown monster, driving your actions without "your" awareness. There is a part of your brain that isn't part of your brain.

Right.

So I think that's garbage. Look at what this so-called "unconscious" mind is capable of. It observes patterns. It creates the sensation of intuition. It filters all of the noise and stimuli of a complex modern life and trickles in the thin thread you can actually focus on. It allows you to function.

If anything, it is super-conscious.

But, it doesn't talk. You may have noticed that. So I suggest: Verbal and Non-Verbal Minds. (Remember that "oral" means "spoken out loud," and "verbal" means "with words." This here essay is presented verbally.)

The Non-Verbal Mind sorts through a ton of information and parcels it out for your Verbal Mind to discuss out loud in your head. Time and again, the Non-Verbal Mind makes decisions that your Verbal Mind later rationalizes. Enlightenment is achieved by observing the patterns of your Non-Verbal Mind and bringing them into the realm of your Verbal Mind. Keeping a journal is good for this.

So there are my ten minutes, and there is my final word on the nature of consciousness. And now, to write my self-assessment...

by Sharon 2:28 PM

 

one more word

by Fred 7:14 AM

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

 

In the other room, there is the television. Ignore it. There's nothing good on right now anyway.

In the other room, there is the computer. Do not be tempted. The web is a distraction. Solitaire just wastes your time.

In the other room, there are car keys. Leave them there. A drive won't clear your head and you know it.

In the other room, there are noises, a dog barking across the hall. It never stops. Stay here and ignore it. It's easier to do that when it can't be heard.

In the other room, you are distracted, torn between one triviality and the next. Nothing gets written there. Nothing gets done. Stay put. Don't move. Just write. You don't need to make time. You already have it. Here, in this room, there is the radio, but it does not distract if you get the volume just right, choose the right music. In this room, there is the window. The brisk autumn air invigorates; it can clear your head. People are quieter outside -- a few scattered barks, but the dogs mostly behave themselves. Here, in this room, you can write.

So why don't you ever stay?

by Fred 4:04 PM

 

I need to write for my story and I need to write here, so here's a little taste of what I've been composing so far. I could give you backstory so the obfuscated bits make more sense, but I won't.

Finnegan sat in the hotel room and listened to Sophia sing in the shower. It was an old song that he recognized but had never heard outside of a shower. He knew, dimly, that it was a song from the early eighties. There his knowledge stopped. The original singer, the original composer, the words beyond the chorus, these evaded him handily.
The television was on but he wasn't watching closely. Every few seconds he flipped up or down a channel just to keep the picture changing. He was running away from a commercial for soap in the end of which two people laugh lasciviously and stepped into a steamy shower. He realized as he flipped that this was the first TV he'd watched in almost three years, and he hadn't missed much.
Finnegan pressed the power button, and leaned over to unlace his shoes. It had been a long drive to El Paso, and he was beginning to tire of the road. It was another ten hours, or something like that, until he'd reach Shiro, and he didn't know what to do once he got there. The plan so far was just to arrive and go looking for a post office.
In El Paso, they'd stopped and bought hats. She needed a sun hat that would tie under her chin and he needed a straw hat because, really, that's why you buy when you cross over into Texas. It wouldn't hurt to have it in Wyoming either, and so, like everyone who has ever bought a silly hat on vacation, he convinced himself that it was practical and that he really would wear it.
The Great Salt Lake had been interesting, but they weren't really traveling to sight-see. Salt Lake City too felt a little touristy, in a staid kind of way. They bought sandwiches but didn't stop. Sophia didn't want to stay inside of Utah, and so they'd slept in Arizona. Being lost in the west wasn't bad, even if it was with his former friends' ex-wife.
In the relative quiet of the motel room, he heard the water in the bathroom and the impassioned struggles of a couple in the next room. Good. Nothing killed the mood like squeeks from horny teenagers, and he felt like Sophia'd been acting a little friendly. When he first saw her at the airport, there'd been a little spark which passed quickly into that old comfortable resentment. Now, they were friends but nothing more. Just how it should be.
-----
Outside of Laramie, Sophia's phone rang. Napoleon sat in his den in Florida. He knew he must call, and so he had. He had no desire to speak with his ex-wife, but he knew that this was the point in his life during which he got drunk and called her. She would answer, just waking up in bed, naked with Finnegan. She would answer on the second call, on the third ring.
He hung up, waited for sixteen seconds, and dialed again. The third ring passed, as did the sixth. Her machine picked up, and he stuttered into it. Something was very wrong.

by MisterNihil 12:55 PM

Monday, November 10, 2003

 

I got a new toy. The Alphasmart 3000 is little more than a keyboard and some RAM. It's light, durable, it doesn't get too hot, and it boots in no time. It is perfect for writing a mad-dash novel.

I wrote about 1,700 words on it last night. With no word-count function and a display that shows only 4 lines of text, you really can't harp on how much you've written in one sitting. You just go, and keep going.

Variety unplugs my valves. If I'm stuck, I start writing a different scene; I change the music; I sit in a different room, or a different building, or outside; I change the font. Or, in this case, I get a new keyboard. The low weight and cool running temperature mean that, with the Alphasmart, I can change a lot of those other aspects easily.

My characters are surprising me lately. I realized that, twice Matthew was itching to skip out of work and talked himself out of it, and here, the third time, he needed to talk himself out of it again, because there was a good reason for not going home. I was also startled when I realized that Mairi's behavior is making a lot of sense... if you know what's really going on. More sex crept in where I wasn't expecting it. And Matthew shocked me by getting mad at Mairi last night--or, really, mad at himself.

Many parts of my brain contribute to this novel. I have been building patterns that the Narrator Voice wasn't aware of--and others that it probably still is not aware of--but other inhabitants of my skull have planned out carefully. My best writing is always like this. I write a poem, I think I know what it's about, and later, an entirely new message emerges.

My theory about rejecting the notion of "conscious and unconscious" in favor of "verbal and non-verbal" warrants a whole ten minutes on its own, but I'll say this: Non-verbal parts of my psyche have an equally important role to play in the creation of this novel.

And the 10,000 mark is taunting me. I'll pierce it tonight, though. You see if I don't.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

Saturday, November 08, 2003

 

It's Saturday, and I'm at work, but in ten minutes I'm going to tell my boss I need to leave. I've been here for four hours, I'm pretty much finished what I started on this morning, and it's Saturday. Did I mention that yet? Since I have ten minutes to spare, I thought I'd swing over here and try to write something on my "sidetracked and hijacked" topic from yesterday. Better that than a crossword puzzle I won't have enough time to finish.

Except, the more I've thought about it, the more I've started to think that it's a really lame topic. I'm not surprised no one's written anything on it; it doesn't really lend itself to any great ideas. I haven't really had any great ideas lately. For a few weeks before the beginning of November (and, therefore, Nanowrimo), I toyed with ideas for novels I'd had in the past. And I thought I'd hit upon one that would carry me through a month. Except, three days into that month, and I only had 1000 words written. Out of a projected 50,000. Most of that was dialogue. Quite a lot of it was what I'd written here back in April. And I really didn't know where to go from there.

So I put the novel aside and started writing something else. Which definitely wasn't a novel, but which I was enjoying. Sidetracked by a lack of ideas, hijacked by a new one. (Or an old one come back to roost, but the principle's the same.) And that story is progressing. Very, very slowly, but it's progressing. Now a full week into November, I think it's pretty clear I won't have a novel when it's done, but the important thing is that I'm writing, right?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go home. Did I mention it's Saturday?

by Fred 1:02 PM

 

This is from a song by the Jongleurs, a band from Miami who wrote a song that is, lemme just say, genius, about WinnDixie and their cookies, Big60s. This isn't from Big60s though. It's from a neat jazzy song called Pizza For Brains. To that end:

You got Pizza for Brains and I want to Eat Them!

Enjoy.

by MisterNihil 3:55 AM

Friday, November 07, 2003

 

sidetracked and hijacked

by Fred 1:13 PM