Thursday, December 14, 2006

image nuzzle dubbing

Brad Peach was a star.

Men wanted to have his body. Women just wanted his body.

Brad had an unusual morning schedule.

Every morning, Brad sat on his fully automatic toilet and let himself be irrigated. The poop was collected, sterilized and placed in a clear lucite block suitable as a gift or as collectable memorabilia.

Brad signed every block, it was his way of keeping in personal contact with his fans.

Brad then walked into his personal beauty salon. Tommy next door might have a private Starbucks but Brad had a private army to wash his face, brush his teeth, groom his ear and nose hair, clip his nails, moisturize his hands, arrange his hair in that casual "bed head" that had made him such an icon of the modern casual lifestyle.

Brad would just lie there. Reading scripts off the overhead voice-activated single beam LCD projector mounted above the head of his salon chair in a custom soundproof housing designed by Pininfarina.

Breakfast was exactly what his personal trainer told him it was. Today it was sea kelp, orange juice, lemongrass chlorophyll shot and bran muffins.

Brad didn't know whether to eat it or wear it.

After his workouts, his sweat stained clothes and socks were sold at charity auctions. His underwear he kept for his favourite charities because it appreciated rapidly in value after just a few days in the sun. He didn't know his manicurist was making a tidy profit off his nail clippings.

Brad ate, slept, read, said, exercised where and when somebody told him to.

He couldn't even say his favourite lines because it violated somebody's copyright.
He didn't even own his voice. It was trademarked now.

Brad accepted all of this as the price of fame and success.

Because, he told himself, "when I retire at 65 I can do what I want!"

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

meme first study

This is a meme started by Lexa of Author!Author! who, among numerous achievements is also a National Novel writing Month winner for 2006. Congratulations Lexa! I have successfully failed that competition 3 years in a row.

I wrote this entry at work so I grabbed the first book of the shelve in the teacher's room which happened to be a novel by Tama Janowitz, titled: "The male cross-dresser support group."

Five sentences down on page 123 I found:

Martin shrugged. "At first the stepfather and his mother sent him to all kinds of expensive clinics and institutionalized him. But then his family got tired of spending the money and they sent him to me."

As I am a rather bookish person I'll consider whom to challenge this evening but did not wish to hesitate in participating.

Everyone is encouraged to visit Lexa's site. It's worth your time.

Regards, B8A.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

conjugate monopoly tangerine

For Powell Longballs, December 8, 2006 had started out as an ordinary day. He got up, got to his car, got to work.

The commute was faster than usual, Powell thanked his good fortune and let himself relax a little behind the wheel.

Really a lot fewer cars this morning, he thought to himself. He remembered that day a few years ago during the big rightsizing at his firm when he got up as usual, got to his car as usual and got to work in light traffic only to realize as he tried to open the locked doors of his office that it was Saturday.

he checked the date on his phone, nope. Today was Friday, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

At the office, the problem grew in his mind (when exactly he'd started to think of it as 'the problem' was a mystery to him but that's what he called it once he'd taken notice).

There were so few employees. All nervously going about their tasks, preparing audits, credit opinions, reviewing balance sheets. It dawned on Powell that everyone had noticed the problem but didn't dare to discuss it. Perhaps out of fear that whatever the problem was, it would hear them talking and thus happen to them sooner.

His manager had once boasted that there could be a nuclear strike and the end of civilization and still his department could keep operating for over a month without ever needing input from above.

Now Powell watched it happening. Everyone just working through the day even as more and more employees went for lunch breaks and never returned.

Powell had gone beyond terror by the time 6pm rolled around. By then there was no one left but himself and the receptionist. She had stayed for the same reason he had, there was a lot of work to do and even as the phones had died down until by quitting time they hadn't rung in an hour she bravely sat attentively; ready to greet visitors who didn't come, answer questions that weren't asked.

As he left, he said goodbye.

"Goodbye Grace, have a nice afternoon,"
"See you Pow-pow," she smiled with tears in her eyes, she knew it too, she'd never called him that in the office.

Powell walked over to her and gently cupped her unresisting head in his hands and kissed her softly on the lips.

"There," he said, "I've always wanted to do that."

And then he disappeared.

Grace locked the office and set the alarm, run-proof mascara staining her cheeks black. She exited the office and listened. When she closed her eyes she couldn't believe she was in the heart of the city, not a car not a person not a siren, not even a bird.

Somehow, she knew she was the last person on Earth.

When she disappeared, it was with the memory of one last, first kiss still lingering on her lips.

And then nothing.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

brazil scrub measures

In Lucille's imagination, all daytime drama scenes took place in underlit, windowless rooms. All the characters inhabited a permanent twilight. All silences included meaningful looks with zooming cameras into tightly framed faces in case she needed the hint.

Listening to Darren pour his troubles onto her over their second candlelit dinner at Zorba's she wondered if she'd ever find somebody to listen to her for a change. It all seemed so hard, why had she left Schroeder? She hadn't known it would be this hard to bend herself to a new mould. Hadn't she done it tens of times before she'd gotten married and divorced?

Snatches of her favourite daytime drama dialogues kept intruding in her mind: he's not the father, Danielle is Jared's sister! The babies were switched at the hospital, Francine has amnesia and nobody else knows the password.

Just at the point where she'd lost track of Darren completely he broke into her daydream.

"Lu? are you even listening to me?" said Darren.

She gave him a long meaningful look, she even caught herself imagining the zoom shot before answering.

"Sorry, I...I'm just...please go, I can't do this tonight."

There. She'd said it, the words not cold on her lips before he had grabbed his coat and left without so much as an 'I'll call you.' Thank Gods, she didn't think she couldn've stood another second of his droning on and on about himself and his problems. She didn't even mind paying.

She walked out into the cool December air and bent her head towards home.

Maybe She and Schroeder could work it out. She realized they might have bent themselves to each other too far to fit anyone else. It wasn't daytime drama but at least it was hers?

Monday, December 04, 2006

tingling panelling musket

 Batty Bronson was an android. Batty was eight years old. Batty had the body of a dead child and the brain of a super-scientist. Batty played global thermo-nuclear war in his bedroom. Batty disassembled his dad's Corvette. Batty knew protocols for a thousand and one different cultures. Batty communicated with extra-terrestrials. Batty was a compulsive liar.

Batty had one friend.

"Hey Batty Bronson!" said Josephine Cych, Batty's only friend and a girl.
"Hey Joe!" said Batty Bronson, the super secret combat droid.
"Did you catch Space Rangers on Saturday?" said Josephine Cych.
"Nah, I was at the special school again," said Batty.
"Oh no, not again?" said Josephine.

Batty had to go to a special school on Saturdays when he was bad. Batty went to the special school a lot.

"Maybe you recorded it?" said Batty. Josephine enjoyed the despair in his eyes at missing the Space Rangers a moment longer then flashed the disc out of her pocket.
"Aw Joe, you're the greatest."
"What would a super soldier be without his secret documents?"
"And his super spy," said Batty. She noticed his smile was different than before.

Josephine blushed.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

knowing impulses compatible

This was going to be a simple short story but it turned into a manifesto of sorts. If you're not in that mood then skip this one. -B

Johnny Know-it-all was too good for work, so he said, and the truth is that there isn't much room for such people.

Johnny became an English teacher. Teaching something he'd known how to do since he was a baby.

Johnny thought teaching was the same as knowing.

Sometimes Johnny would walk into a class with only a slightly better idea of what was going to happen in the classroom than the students.

Samuel Epimetheus was too good for work, so he said, and the truth is that there isn't much room for such people.

Samuel became an English teacher. Teaching something he'd known how to do since he was a baby. He was a lot like Johnny in the beginning with one small difference:

Samuel worried that knowing wasn't the same as teaching.

So, in his anxiety over how best to teach something he knew automatically how to do, he would spend all his free time rehearsing the whole class front to back and back to front. Every student in his classes knew that he knew exactly what he was doing during every second of the class.

Perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not, both Johnny and Samuel produced students with an excellent command of English. Furthermore, as Johnny and Samuel progressed in their careers they began to resemble each other more and more. Johnny became more methodical and Samuel became more spontaneous and to see them in most classes today it would be difficult if not impossible to tell them apart.

Sure Johnny sometimes abandons his plans and Samuel is sometimes distressed if the class goes in an unplanned direction but both have been teaching for over a decade now so they must have been doing something right from the very beginning.

Johnny and Samuel both got lucky, each in his own way. Johnny and Samuel benefitted from great students. Great students made Johnny and Samuel outstanding teachers in the end.

Every English teacher who's ever felt the pull of little Johnny know-it-all and little Samuel Epimetheus in their guts knows this.

Great students make teaching days, evenings and weekends worthwhile.

But in the end, Johnny and Samuel realized something else, in an odd way, they were right.

Great teaching is not work. Great teaching is a mission. Great teaching is a vocation.

Great teaching is painting the Forth bridge. Great teaching is Sisyphean.

Great teaching is never being able to finish teaching nor being able to desist from teaching.

Great teaching is great because it is hard, if it were easy everyone would do it.

Great teaching is:___________________ (complete the sentence with a suitable adjective)

Dedicated to my great teachers. I was fortunate to have so many that the list would be longer than the text. Thanks for the inspirations. B.

Friday, November 17, 2006

hundred studies diplomatic

Vince reached into his sock and pulled out Jackie's pay.
Vince eyed Jackie warily.
"Boss?" she said.
Vince smoked 2 packs a day and drank 10 espressos a day and everything he said sounded like the bottom of a stainless steel beer barrel being hammered by maniacal monkeys on pharmaceutical-grade amphetamines. Jackie, when she first started at the office, thought the other employees were exaggerating when they warned her about 'The Beast,' managing to pronounce the capitals and everything.
As Vince vibrated away on his black patent leather high heeled elevator shoes she fought to get a grip on herself. She wouldn't let herself panic again, not after last week's embarassing episode where she'd locked herself in the staff lounge and refused to come out.
Even the CEO crossed himself at the mention of Vince.
A short swarthy Sicilian with wiry black hair, a set of arms like steel bridge cables and pupils like pinpoints of blackness and a vicious enthusiasm for his job.
Jackie kept her pay at arm's length until she could put it in a plastic ziplock. Her bank hated her.
Why he kept her pay in his socks was a mystery, why he wore his underarm sweat stains so proudly was another.
Jackie fought the urge to run out of the building. Just a few more paydays, she told herself. Just a few more dollars in the bank and she'd be free forever...

Saturday, November 11, 2006

cruel holland bechamel

Cold wet icy rain. A real downpour. A flood. A deluge.

"Quit it, Hopey," said Desormais Chandrelle, a singer.
"I'm sorry Dezie, I just get distracted by such awful weather," Said Hopewell Hudson, a bartender.
"It's not like you're out in it, I love the rain when I'm indoors where it's warm" said Desormais, giving a meaningful nod of her auburn head towards the monumentally sized victorian marble fireplace roaring at the far end of the piano bar's dining room.
"I know, it's just sympathy shivers, that's all," said Hopey, looking glum.
"Let me buy you a drink, cheer up," said Desormais.
"Ah, thanks but you know I'm not allowed to drink when I'm working," said Hopey.
"And you never-"
"I never, but thanks for offering,"
Desormais regarded Hopey's grin and surrendered to it.
"All right Hopey, at least I got a smile out of you," said Desormais.
Hopey's grin widened into a smile. "You always cheer me up Dezie."
"Even singing my sad old songs?" said Desormais.
"Especially when you sing your sad old songs" said Hopey, tilting her face forward conspiratorialy.
Desormais smiled, "We'll have that drink some other time, I've got to get back to work." She glided off the barstool and walked back to the small stage where the pianist was just about finished his smoke. She drew his cigarette from his lips and dragged down hard to the filter and crushed the remains. Then, she sang.

Desormais Chandrelle sang tears and frustrations and lonely nights. She sang heartaches and sorrows and empty rooms. She sang rusted memories and dead friendships. She sang cold wet icy rain. A real downpour. A flood. A deluge.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

volcano onion supplanted

Snowflakes like feathers. Welcome to paradise. Posted by Picasa

Thursday, November 02, 2006

fluent chunk cleans

It was a dastardly day for sales, that's how Mook Mickleman thought about it.
The phones hadn't rung, the door hadn't jangled, the showroom was deserted, the weather beyond the display windows was tuned to a dead channel. Mook mentally credited Bill Gibson, the assistant sales manager, for that metaphor. Bill was a fan of oxymoronic literature.
"Saaay-faaay," drawled Mook affectionately. Bill glanced over.
"So Mook, got time to embellish your monologues I see?" said Bill. Bill was of the journalism school of business; at work, Bill never drawled, cajoled, exclaimed, ejaculated or yelled. Bill said things. Even when he questioned, whether rhetorically or in fact, he never asked, he said. As Mook pondered this facet of Bill's character, he wondered how a man could make a question without inflection, not even a rising intonation, but Bill managed it.
"Bill, I'm having a lousy sales day," complained Mook.
"By that you mean your sales are infested with Lice?" said Bill.
"Ha ha," snided Mook.
"Could be worse," said Bill.
"We could be having a bad sales week?"
"Bad sales month?"
"Bad sales year?"
"What's worse than that!?!"
"No you're right, I can't think of something worse than that."
Bill left Mook fuming and went back to his paperwork, outside, The snow was letting up. Bill allowed himself a quiet whistle.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

assure slots truncates

Lord Crystal and Cecilia Socialette were watching a naughty film in Duke Barrington's home theatre. On the screen a large number of athletic and hyperventilating gentlemen and ladies were improvising new and hitherto unforeseen methods of practice procreation.

"God forbid that we should go that far," said Cecilia Socialette, a very important person.
"Lord knows, it's all we can do just to keep up appearances," said Lord Crystal, a gentleman.
"Those people, they...they...they transgress," said Cecilia.
"It's not like we couldn't do that, we could, but why would we?"
"I really think there is some illness that makes people want to do such things."
"Unsatisfied lives is the culprit, unsatisfied lives."

Cecelia and Lord Crystal, feeling very judgemental and satisfied then retired to their private residences and engaged in private debauceries, even cochoneries. There seemed no limit to their individual inventiveness in dreaming up new and blatantly illegal activities with which to pass their evenings with expensively hired help.

Repression made hypocrites of them both.

motor component commisioned

 Grey Suit, a banker, got into his car on Monday morning and waited.

The onboard traffic computer would begin his journey at the precise moment calculated to acheive maximum traffic flowthrough with a minimum of bottlenecks.

In simple English, this meant Grey Suit would sometimes get into his car and wait for up to 15 minutes before the vehicle would begin moving of its own accord into traffic and to his office.

Grey Suit didn't mind. Sitting on the large couch in his car, watching the news and preparing a report on his tablet PC.

Grey Suit didn't know the following words: drive, driver's license, manual transmission, steering wheel.

They appeared occasionally in antique books but Grey Suit didn't read fiction.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

injures appreciates sank

On the edge of the counter, a glass of warm milk. Misty Malevolent, a teenager, brushed the smooth glass of milk with her slender fingertips, the glass wobbled, she brushed her fingers against it again, the glass of milk tottered but did not wobble. She looked behind her as if to make certain her parents weren't home (even though rationally she knew she'd hear their key in the lock), that she was perfectly alone, and she leaned forward and drew her tongue up the length of the warm glass.

The glass fell. A guilty flood of pleasure raced down her face to the pit of her gut.

Hopefully there was time to clean up the mess before her parents came home.

Monday, October 23, 2006

banner cells simplifying

Down through the dark armpits of history they came, surrounded by infestations of midges and tics, feared for their awful odours, the closest modern equivalent being a blend of excrement and unsanitary pidgeon offal from the unlicensed butcher (Stanley) who worked in the late 2190s behind the abandoned Woolworth's building at the corner of Lucius Ave. and Z street in Bophiliyork, (The old conglomity of Boston Philidelphia and New York but not yet including the state of New Jersey because by then Stanley had finally retired and went on a moon safari he never returned from, deciding to settle on the colony, but that's another story).

The Unwashed Intelligences were a collection of badly assembled parts from several of God's kits, some experimental. They came, the not-working-terribly-well-ones, the seen-from-a-great-distance-and-run-upwind-ones, those ancient cracked beings who had presence, substance and self awareness nearly before the Creator itself.

They came. Nameless but to themselves, known only by titles signifying what to do (run away) if you met one:

run away.


They came, they came and they were hungry.

What saved the planet from certain and total doom? What stopped the unstoppable drooling soul consuming odiferous monsters? What, if anything could equal them in raw sewage content?

Was it a bomb? A new 300 Megawatt microwave beam weapon? Any guess?

They ate at McDonalds.

The End.

forbid intermediate weasels

The donkey was old and tough on the teeth. Maximillian Conglomerus Vex, a trader, sighed as he eyed the uneaten remains of his transportation. Pepe had been a good donkey. He was sad to have to eat him.

What saddened Max further was his location. Max was in a mountain pass. Although it was summer in the valley, winter never left these high passes. Max cursed incessesantly at the cold. The cold was a person to Max, a person worthy of hate. Max hated the cold. Would his luck never change?

There was a big ripping sound and then a CRACK and a lightning bolt shot out of the cold blue sky. Max Jumped up. He sensed an oncoming Klee-shay. Although Max had never seen one outside of a zoo, wild Klee-shays had been sighted in these mountains.

Then suddenly there it was, a wild Klee-shay, now appearing as a suspicious looking Greek with a wrapped present addressed to Max, and then looking like a large Goose laying...were those golden eggs?

Max leapt for the Klee-shay, it would fetch a tidy sum at the next marketplace.

Alas, the Klee-shay vanished in a puff of smoke. Max landed in the dust.

"I should have known," muttered Max, and returned to his cold meal of Donkey. Sighing between every bite.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

birch repair butter

20 degrees Celcius in October (Warsaw 2006) Posted by Picasa

zero firmly proceeding

"How do I look?" he asked.
She thought the outfit made him look fat.
"You look Gay," she said.
He didn't think so but put back the tie.
"When are you home?" she said.
"I dunno," he said.
Maybe now he'd know if she still cared.
She would call 8 times that night, but there was no reception at the BananaBamBar and he didn't get her calls.
"Hungry?" he said, "I can make us a couple sandwiches before I go," he said.
You just want me to get fat, she thought.
"No, I'm not terribly hungry right now," she said.
That's because you gorged on chocolate all afternoon, he thougbt.
"Nevermind," he said.
They left at the same time. He to his evening and She to hers.
They would miss each other.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

evens nailed traded

Tara was born on September 23, 2010.

This makes Tara a Virgo.

On September 24th, Doctors injected nanites into both of her auditory nerve bundles, between her eardrums and her brain.

The nanites would lie dormant for the first two years of her life. Then her parents would start feeding her supplements. The supplements would stimulate and feed the nanites. The nanites would grow into wetware DRM circuitry that, when activated, would receive and filter all sounds requiring a license.

Tara's DRM would activate sometime around her 6th birthday. She would only be able to listen to broadcasts if she had purchased a license, the signals would be sent directly to her audio wetware.

Fastforward a decade: At a local concert.

"Hey Tara! Glad you could make it! How 'bout this band!" said Michael, a boy from school Tara thought was totally cute.
"Yeah, it's really heavy," said Tara, having no idea what kind of music was playing because her parents hadn't given her enough cash to pay for the digital rights to the concert so all she picked up was the sqeaky unamplified voice of the singer and the weak, unamplified undistorted, unflanged sounds of the singer's band.
"Uh, right," said Michael, who couldn't understand how such a cool girl could misread a slow romantic ballad so badly, he couldn't admit even to himself the possibility that she just hadn't paid for the concert.
"So Michael, I gotta run, I promised my friends I'd get back right away," said Tara, who'd come alone but was now desparate for a means of escape.
"Yeah, sure," said Michael, sensing there were questions better left unasked.

Tara walked home burning with humiliation, why hadn't her parents paid for the full DRM service? Then she could have heard the concert the way it was meant to be heard, but with their outdated hippy ways, all she could hear was unmodified acoustic instruments which meant she was limited to the occasional string quartet. At least they'd bought the tv/radio package, otherwise she wouldn't even have been able to aspire to normalcy.

Sometimes she wanted to rip the wetware circuitry right out of her head. Even though she knew it would only make her deaf.

Sometimes she felt the urge.

And tomorrow, was she going to say to Michael?

technical romance void

Modern Warsaw is architecturally fascinating (Warsaw 2006) Posted by Picasa

cattle skull babies

Another gorgeous restored pre-war Warsaw apartment (Warsaw 2006) Posted by Picasa

thorn swiss talent

There he went, down the street like a bad simile, a rickety concoction of backyard genius, school supplies and leftovers from the junk metal yard around the corner.

That summer, Finn Johnson, Ronald and Mary Johnson's kid, built himself a scooter.

And it was fast.

He was only 13 years old and already a mechanical wonder, most kids left alone at home have taken things apart. Parents come home to find a toaster or a camera disassembled. Kids discover it's harder to put these things together again. Finn's parents only discovered he'd been at it when Mary Johnson turned on her television one morning and noticed that all the fuzzy channels were clear and sharp.

and there were hundreds more channels.

Ronald made Finn decouple the full cable service Finn had patched into including the video on demand service but Mary missed her HBO so Ronald reluctantly asked Finn to put it back. Eyes averted, they hoped Finn knew what he was doing.

So that's how a 13 year old got a speeding ticket on a homebuilt scooter.

When the Police stopped Finn. He was travelling 110 miles an hour.

In fourth gear.

His scooter's engine is 88cc's.

God knows what he'll do when he grows up.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

clip mode conceived

15,000 years ago, on an island that would be blown into space by a volcanic eruption in just over 10,000 years, 2 time travelling citizens of a futuristic society fell into conversation.

"What do you think of the new restaurant down by the pier?"
"Lovely view, if only those primitive humans didn't keep getting so close in their reed boats,"
"Reed boats you say? Did they have that technology last time it was this time?"
"I hear Spraggleblat down in the tool shop has been slipping them hints during his off-the-rez trips."
"Unbelievable! Have you got any proof?"
"Well, not now, but 14,000 years from now there's currently a world government run by Canadians."
"Whoa-ho! Cerainly a few full deviations from the main!"
"And the world anthem is sung two ways, one way takes 3 days and is in 77 languages and the other takes 'only' 90 minutes and uses all 77 languages in an artificially generated grammatical matrix."
"The horror, somebody has to talk to Spraggleblat!"
"Or our ancestors will be eating back bacon and pancakes forever."

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

formula clues vanish

'formula clues vanish' original artwork 2006. Click to view larger (344k) image.

B8A urges comments. This is a colourized 8 minute sketch. Took too long to colour to qualify for regular B8A rules but if a positive reaction is received, may repeat experiment. Note: B8A is an all-genres experiment, this time the genre was the Frank Miller/Alan Moore Graphic Novel. One cannot expect further scenes of graphic violence and nudity again in the near future. Thanks for your comments in advance. For those who are curious about the process, I sketched, then colourized, then added text. In other words completely bass ackwards. Posted by Picasa

halloween portrayal steadman

'monster of energy' original artwork 2006 Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

humane dog theft

Karta Leiben was an old school friend of mine, I hadn't seen him in years, then out of the blue he lands on the bench next to me in the park and without bothering to catch up with where I've been or what I've been doing he hands me this slim little book and says it was nice to see me and then he's off. The bench barely had a chance to get warm.

Meanwhile, the slim little book in my hands was very warm indeed, like he'd been carrying it in his shirt pocket, it was that slim.

As I examined the teeny volume I couldn't help but notice it's fine quality materials and loving craftsmanship, it reminded me of handmade leatherbound italian diaries that can be purchased in Sienna or Florence, their soft leather and careful stitching signifying that whatever was to be written inside was very important to the owner.

This book was like one of those, and owing to the fact that Karta disappeared without a trace and given that this book is almost certainly one of a kind, I feel I must reproduce at least a fragment of it here, because I fear it may not be long in my hands.

It's a book that seems to want to be passed on.

Excerpt from The Art and Science of Marriage by Andrew Nomenis

...Marriages are not meant to be fun all the time, they are meant to be a challenge, not in the sense of neverending strife but rather an ongoing dialogue on many levels between two people with deep and vested interests.
Marriage provides an endless source of insight into the mysteries of human behaviour and interpersonal interaction. Your marriage brings many tangible and intangible rewards certainly, however even a cursory inspection of marriage throughout history and right up to contemporary times shows (it is a startlingly obvious fact) that marriage is a difficult institution to occupy and defend and so it should be.
Like many great things in life it is meant to be hard because if it were easy, wouldn't everyone be married?
Explore your marriage, experiment with your marriage, study your marriage, take risks with your marriage and then the question of whether you remain in your marriage becomes moot. Vibrant living things struggle. Only the dead stagnate. Marriage is a process not a goal...

Alas, that's all I got to read, it was such exciting stuff I passed it on to Felix Flix, an old friend I ran into the other day and well, you get the point, maybe someday this book will come to you?

guest appearance writing

B8A has the pleasure of introducing a guest writer today.


By Beata Kuzminska

It all started when I heard a knock at my front door. It was about 11 pm. I didn't expect anybody. I had to think a few minutes: open the door or not? The knocking didn't stop. At last I decided to open the door. At the door stood a very strange person, a creature. He wasn't tall, he had big green eyes, blue hair and was wearing strange clothes. He wore woollen yellow jeans and a blue jacket, he had a hat on his head. He looked scary and he was completely wet. I was standing there looing at him when he said, "Good evening, could I have something warm to drink and dry my clothes?"
"Yes," I said, completely surprised and closed the door.
The strange creature sat on my sofa and started looking around my house. He was as small as a child but he looked like an adult person. When he was sitting on the sofa his legs didn't touch the floor. I went to the kitchen and I started to prepare a tea for my guest. I waited for the hot water and I was thinking all the time, "who was he? What was he doing in the city? What did he want? Why did I open my door to him? What was he doing now while I'm making him his tea? Is he still in my living room? Maybe he left?"
The water boiled. I took a cup and came back to my living room. The strange person was still there.
"This is for you. Your hot tea," I said.
"Thank you."
"I'll let you drink and I'll look for something you can wear," I said.
"You are very kind. Thank you. I didn't tell you my name. I'm sorry. I'm Helmut."
"Nice to meet you. My name is Pola," I said.
Helmut offered his hand. I shook it. His hand was small and cold, too cold, like the hand of a dead man.
I left Helmut again. In this time I went looking for something he could wear. I didn't have any children so I didn't have little clothes but I found a t-shirt belonging to my younger sister. When I came back to the living room with the t-shirt in my hand Helmut was sleeping on the sofa. I'll not wake him up, I thought, so I brought a plaid blanket and covert my guest. For a moment I thought whether to go to bed, at last I decided to go.
The next morning I went quickly to the living room but Helmut wasn't there. The t-shirt and the plaid blanket lay on the sofa. The front door was closed. I started looking for Helmut in other parts of my house but he was nowhere. He should have written some words of goodbye, I thought, but at once I understood that it was stupid because didn't know if helmut can write. Maybe it was my dream, maybe Helmut didn't exist. I didn't meet Helmut again and to this day I don't know if it really happened or if it was only in my dreams.

The End.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

ugly valuation rough

Rot. It was moral rot. Two anonymous rotten tomatoes sat in the back booth of a dirt bar and conditioned their stalks.

"That's about it," said one.
"Are you joking? I did all that?" said the other.
"I'm afraid so," said the first.
"Do you really think I'll have to swear off the ketchup?"
"Sorry buddy, I'm afraid so."
"But the other rotten tomatoes saw the evening differently, didn't they?"
"Not the point old boy, there's a time for all things in the world and it's time for you to turn over a new leaf."
"I don't know if I can, I've been rotten for so long, do you think I can do it?"
"Sure, you were never really rotten in your center, you can be ripe again, maybe even raw."
"I suppose there's no choice, I've got to become a raw again tomotoe, what choice do I have?"
"If you want to keep the fruit you love, I think it's the only way,"
"totally raw? You think I'll have to go cold vegetable?"
"Naw, well, yeah actually."

The first rotten tomatoe finished his drink and got up as if to leave. The second left his drink unfinished and did the same.

"Cheer up kid, you'll make it, I'll see you around."

The raw again tomatoe left the bar.
The rotten tomatoe stayed.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

valid strain frowned

It was a time of magic. Superstition ruled the world. A dark time. After the empire and before the age of reason.
It was a clouded time. When life was nasty brutish and short.
William McLarty was born into this time with a magical power so dangerous that by the time he was in his early teens, everyone, from the church to the king's men wanted him dead.
William was cursed with an awful power.
William could think.
Nearly 1000 years later, one of William's decendents was having lunch with a collegue from the laboratory when the curse manifested itself again.
"So Jack, get it like this, if time is like a cloud of probability with the present like an endlessly moving point of maximum collapse, then it should be possible to travel in time without affecting causality," said Bill McLarty.
"Come on Bill, even if what you say is theoretically possible it would still be impossible in terms of the energy needs of such a device," said Jack, Bill's co-researcher at the laboratory.
"Oh, so it takes a lot of energy to travel in time?" said Bill.
"Enormous quantities, and huge machines," said Jack.
"Are you sure?" said Bill.
"Absolutely," said Jack.
"So where's the big machine moving us in time now?" said Bill.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

raw near darling

She was going to be the ruin of him, but Jeremy Jones just couldn't stay away from Claudette Sikorska.

Claudette was whimsical, tragical, uptight, a little snooty, just like Beck predicted.

Jeremy was a big fan of Beck. He didn't say that out loud where he worked though. Water quality technicians were clannish and didn't favour west coast experimental rock at the moment.

To Jeremy it was like a 37 year old being forced to live at Kindergarten.

They met for lunch one day. After a dozen maybe's and I don't knows on the part of Claudette.

"I'd meant to meet you sooner Jer, it just didn't work out that's all," she said. Why did it sound like she was breaking up with him on the first date?
"I understand you're busy Claudette but I respect my time and for you I made a special exception," he said.
"Oh, and what's that supposed to mean?" she said.
"I know I don't look like much and I also know when someone's holding out for a better deal," he said.
"So why should I stay now?" she said.
"Because no one you ever meet will be willing to put up with your nonsense," he said "
"So you think it's nonsense now?" she said. Jeremy had gotten through to her.
"Yeah, when did you start to think I could respect someone who treats other people like you've treated me? I only met you today to tell you I'm glad I found out what kind of a person you are now before I make a big mistake and get into something serious with you" he said. Whew, he was nearly out of breath on that one, he'd been saving it up.

Her beautiful eyes turned black. Then disappeared behind her lowered lashes. She seemed to shrink inside herself, her cheeks blazed, the next thing she said sounded brittle and plaintive.

"Can we at least sleep together?" she said.
"Maybe" he said, "if you ask me nicely."

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

farm cave allies

farm cave allies (Kalkan 2006) Posted by Picasa

advising pipe activating

In the long years through deep space, sometimes I thought we'd lost our sense of humour.

"Good to see you Niall," I said to my old friend, a genuine wooden owl from Earth.
"Cuckoo," said Niall.

Last night, over breakfast, Stanton had lured me into another of his sociolinguistic arguments. Kay Stanton was always willing to drag out the same old hash, why we bothered with a 24 hour cycle on board a spacecraft when we could pick 25 and give everyone a little more time in the day.

Stanton like myself was on an antipodal timeshift so we ate our dinner in the morning and our breakfast at night.

Which on a spacecraft is purely a semantic discrimination.

I didn't worry like Stanton, I worried about other things, like had our language become stilted and reserved having dealt so long with the logic and abstraction which defines our episteme?

As I often wondered, with our heads so full of centuries of knowledge, had we lost our sense of humour?

"Come on Stephen, just because we have the same laryngeal position as our forebears doesn't mean we have to retain all their eccentricities!"

As a professional historian and closet libertine, it was exactly such language that 'freaked the bejayzus out of me.'"

Monday, October 02, 2006

shouts opus infection

"And then, when Troy Ludlove got into his Mercedes, everyone just laughed and laughed," said Mickey Henkle.

Mickey was holding court again. Who could put up with his preposterous stories? It made Sammy Johnson wonder if maybe Mickey was hiding something, something dark and juicy, something that smelled like old gym socks, something that smelled like a story.

Sammy was a journalist.

Mickey had grown up on the questionable side of the railroad, his lushious lifestyle the product of questionable dealings with criminal elements.

Or that's what people said.

Sammy sipped his Pol Roger and wondered whether Mickey knew he was having an on again off again affair with Mickey's fiance, Julie Smalls. Julie had been an off-broadway actress when Mickey met her. She had been frail and innocent.

By the time Sammy met her she had turned hard. Like concrete, like steel. In bed he called her his Iron maiden, she liked that. She saw in him a way to escape. Mickey was always on the edge of trouble, that's what she said, although always on the gleaming edge of respectability as far as the equally rich and paranoid neighbors were concerned.

But Julie knew better. She knew Mickey from the old days. From the big pipe days. She'd confessed as much to Sammy.

Mickey ranted on and on about Troy Ludlove, from across the room, Sammy felt his cold fishy stare.

"And then, we put his feet in cement and sent him to the bottom of the Hudson!" he said. In a tone signifying hilarity, pretense, not-to-be-taken-seriously talk.

But his eyes were all on Sammy.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

superb shallow screws

Felix got up that morning the same way he always got up. Breakfast was also uneventful.

Then he grabbed his things for work and locked the door behind him.

Once in his car, he drove very slowly in the far left lane or very quickly, tailgating, in the far right lane. When he got to work, he parked in someone else's spot then went to his fiftieth floor office directly from the parking level.

Although people hurried to catch his elevator, he held his finger (guess which one) firmly over the 'close door' button and nobody made it in time.

Once at his desk he rose immediately and walked to the reception area and borrowed several pens he would not be returning. He then walked around the office looking for collegues busy working and whenever he found one proceeded to talk at them until they couldn't work and had to excuse themselves to either the kitchen or the washroom.

He did this all morning.

At lunch he went for a walk on the bicycle path completely ignoring the angry cries buzzing past him. In fact, the furious cyclists inspired him. He 'borrowed' a bike that had been left outside a convenience store and cycled over to the nearest intersection where he very carefully and slowly fell on top of a pedestrian who had been waiting for the lights to change.

He didn't give the pedestrian an opportunity to hit him but rather quickly cycled back to work.

Along the way he scratched and dented several parked cars.

All afternoon he surfed porn on his computer and whenever the receptionist asked about the missing pens he claimed not to have them anymore.

On his way out at the end of the day he yelled at the receptionist for not informing him about something everybody else somehow knew about and the shamefaced poor creature didn't have the courage to correct him.

As he backed out of the parking space that wasn't his he ignored the note on his windsheild and rather focused on ensuring that in backing out he scratched (quite badly) the car beside his.

Once he got home, he yelled at his neighbors and slammed his door shut.

All in all a productive day.

creating text lyrics

"Girls are people too," he said.
''That's it? That's the story?" we said.
"Either you're both total idiots or I'm a sexist pig," he said.
"Given those options, you're a sexist pig," we said.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Monday, September 25, 2006

renew mimic upwards

So I rubbed the lamp and out popped a genie.

'So I get three wishes, right?' I said.

He shook his head and explained that due to recent budget cutbacks and new union rules he was only authorized to provide 1 (one) wish as the area where I had found the lamp (the local beach)had been designated by the local genie lamp zoning by-law council authority (in conjunction with UGW local 9384) as high traffic.

Throughout his sub-claused sub-sectioned speech I watched amazed as little legal visualizations and examples puffed into and out of existence around his little blue head.

I thought.

'I wish for feelings without emotions!' I cried.

And in a poof he was gone and I didn't feel any different. I dimissed the episode as a bad flashback and walked to my car.

On the way home somebody cut me off in traffic and my heart began to pound and my blood pressure rose. I saw a pretty girl cross the street in front of me and my heart began to pound and my blood pressure rose.

At home I watched the sunset from my balcony and discovered I could sense the level of electrical resistance in my skin falling and my body temperature with it. Just like when I fall asleep.

I watched a drama on TV about all the usual suspects: jealousy, suspicion, lies, betrayal, hatred, love, envy, guilt, seduction and though I knew what the words meant and I knew how they felt I could only seem to reflect on them in terms of changes in my physiology.

My wish had come true. And I literally couldn't care.

I ought to have been horrified, maybe I was but all I could say for certain was that my core body temperature decreased and I began to perspire.

What would Buddha have made of all this, I wondered as the movie ended.

What would work be like tomorrow like this? What would I say to my boss?

I went to bed.

Friday, September 22, 2006

grıef expressways happenıng

When was the last tıme Jerome had drunk a coffee? At least 2 years ago and 4 years sınce the ban. It hadn't been an easy tıme. Sınce coffee plants had all nearly dıed ın the plague of '09 and governments around the world had begun to jealously guard theır last supplıes of beans wıth legıslatıon more restrıctıve than for heroın and cocaıne the world of the coffınısta had not been easy.

Now. Sıttıng ın thıs dıngy back cupboard both hands clutchıng a tıny porcelaın cup of what the matron at the front swore was the 'real deal' he suppressed a shıver.

He brought the tıny brown brew to hıs lıps and sıpped.

Almost ımmedıately, he remembered what ıt had been lıke.

'Everythıng to your satısfactıon Mr. Smıth?' saıd the Tableboy.
'Yes, excellent, thank you,' saıd Jerome. He hadn't gıven hıs real name.

What would the neıghbors thınk? Lıvıng next to a coffee connaısseur?

Monday, September 18, 2006

quartz prıncess noıse

It was another fıne day shoppng for slıghtly used fox pelts. Jenny Hunter slung her rıfle over one shoulder and slung her 5 pelts over the other. The forest had been good to Jenny today.

Back at her cabın she fıred up her old computer and hammered away at the foreıgn keyboard she stıll hadn't found all the punctuatıon on yet. She could easıly have bought one new but she enjoyed the odd affectatıon. Despıte the keyboard's drawbacks ıt suıted the rustıc look she was goıng for ın the cabın.

But for the last fıve years she had never used a comma ın an emaıl owıng to the fact that she stıll hadn't found ıt on the keyboard. As a result. All her emaıls looked lıke dıspatches from the front. Sent by Telegraph. Everywhere a stop and yet nowhere a pause.

Too embarassed to admıt her defıcıency to her frıends (she had been consıdered a bıt of a whız when she lıved ın the cıty) she had gaıned a Hemmıngwayesque reputatıon as the wıld venture capıtalıst who had gıven ıt all up to bang out a lıfe ın the wılderness-wıth hıgh speed satellıte ınternet of course.

She dıdn't mıss the cıty. Quıte the contrary. She wasn't mıssıng a thıng. Lıke that old song. Full moons and crossıng ranges. That was the lıfe.

One of the fox pelts moved. Her dog Squırrel had crawled under the pelts.

"Behave yourself or you're next."

The dog obeyed. It was the most she'd saıd all day.

Friday, September 15, 2006

writing sabbatical week

Gearing up for NaNoMo and polishing off the second draft of his sick second novel: a voyage thither, B8A may or may not post for one week due to the unknown amount of internet access in the remote location in Turkey where B8A will be resident Dj'ing and writing and tanning and being all experiential for one week.

check through the archives for missed stories! You could find a better way to spend your time but you're here now, so why not take a peek?

antiseptic tropical french

It was another lazy day down at the pig factory. Jackson Jilly (a name he'd learned to regret from a very young age) checked out the sows and watered down a couple of dry ones and slopped their feed into the trough and that was it for another hour or so.

He mosey'ed (something only southerners can really do properly) down to the hay barn where Annalulu, the farmer's daughter liked to meet him and pass the time now and then.

He waited in the barn for no more than 10 minutes when Annalulu swayed her hips around the stalls and gave him a come hither wink.

But something was wrong. Something was definitely not right.

"Jackson," she drawled, "I've got something to show you."

To Jackson Jilly's horror, she reached behind her head and he heard the sound of a zipper zipping where no zipper should be and before his very eyes she unzipped what he could only refer to in the moment as her 'Annalulu' suit to reveal a two legged talking pig.

The talking pig batted it's eyelashes (which if you're familiar with pigs you know they have in abundance) at him and said something.

It was howled down by Jackson's screams.

Jackson's hair turned grey that day and no one knows what became of him or Annalulu.

But the farm had no short supply of bacon that year.


Tuesday, September 12, 2006

hungry mod troop

It was a project to get inner city kids out into the country so they could taste what real air really tasted like and smell what real food smelled like.

Because inner city kids were considered by the demographics people to be very style conscious they were outfitted in crisp black uniforms with silver flashes at the collars. Focus groups of inner city kids 'dug' the new 'threads' and gave the uniforms a 'max' on the 'awesome' scale (the older rating systems had been deemed out of fashion by yet another focus group that surveyed surveys) and before anyone could say quadrophenia the first troop was piled onto a battered yellow schoolbus with solid axles and leaf spring suspension and packed up into the mountains.

They called themselves, rather disingeniously one could add, the mod troop. Terribly fashionable for the mountains.

On their first night camping in the woods. Everything went off according to plan, they sat around the campfire (only it wasn't a campfire but a coleman gas stove on account of the mountains being on high risk fire alert) and sang traditonal campfire songs (only whose tradition is anybodys guess, something about killing your baby today and it not mattering very much but they all knew the words so the counselors cautiously allowed them to 'express themselves' even up to the point of joining in on a little ditty they once again all knew the words to about hating everyone and being worthless and the future being insane but ah well, kids today!) and the only glitch in the program was little Alice Shoemaker somehow getting ahold of the medicine kit and downing all the codeine but nobody's perfect!

On their second night everyone was shot and partially eaten by a mad old grandpa who lived up in the woods with his two dogs and his twenty automatic rifles.

Police took his report. Sent him to the hospital.

He'd been certain WWIII had started. He'd heard their songs, He'd seen their uniforms and hatched a plan, no stormtroopers were going to take HIS mountain. The last man he'd seen with a black uniform with silver collar flashes he'd spiked his head with his bayonet at Dieppe.

Who'd a thunk it?

sharing paste immediately

It had been another long day at the office. Johnson Teapants wrapped up his half eaten sandwich and switched off his tiny computer and leaned back in his Eames chair and sighed. The crisp evening outside his floor to ceiling windows did nothing to confort his deep inner malaise.

Detective Wiley had rung him that afternoon and their conversation over the phone had been replaying through his mind ever since.

He took extra time to do everything as he left. Dreading every step that brought him closer to home.

There had been another call. To the house. This time to tell the police in his living room to search the basement. They had found a muddy bootprint. The constable whose responsibility it was to patrol that section of the house swore on a stack of holy books that it hadn't been there on the last sweep.

The phone switchboard insisted the calls were coming from inside the house.

At first, he himself had been the prime suspect in the murder of the man found under his bed yesterday morning. At first, he had drawn some hasty conclusions about him.

Shock is a curious thing. His wife had fallen to pieces and an ambulance had taken her to the hospital. Thank God they hadn't had any kids yet. Johnson, however bizarre his behaviour might have seemed to the first officers on the scene following his 9-1-1 call insisted on returning to his investment banking office in the afternoon so he could wrap up some business with an immovable deadline.

Now all that had to be done had been done.

Hadn't anyone told his wife's lover?

Their no profit in fucking a banker's wife.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

planned distort premature

planned distort premature (Rome 2006) Photo Credit: Olga Akman Posted by Picasa

imagination shares planned

Hurricane Jack, the fastest bestest wildest gun packing cow poking six gun shooting outlaw of the whole wide world, his spurs jingle-jangling, his dusty trail coat flowing, walked up the steps to the doors of the English Gentlemen's Country Club in the Great State of Georgia.

"Sorry sir, a two piece suit is minimum attire for the club," said the Jeeves clone at the door.
"I always wear two pieces!" Leered Jack as he drew his .50 calibre custom made revolvers and with a ghoulish har har har kicked down the clone and stomped the muddy soles of his boots over his prostrate body.

"Har har, mighty gentlemanly of you Lord Pig!" he spat between lungfuls of fiendish laughter as he kicked in door after mahogany panelled door until he finally reached the nearly deserted dining room and fired a couple of rounds at the 2.5 million dollar antique chandeliers and bellowed for a waiter.

"Boy! Boy! bring me hot grub, cold beer and neat whiskey!" The few other members in the dining room cowered in their leather armchairs and cowered behind their oak bookcases of first edition Pulitzers and cowered in, under and behind every valuable and expensive stick of furniture in the whole place.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Jack was thoroughly enjoying his meal while the Cordon Bleu Chef who'd prepared it was held tableside at gunpoint.

"Blast that Hurricane Jack!" muttered one of the other members under his breath and under his table.
"These outbursts are revolting sure," muttered his dinner companion, "but the billions he pays us in special members' priviledges for his nonsense is putting our kids through Eton in England."

The eccentric billionaire James Humphrey Raleigh "Hurricane" Cotswold III fired another round into the 17th century antique ceiling and barked for the desert tray.

Four extremely rich waiters jumped to comply.

Friday, September 08, 2006

whence issuing derived

'whence issuing derived' (Warsaw 2006) Posted by Picasa

lump issuing companion

And she had told him the title to use and he had forgotten the piece of paper he'd written it on in the car. This was typical of the man, spending his nights alone in tired bars in the corners of oddly angled streets listening to loud metal music and reading Erich Fromm. It was terribly pretentious of him. He knew that. Sitting in his dusty armchair by the door and drinking his cigarettes and smoking his beer and reading by the dusty lampshade while all around were people in twos and threes but he wasn't alone, oh no. He couldn't be, he had his ideologies, a bucket without bottom in Polish. That's what his ideologies were, and sitting there under a cloud of sweat and blue nicotene vapours and reading about the fear of freedom and the deformations of character created by the need to live and the constraints society placed upon the self as to how to achieve that end.

Oh, it was terribly literary, and terribly pretentious, had he friends, would he not be with them? Had he engagements would he not go to them?

But the terrible truth went beyond pretention. For in fact he did have such engagements, invitations, requests for his company. But this was something that needed doing. Sometimes, To feel truly alone, he had to surround himself with strangers. At home, at night, in this surprising jab of summer into autumn, it was intolerable, the evening was too nice.

Alas, it was too late when he found his second wind to accept any of those aforementioned invitations. They were not bottomless and he had already rejected them.

Now there was only the book, fear, freedom, virtue, vice, all in the safe pages of a book from a man of the last century.

What was it about being alone that he could only feel it positively among a crowd?

The answer was obvious and trite: By himself, he was lonely. In the mob, he signified his choice to be alone.

And occassionally it drove him out of his house. Just as surely as if he'd been shot out.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

gut joint meetings

gut joint meetings Posted by Picasa

supressed distinctive blesses

And then she said it.
"I don't want you in my life anymore."
I couldn't believe it.

Here I was, a high flying sorcerer of prodigious and phenomenal powers, and she was slagging me off? How could this have happened?

"It's not like we have sex anymore," she commented.
"That's because you don't know what the word means!" I retorted.

But who could be blamed? Me, for my anger issues? It's not easy being the chief wizard and guardian of the holy eternal knick-knack. I have pressures on my time that only Hermes himself would understand.

I'm not exaggerating, try telling the gods their mail is late or their mistresses didn't like the flowers they'd sent. I was in a similar pickle.

"We just seem to be going in different directions," she said, sounding genuinely sorry. I wasn't the wizard she thought I was in the end.

Well, can you beat that? After a day fighting the forces of darkness and keeping the reigns tight on the wizarding council would make any man lose his priorities.

But I still loved her, I had to act fast.

"Resigning now is tantamount to treason! We need you Humperlingdichus!" My grand vizier complained loudly, "The armies of Kate are massing at our borders as we speak!" he cried.

Kate was an enemy state that enjoyed conquering new territories and we were number one on its list.

"My mind is made up, call an election, I have to deal with my wife," I was cold, I would not be moved.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

island goal sophisticate

'island goal sophisticate' Warsaw Botanical Garden 2006 Posted by Picasa

sustain proud vanishes

Once upon a time there was a little girl who had enormous ears. They were beautiful ears. She used them to listen to everyone. She listened secretly. She learned all their secrets. She grew up listening in on everyone and everything.

One day, she scrambled up all she'd heard and wrote a book and the book got published and everyone thought she was very clever and very nice and truth be told she was both of these things but deep inside she kept a dark secret.

Because she listened so much and everyone made her feel so good for listening and started calling her a 'good listener' and inviting her to great parties where she met fabulous older men who found her cute despite her ears and who she found interesting despite their years and because the critical reviews were mixed and because she had to please her publishers she went and on and on with that deep dark secret buried deep inside her.

But the second book came out to lukewarm reviews and the play didn't quite live up to its hype and the movies she had written got lost and it began to dawn on everyone what that deep dark secret was.

As she talked more and more, naturally she listened less and less until one day, while writing her third book in her very clever loft writing studio it even dawned on her that the secret was out.

It was a secret buried so long and so deep and so far from her waking mind that had it not been for her success she would never have figured it out. Having spent her career scrambling up the words of others and the thoughts of others she realized at last that she hadn't an original thought to call her own.

Suddenly the dreary stylistic and thematic repetition of her fiction was revealled to her in all its tattered bits and having done so much talking she reached the dreaded point where she had run out of other peoples' words to scramble around on her word processor.

Finally, she had to write out her own, and in despair, she found them to be the same words she had so often heard before.

Not a damn original thought in her head.

She shrugged. 'It's a business,' she said to the empty loft writing studio and got busy writing down a new addition to her house. Her words, his words, she didn't care as long as the paycheques were in her name.

The end.

Monday, September 04, 2006

poke times upgraded

I hate this guy. If he wasn't my friend, I'd punch him in the nose. He has this job, where he meets a lot of people, it also happens to be one of those jobs where a lot of those people are beautiful girls between the ages of 18 and 35. Kinda sweet demographic. And you know how it is. I'd be begging to talk to these girls, given the chance, I'd love to have endless opportunities to get in their pants. If I had just 10 percent of his opportunities.

They even bump into him in foreign countries! With 'Hey! Guy! kiss kiss in that odd cheeky way that only seems normal on televison.

And what does he do with all these wonderful opportunities?

Nothing. Zip. and the rest of that cliche signifying negation with a string of Zees.

Oh, yeah sure, to hear him go on he has a hundred things he can think about doing at any moment that are better than sex. 'But what!?!' I ask him. 'What could be better than sex!?!' and he just shakes his head and looks at the ground and takes another drag off those socially disgusting cigarettes and doesn't bore me with the full recitation as I've heard it before. Make no mistake, there is a list, I have heard it, there are a hundred items on it. Bang! What a muppet.

That little shit, doesn't he think about my morale? I want more and I don't get more. Him? He acts like he wants less! Can you believe it! He isn't even that attractive!

Arrogant prick tried to tell me that reality never lives up to the fantasy, that possibilities are more exciting than acts.

What a load. I mean, can you BELIEVE it? Argghh.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

competitive canonical investment

It would be bad, it would be very bad, the fish would be dry, the wine would be warm, the vegetables would be soft, the coffee would be cold. The meal would be a disaster. If only he hadn't spent so much time on the computer...

Saturday, September 02, 2006

recovering mobile distinctly

This would be interesting, thought Mr. Spectacles. He slowly typed today's entry into the flight computer. This ship had been travelling for longer than he had been alive. And this was the first time the computer had advised a course correction with 2 variables. Were they making progress in his revolutionary education?

Mr. Spectacles was only half as exciting as his name suggested. In his youth he had been at the center of political controversy aboard ship. He, together with two other men who were dissatisfied with their roles on board had worked tirelessly to undermine the power of the ruling circle. Mr. Spectacles himself had been the first to hold the position of 'Chief Advisor to the Computer' for more than 5 years.

Now, in his antiquity, the other two men dead, Mr. Spectacles had a decision to make.

"Will this lead us to our destination?" asked Mr. Spectacles.
"Can you reveal the destination, finally?" asked Mr. Spectacles.
"No. Access denied."
"Buggery computer." said Mr. Spectacles.

Computers don't understand revolutions, they understand cycles. How could he ever have thought the UMIX-808 was any different from his toaster?

"I wish I could nail your hands to a podium," grumbled Mr. Spectacles as he went back to his cabin. His ship hurtling through space. Destination unknown.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

birthday we cellular

"Kids, don't try this at home," said the pretty announcer on the televison screen.
"Today, we're going to demonstrate how to pull a magician out of a rabbit," every word a sunshine smile.

Her eyes darted back and forth, the telepromter had been suddenly edited.

That bloody PA, I can't believe Johnson got me to agree to this, I. Will. Have. His. Nuts, was the thought that raced through her head faster than her conscience could follow.

The 'live television audience' watched with snickers as she blushed so fiercely it was visible under all the stage makeup she was wearing.

The phone lines, all 12 of them, started blinking. Irate busybodies and mocking single men and the poor customer service reps didn't know which was worse, the ones calling them names or the ones slurring words like 'cutie' and asking for the host's number.

If it hadn't been happening to her, she wouldn't have believed it, since the gaffe she had mechanically run through her lines, cheeks blooming, perma-smile fastened to her face as though with copper rivets.

The laughter, the cruel mocking laughter she imagined echoing through every household in television land, she would never live it down. She imagined taking the call and becoming a nun and doing terribly important missionary work in Angola like her parents had always wanted, she imagined how proud she'd make them, tending to the sick, comforting the dying, doing something with her life that was significant.

Instead of this brainless blather filling the space between ads for carbonated sugar water and kitchen gadgets that never worked.

As she read through to her last line, a sense of overwhelming determination overcame her, this dark moment would be the beginning of everything. Today a disgrace but tomorrow a saint.

"And we'll be back after a short break," she said.

When the 'on air' of the cameras flicked off, When she was no longer live on television, she knew she couldn't do it. No escape.

She let out a barking laugh, almost a sob, tore off her microphone and balled up on the linoleum floor of the studio howling with impotent grief and frustration.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

maize imagines cables

By any estimatation. It was a disaster. Wheezle Burblebeery, the next door neighbor, couldn't really be blamed for it, but was. There wasn't a law yet that said people had to be sober in their own homes but they blamed him anyway.

So what, if Johnny Axworthy set his babysitter's car on fire. Who cares that the police and ambulance were called too late to save the toy poodle that had simply wandered into harm's way from the front yard of Mr. and Mrs. Knucklewurst. It was all just a carefully orchestrated accident and Johnny should have counted his lumps and cut his losses.

Johnny couldn't do that (Johnny and his firecrackers, I mean really, his parents ought to be charged, not poor Wheezle Burblebeery, who is after all just an innocent in all of this). When his teenage babysitter Janice Sugarbottom heard the 'whump' of her ultra-sub-compact-economy-car's fuel tank ignite and once Johnny peeled himself out of the bushes all black and blue and started laughing, well, Johnny, he shouldn't have laughed. He really shouldn't have laughed.

He certainly shouldn't have kept on with that alternatively bassy/screechy prepubescent way he did...

'ha huh huh ha hi hi ha huh uh uh.'

To cut to the punchline, Janice the babysitter let go a keening wounded animal sound of fury and jumped down on top of 9 year old Johnny just as high-as-a-kite Wheezle Burblebeery burst out of his bachlor semi-d armed with a push broom and a bucket of tripe (he loved to fish)

Well, you can imagine.

Johnny was treated for:
1. Burns 2. Strangulation related injuries 3. torn ear (she'd bitten down hard)

Janice was treated for
1. split nails 2. decontamination (tripe) 3. concussion (push broom)

And poor Wheezle Burblebeery, as the only adult on the scene, clearly out of his gourd, on several class-A narcotics, well, he was arrested and charged with everything.

Even the poodlcide.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

laid team screwed

The cabbie turned to the fare he'd just picked up at Port Authority and asked the usual 'where to' only to have a small pocket recorder pressed against the plastic divider and hear a tinny voice from the recorder give him directions to 92nd and 2nd.

He stole a glance at his fare but the guy, if it was in fact a guy, was all wrapped up and hidden as if for a long winter storm but that didn't make any sense at all because it was August in New York and unbearably hot. The cabbie himself was as far down to his skivvies as his despatch supervisor would allow. But, a fare is a fare as they say so he dutifully drove to the destination and dutifully accepted the mouldy bills and dutifully scrambled the hell out of there.

The summer snowman looked left and right to be sure no one was following down the alley at 92nd and 2nd and for one horrendous moment imagined someone at the Victory Cafe 2 blocks down had been watching this corner with binoculars and only once the snowman was sure that no one was watching, ducked down the back alley stairs where by rights no stairs should be and through a door that by rights should have been locked and followed the din of voices that by rights should not have been there and presently met up with the rear of a pulsing beating throng of people, some in business suits, some in rags, and pushed through to the center of the mass under the weight of an abrupt and deafening silence.

They'd all come to hear the prophecies, unspeakably accurate, unspeakably taboo, coming as they did not from the prophets' mouth yet nevertheless, they came from her lips.

The summer snowman took off her disguises and drowned them in her future.

Monday, August 28, 2006

aged coverage depresses

Three little elves were trolling down the slick disco street looking for cute little female elves with whom they could play 'hide the pixie dust' when all of a sudden, a large and clearly intoxicated wolf with three heads came stumbling out of the back of one of the more infernal bars and eyed up the three little elves with 6 gimlet eyes.

'You're not going to eat us, are you?' chattered the three in that sickeningly sweet way that elves say everything.

'Argh, nah, elves give me heartburn,' mumbled the monster, but can you point me to the nearest hot dog vendor?'

Too grateful for being spared, the elves paid no notice of his excellent (not even for a monster but in general) diction and only once they were well away, all thoughts of pixie dust wiped from their minds, did they start to question what sort of a cerebus was it that passed up three tasty elves and spoke with such a clear voice, even when mumbling drunk?

They didn't have long to ponder their mysterious fortune because the skies chose that moment to open up and umbrellas began pounding down on top of them. Like everyone else caught unprepared they took refuge under the awning of a little italian restaurant on the corner famous for its galactic navigation.

'At least they open around here' muttered one elf as they witnessed the yellow and black and polka dot umbrellas tumbling over and over as they fell from the sky.
'Yeah, remember that time in Foucaultland where they just dropped down like javelins?' said the second elf.
'Too goddamn organized, that place' agreed the third.
'Like munchkin land run by the cenobites' replied the first.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

forgive bypass accidental

And on the way to the store, Bobby realized that he had forgotten his atm card. "What am I going to do at the store without my atm card?" he muttered out loud, oblivious to anyone who might hear.
So even though he was halfway there he turned around and headed back to his flat. Of course, wouldn't you know it, when he got back to his flat and his key was already in the keyhole, he discovered that he had 20 bucks in his pocket that he had forgotten there on the night of his 23rd birthday. "Ah, damn," he said to himself and headed back down the stairs but four flights down, he started to wonder whether he had locked the door this time and despite the short distance to the market he trudged back up the stairs and checked only to find that this time, in fact, he had remembered to lock it. But ever since that night that he hadn't locked it he had developed a bizarre obsessive compulsion to check and double check his door locks every time he left the flat and he only wondered how much time he had left before he was scrubbing his hands between each and every individual peanut lest he catch some horrendous infection.

Bobby shook himself out of his spiraling thoughts and concentrated on the luscious chocolate magnum bar that awaited him and shuffled off down the stairs. On the way he met Lucy who was heading down to the laundromat and following a few pleasantries he found himself agreeing to picking up a chocolate ice cream for her too. Luckily he didn't mention the specific nature of his own mission because then he'd have been obligated to get her a magnum and as things stood, he could get away with picking up a lesser quality ice cream bar for her and then sneaking casually up to his flat to eat his own.

On the return trip, she invited him in.


scattering gleans refusal

"Knowing what evil they had done to themselves, they beat their breasts crying woe! We have destroyed ourselves!
The might, the power, from the heart of stars, this flesh, this world, eternal puzzles in infinite combinations!
The Man, Jesus, into who the divine aeon Christ came.
Have you preached the gospel to those asleep?
Waiting for salvation to come?"

The cross replied.


And unto the profane, the paranoid, the drug addicted, the insane, I say unto you, there is a way out of the prison, believe in nothing, for belief is the prison, do not reject belief, for that also is the prison, reject community for that is a prison, accept community for rejection of it is a prison, fear your freedom, for freedom is the prison, fear your captivity for above all, that is the prison.

All this was said to Joan, as she suffered in her cafe torments, spun this way and that by conspiracies and gnosticism and drugs and authority.

But Joan was wise, she focused on her espresso doppio, she knew she would prevail.

She knew that there would one day come a day of rejoicing and a day of judgement.

Joan, the last of the apocalyptic university students. She alone kept the faith alive.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

develop printed boy

develop printed boy (Czyrk 2006)  Posted by Picasa

separate speculation scenario

"Thomas, why does it have to snow?"
"Terry, can you concentrate on the job?"
Thomas and Terry were deep in the drift, very allegorical, thought Thomas, very difficult, thought Terry. Their big red plastic snow shovels picked up more snow than they could possibly lift at a go so each had to gauge the amount on their shovels as they continued to pile last night's snow fall into a pig of a pile next to their house.
Terry thought their Dad would yell about the pile leaking into the foundations and Thomas admired the pile for it's crytalline beauty but both of them carried on with the work despite all distractions and the arduousness of the task itself.
You understand, they had a compulsion, they'd been hypnotized by all that deafening silence during the night as it came down and down and down on their house.
Thomas and Terry, like all internet kids, were precocious 12 year olds, familiar with the first council of Nicaea's major participants and could speak disturbingly knowledgeably about the great disagreements of the early church fathers. They had read Julius Caesar and knew the difference between a synoptic gospel and a plenoptic camera.
All this didn't stop them from indulging in childhood adventures like building up a pile of snow on their front lawn until it met the roof and then snowboarding all the way down.

Terry went first.

"Terry! Are you okay?"
"I...I think I broke my arm Thomas,"
"vos nunquam opto pondera."
"Shut up Thomas!"

Friday, August 25, 2006

retaining signature attendance

retaining signature attendance (Ilir Pristine, Rome 2006) Posted by Picasa

cunning inspiration habit

I went down to the levee
and what did I see
but three beastie boys
and they petrified me
and one said 'hey bobby'
don't 'cha recognize me?
I said I did and please
could they please just let me be

It ain't me, boys, no no no
it ain't me boys, it ain't me you're looking for

Mike D he said to me 'the sherrif's after me'
'on account of his daughter'
'who fell in love with me'

I said to MCA, don't 'cha want to be free?
He said he didn't care with a rustle of his hair
And all the drums and all the clocks and all the 808s
couldn't console the dj
he cried into his skates
I asked MCA why so far from the rink?
'with boots like this' he said
'I can scratch mix with my feet'

Oh, it ain't me boys, no no no
it ain't me boys, it ain't me you're looking for

The third one turned to me,
'I gotta ask you please
here we are just begging
just begging on our knees
give us one more line, one rhyme and we'll be
the first to let you go, the first to set you free'

Ah, boys I'm just so tired, why don't you ask Mix Master?
While you peed your diapers I was a big disaster
I caused a lot of grief and then I stole a tractor

In fact my life has been a series
of worse to worse to worst
you're really better off
if you went and drove a hearse

I'll be gone like Arlo Guthrie
one day soon I'll be free
And then you'll have to finish
The line I-

bash reminding environment

"I told you no," I said, "I came here to have fun not to listen to your whingey voice blah-blah about some vague undefined business crap," I said, "You little Canadian fuckwit-who-can't-take-no-for-an-answer better go crawl back down the fat pipe you crawled out of and while you're down there, get a shave and a haircut you nobby little troll," I said, "In fact I take that back, calling a slob like you a troll is like calling duckshit pate de foie gras."

That's not what I said, it's what I should have said. instead I gave the turd 'evils' and got back into the far better conversation happening to my right, it occured that the superior conversation was terribly literary and I actually learned something from it. Not so with Mr. Fuckwit. I felt ashamed to share a citizenship with him. I've known losers like that my whole life, I thought to myself, and to this day I wonder why they get a rise out of me.

Oh well, the crescendo to the evening was approaching, by prior arrangement our whole sick crew had purchased all the chemistry supplies from the bar to synthesize some Impolex G swing drinks (meaning: you have a drink and the room starts to swing) and the whole sick crew including our adorable little fuckwit got busy with the long molecules and correct proportions. At last, Justyna, a lusty researcher, let out a cry as a whoosh of purple flame jetted our of her 8-ball glass (meaning equal to 8 highballs) and we yelped in unison 'success!'

Then it was down to someone to take the first taste, Justyna's co-conspirator, a biometric computer scientist named Ania shot it down in 2 gulps and smacked the 8-ball glass on the counter just before her hair spontaneously turned blonde and she had to excuse herself from the rest of the experient.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

super ash traditional

'super ash traditional' (Rome 2006) at Circus Bar using PENTACON six TL f2.8 at 250/sec using 80mm/Carl Zeiss Jana on Fuji Provia 120 ASA/100
 Posted by Picasa

philosopher strive laughed

"Whazzat mean?" I said to my new Polish exchange student.
"It's what girls say in Poland when boys spill sticky drinks down their shirts."

I had been saying sorry but in the haze of smoke and the boom boom of the big disco speakers I don't think she really cared. So what could I expect but that pretty soon she'd ask me to take her home. But you know what? She surprised me. She went to the ladies' room and did something with the mess and when she came out she had on a completely different outfit!

"Wow, you look great but where did you get those clothes?"

Over the din of the disco it probably sounded like 'I know that you ate but I want to pet your toes' but she answered like she got the question.

"I'm not Ania, I'm Gosia, my sister's still in there crying her eyes out because you're a clumsy excuse for a man and she wants to find another host at the University."

What I understood her to say was something those Roman emperors of the 4th century with their impressive catalogues of sexual perversions would have smiled at in naked approval, at last, I imagined them saying, something truly obscene!

Myself, with my conservative upbringing simply vomited all over Ania's top.

Now there were two beautiful girls in the toilet mad at me and I had no one to take home.

"Qrcze," I said to myself, "I think I've got it."

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

insane evened sung

'insane evened sung' (Florence 2006) using Sony Cybershot 7.2 Posted by Picasa

normality voice terminator

Nothing but frozen meat pies for the rest of the week. This was the big idea in Edward Macko's head. Nothing but frozen meat pies and not a single way to heat them anywhere. There was no real solution as he was trapped in this ice warehouse for the next four days of the long weekend. How had it happened? What posseses a resident of the Yukon (pronounced 'Yookawn' by his neighbor over the border - an American) to take a package tour of an ice warehouse!?! And to compound his misery, he felt sure that the tour guide had left him behind on purpose.
"Just because a fella asks a question or two," he chattered under his breath in between taking half-hearted nibbles off a corner of meat pie that he had diligently worked down to the consistency of meaty toothpaste.
It was an insupportable situation. Right now, he imagined his relatives, delighted no doubt to be free of his fast talking flurries of questions and challenges. Could he fault himself for having the gift of gab? Should he not rightfully stand above his uncles and aunts and especially cousin Lucy with that awful way she had of chuckling at the most embarassing times. Well, they sure would be enjoying themselves back at the hotel with the rest of tourists; eating their way through the buffet and passing knowing smiles between each other:
'Ah, that Edward, we showed him didn't we!'
'Yessireebob'syouruncle, that Edward has needed to cool off a spell for 25 years! ho ho.

Well, if no one came soon, thought Edward...he pushed the thought away by focusing on the soppy corner of his pie.

Monday, August 21, 2006

mutters overtone filter

'mutters overtone filter' (venice 2006) PENTACON six TL f2.8 at 250/sec using 80mm/Carl Zeiss Jana on Fuji Provia 120 ASA/100

rewards box schemes

So I did what I could, too impatient to wait for the lab to open in the morning so I could get a proper scan I bravely slapped the slides still in their protective sleeves onto my screen and shot them with my point'n/shooter. Once shot and the stick in my slot I just added some film grain and sharpness (and a bit of the crop, who would know?) and there it was, up on the screen and on view to the world. Now if only they knew about the other pictures from that Italy trip, the police and the military photographs, the conspiracies uncovered! Reptilian overlords unmasked! Oh, if they only knew!

At this point in the narrative our hero's self-congratulations were interrupted when a knock came at the door.

"Plotting delivery service!," came a voice from beyond the front door.

Our hero swung out of his Captain Chair and leaped at the doorlatch.

"Yum, fresh plots!" he cried as he flung open the door and accepted his order of classic long journeys with drama and his favorite side order of bogeymen under the cellar stairs.
"Thanks! here's a twenty, keep the change!"
"Thanks mister!" screeched the teenaged boy as he raced his shadow back to his delivery scooter and left in a fierce cloud of unburnt fuel and burning rubber.

Our hero mused if the boy hadn't been shaving a few characters from his order of plots, he certainly had more than the usual teenage alottment of superheroism for a delivery boy...

Still, there was the remainder of the article to write for the Big Smoking Lighthouse News...

Sunday, August 20, 2006

charitable beauty excluded

It wasn’t going to work out, I could tell. The phone had stopped ringing almost before it began and I just didn’t care anymore. I wasn’t going to be able to sell my truck, what was worse, I wasn’t going to be able to drive it home from the tele-auction; I was out of petrol and didn’t have any money to pay my rent let alone my petrol tank.

I needed cash, I needed it like a junkie needs his fix, like the captain needs his crunch, like the Beatles needed Lennon and all I had to get the ball rolling was a hat pin stolen from an old lady and a dime of dope. What could I do?

The dope could be sold, that would be easy, I hadn’t dropped a pence on it, a buddy had left it behind having decided he couldn’t hang around me anymore, he also left behind a knapsack and a fridge full of fresh egg pasta but all that had gone out the window or down my throat weeks ago, all I had to remember him now was a blood stain on the carpet and this dime of dope. The hat pin was silver and I supposed I could hawk it but I was worried that the pin was some kind of antique and the old lady had insured it or something. Didn’t the police shop insurance photos round the pawn shops? I couldn’t take the risk, I didn’t want to live under papers again, the last time was bad and long.

I knew what I could do, melt down the pin and ahhh, forget it, I told myself, at best I’d have a silver puddle on the concrete and at worst I’d have a 3rd degree burn. Not for the first time I asked myself how I’d let myself sink so low. The rent on my flat was due and I had one week to come up with the minimum, long-overdue, payment. I’d already had my last written warning and my landlord was on a pension, he needed that rent money.

So I needed a plan.

diplomatic garage requested

It was the last day of the special summer session and Senator Big Bang had just stepped outside for a quick shopping expedition when to his surprise a little man with a moustache as wide as his face interrupted him at the door to the supermall with an irresistable offer: A holiday for two to sunny Morocco. The little man turned out to be the Moroccan Agricultural attache to the U.S. embassy in Morocco and he was in the Capital for only one day on the invitation of some horticultural collegues at the local University Botany Department. Fazid, as he turned out to be named, was a great fan of Senator Big Bang and upon spying him at the door from his vantage point at the queue for donuts and clock radios he couldn't help himself and made the offer.

Strangely, had it been any other day the Senator would have been forced to refuse but today was special and he felt sure his wife would like to visit Morocco and perhaps secure some samples of rare and exciting Moroccan flora. The Senator readily agreed and before anyone in the media knew, he and his wife were jetting towards Morocco in Fazid's embassy jet.

"This is all most unexpected," said the Senator, "On behalf of myself and my wife I thank you once again Fazid."

Fazid smiled inwardly, the Senator was still on 'Washington Time' and the stiff and cliched sentences he now used would soon melt to an easy collegiality under the hospitality of the Moroccan sun. Fazid himself had undergone a similar transformation after graduating from the Civil Service Academy.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

contained detailed scotch

On the way home from work at the slaughterhouse I couldn't help but notice how beautiful the world was in the morning. Especially given that I still couldn't smell anything as my nose had shut down after drawing offal duty towards the end of my shift. I like working the graveyard shift, I understand why ordinary folks would shudder at the thought of working from midnight to six but they don't get me, I love the mornings. The streets are virtually empty, the world is still asleep and it's easier to pretend that you own everything. As I rounded the last corner before my flat I had one of those movie moments where I'm sure that something unimaginable is going to happen right around the bend, the brick wall that made up the corner marking the start of my street looked like it was a set prop in the morning light, so clean and fresh and even as I was aware that this was all in my head with plenty of help from the angle of the sun I couldn't resist the temptation to hear strains of mounting movie music rising up with lots of brass and strings and as I turned the corner extra momentously and heard the big drums go boom boom in my head I realized how little real drama I had in my life and was I really so happy about that?

Nothing happened around the corner of course but the incident got me thinking, I led a nice quiet low maintenance low income life and didn't really feel the need for any excitement, but it got me thinking, I'd been working at the slaughterhouse for 3 years now (with two on the graveyard shift) and I realized that due to my idiosyncratic preference for anti-social working hours I had lost touch with nearly all of my so-called friends.

I also hadn't taken a vacation in over 18 months and I wondered to myself if now was the time?