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.

Yar.

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.
"Yes."
"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.