Frank found himself alone one night and took the opportunity to practice silence. It required great effort to not turn on the TV or radio or play a record or phone Mickey or otherwise fill the air with noise that would distract him from himself.
He suspected people who feared silence were scared of the thinking that inevitably came with it, he knew Mickey would rather listen to the hum of a bad electrical transformer than listen to his own thoughts. Mickey himself would agree, having told Frank in the past how awfully full of garbage his head was, full of nasty ideas and cruelty.
Frank let the silence sink into him as he delayed lighting a cigar end he'd found under the sink. And when the dry old destruction did eventually get lit, Frank realized how foolish he'd been to try. It was long past saving.
He'd have to lock them up from now on, only someone like Mickey would steal a 20 dollar cigar, manage to smoke less than a quarter, then assume he could hide it under the sink.
Then again, Mickey had lost his sense of smell years ago in a chemistry accident in high school.
He put enough hot sauce on everything to kill or cure a 2 ton rhinoceros of tuberculosis.
Disgusted, Frank killed the mutilated cigar falling apart in his hand and went to bed under a pile of papers and dirty laundry.
He stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.
He had successfully remained silent all evening.
Ye-hah.
Beyond infinity: Art / Twenty to One / Quire to Ream / Words and Images
8 is the longest letterform
Arranged and Rearranged
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
64 - Wet lungs on a Tuesday morning.
Coughing, Frank returned to his new apartment one morning to find Mickey had let himself in through the balcony. Frank didn't realize that he had picked this apartment precisely because it was easy for Mickey to break into. The air was wet with steamed rice and Buggles, Frank's occasional stray cat, yet another change, was nowhere. Mickey didn't explain and Frank didn't ask, it was a sign of how desperate their co-dependency had become that neither cared to ask for a pretext, they were together and that was enough, Frank's nose was bleeding from too much decongestant spray and his hot rice dinner (odd hours) was thoroughly pink by the time he had finished with it. Mickey had dropped the pot of rice on the floor shortly before Frank had returned but didn't mention it to Frank.
After dinner, they settled in front of the television and watched a movie on tape, baked fries completed the picture, Frank went to bed around noon and Mickey crashed on the couch. Before he closed his eyes, Frank looked around his bedroom, a bedroom Frank had never shared with anyone, not even certain hired visitors. Not even Mickey was allowed inside, So as he drifted through his afternoon coming attraction dreams he imagined how he would feel if the entire population of the Earth simply disappeared tomorrow and these walls were all he had left.
Where others might have seen only dinged furniture and clothes on a stolen metal rack, Frank saw a universe of unequalled possibility, if he could spend a thousand years in this room, he naively imagined he could...flibbertigibbets, the idea was gone.
Having lost the thread of it, he finally surrendered to his little death, on a pillow of his conscience, thumbing his nose at a ceiling dotted with phosphorescent paint. imagined it was sky. For all he knew or cared, one by one, outside his narrow window, the real stars could be going out. He'd never know.
It was always overcast in December. He made a mental note to put a lock on the balcony and give Mickey a key.
After dinner, they settled in front of the television and watched a movie on tape, baked fries completed the picture, Frank went to bed around noon and Mickey crashed on the couch. Before he closed his eyes, Frank looked around his bedroom, a bedroom Frank had never shared with anyone, not even certain hired visitors. Not even Mickey was allowed inside, So as he drifted through his afternoon coming attraction dreams he imagined how he would feel if the entire population of the Earth simply disappeared tomorrow and these walls were all he had left.
Where others might have seen only dinged furniture and clothes on a stolen metal rack, Frank saw a universe of unequalled possibility, if he could spend a thousand years in this room, he naively imagined he could...flibbertigibbets, the idea was gone.
Having lost the thread of it, he finally surrendered to his little death, on a pillow of his conscience, thumbing his nose at a ceiling dotted with phosphorescent paint. imagined it was sky. For all he knew or cared, one by one, outside his narrow window, the real stars could be going out. He'd never know.
It was always overcast in December. He made a mental note to put a lock on the balcony and give Mickey a key.
Monday, December 08, 2008
65 - Never too late though there's never enough time
Frank woke up to the itch of something under his back, rolling over on the filthy sheets he found nothing but quickly figured out what is was and pried the used cigarette butt off his back using the compliant edge of the door hole to the hallway. There had never been a door there for all the time Frank had rented the studio apartment from the Kaszynski family. It was a good arrangement. The flat was never properly maintained or inspected and Frank paid his bills in cash on time and everybody saved on the difference.
All his clothes hung on a stolen store rack. He hadn't stolen it though he had stolen other things in his life.
After the triple S in the toilet (Shit Shower Shave) Frank was transformed, clean, pressed suit, sharp features, he didn't invite anyone over unexpectedly so those who knew him would never have guessed that he often let his laundry rot on the floor next to spilled take-out boxes and rancid pizza.
Everyone knows someone deeper into shit than they are and Mickey was the guy Frank did allow to come over. Mickey would crawl out of his parent's basement and knock on the ground floor balcony door and Frank would let him in wearing a pyjama top but no bottom and they'd sit on a genuine original foam and particle board couch from the seventies (the most comfortable couch ever created) and watch movies on tape while speculating on when the black puddle of what was once potatoes at the back of the fridge (broken since always) would evolve opposable thumbs and let itself out for a walk.
Suffice to say, Frank kept no pets, he claimed it was in honour of an Australian girl who'd roomed with Mickey years ago. She used to recount how her mother never let her or her brothers keep pets on account of how they killed them for fun.
They would go to the beach in Melbourne and stuff black cat fire crackers into tiny cocktail sausages, light them and throw the deadly meat bombs up to the eager maws of the giant but stupid seagulls.
The gulls would swallow them whole then try to fly awkwardly out to sea, the fuse burning through their digestive tracts.
They laid bets on whose gull would get furthest out before, with a little 'pop' a gull would stone-drop into the sea.
Frank figured no animal deserved how he chose to live. Including steady girls. As long as his well varnished magazines kept him going, he'd focus on his retirement savings,
Mickey suggested they rent some prostitutes again. Nothing like treating a person like a disposable sock puppet as far as Mickey went. humiliating people gave him a stiffy you could hammer nails with. Whenever Frank thought about his own opinion on the subject, he returned to the idea that he and Mickey would likely part ways soon, if this went on.
Only Frank didn't have anyone else he could invite over. It could get lonely in the small quiet hours past Thursday midnight.
Maybe he'd hire someone to clean up this mess, get truly respectable, get a girl even. But that left Mickey's replacement up in the air during the interregnum. There wasn't time now to think anyway, he inspected himself one last time in the hallway mirror, nodded to an empty hall, left for work. clicking the door shut with a flat ugly thud.
All his clothes hung on a stolen store rack. He hadn't stolen it though he had stolen other things in his life.
After the triple S in the toilet (Shit Shower Shave) Frank was transformed, clean, pressed suit, sharp features, he didn't invite anyone over unexpectedly so those who knew him would never have guessed that he often let his laundry rot on the floor next to spilled take-out boxes and rancid pizza.
Everyone knows someone deeper into shit than they are and Mickey was the guy Frank did allow to come over. Mickey would crawl out of his parent's basement and knock on the ground floor balcony door and Frank would let him in wearing a pyjama top but no bottom and they'd sit on a genuine original foam and particle board couch from the seventies (the most comfortable couch ever created) and watch movies on tape while speculating on when the black puddle of what was once potatoes at the back of the fridge (broken since always) would evolve opposable thumbs and let itself out for a walk.
Suffice to say, Frank kept no pets, he claimed it was in honour of an Australian girl who'd roomed with Mickey years ago. She used to recount how her mother never let her or her brothers keep pets on account of how they killed them for fun.
They would go to the beach in Melbourne and stuff black cat fire crackers into tiny cocktail sausages, light them and throw the deadly meat bombs up to the eager maws of the giant but stupid seagulls.
The gulls would swallow them whole then try to fly awkwardly out to sea, the fuse burning through their digestive tracts.
They laid bets on whose gull would get furthest out before, with a little 'pop' a gull would stone-drop into the sea.
Frank figured no animal deserved how he chose to live. Including steady girls. As long as his well varnished magazines kept him going, he'd focus on his retirement savings,
Mickey suggested they rent some prostitutes again. Nothing like treating a person like a disposable sock puppet as far as Mickey went. humiliating people gave him a stiffy you could hammer nails with. Whenever Frank thought about his own opinion on the subject, he returned to the idea that he and Mickey would likely part ways soon, if this went on.
Only Frank didn't have anyone else he could invite over. It could get lonely in the small quiet hours past Thursday midnight.
Maybe he'd hire someone to clean up this mess, get truly respectable, get a girl even. But that left Mickey's replacement up in the air during the interregnum. There wasn't time now to think anyway, he inspected himself one last time in the hallway mirror, nodded to an empty hall, left for work. clicking the door shut with a flat ugly thud.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
66 - The band at the edge of time
Official t-shirts and posters were on sale in the lobby and board mixes could be had by the chrononauts arriving anytime between last Thursday and next Friday.
The MC advised everyone to be careful and as dirigible time machines mixed co-ordinates with less conventional moebius runners and tempus fugitrons the band let go with their opening chaos of lights and sound and, with suitable chrono-modulation, music, smpte coded into strobe flashes which had the time vehicles in all their mad inventor's configurations dancing in and out of the vortex of sidereal tenporality so that a distant observer would only have been aware of a single brilliant explosion of noise and light that lasted for less than the time it would take to measure it or register at all.
And the music kept pushing back further into the past, naturally, to make space, since the entire performance was happening that way anyhow.
To the participants, the concert lasted for years, decades, without an apparent break, as the band phased into the next stack of time whenever it pleased them, the audience themselves popped in and out as it suited their individual plans, all synched up relative to each other only instants away from paradox by the all-consuming all-powerful smpte code. Archaic but a universal standard, difficult to replace.
When the concert truly ended, it was because the band had died. Of course, only relatively speaking, for the chrononauts, and the band itself, continued to visit the singularity and watch the show, again and again and again, ever with more participants, until time technology had spanned the universe itself, and everyone who had ever existed with access to time tech was a participant.
It was colossal, universal, immense, populous, gargantuan. So large and massive a pulse in the linear timestream that its moment of totality eventually eclipsed the frame of the concert entirely and with an explosion of coherence, It slipped to the beginning of the history of history.
What began with a heartbeat, ended with the birth of time itself.
But somebody forgot to turn off the amplifiers, and if you tune a radio to the right channel, you can still hear the hiss of abandoned devices of great architecture and unimaginable power.
They wait for the band to return.
T-shirts are still available in the lobby, but unfortunately, the board mix is absolutely, irrevocably, out of stock.
But those T-shirts are wicked, get 'em 'fore their gone, and hurry.
It's later than you think.
The MC advised everyone to be careful and as dirigible time machines mixed co-ordinates with less conventional moebius runners and tempus fugitrons the band let go with their opening chaos of lights and sound and, with suitable chrono-modulation, music, smpte coded into strobe flashes which had the time vehicles in all their mad inventor's configurations dancing in and out of the vortex of sidereal tenporality so that a distant observer would only have been aware of a single brilliant explosion of noise and light that lasted for less than the time it would take to measure it or register at all.
And the music kept pushing back further into the past, naturally, to make space, since the entire performance was happening that way anyhow.
To the participants, the concert lasted for years, decades, without an apparent break, as the band phased into the next stack of time whenever it pleased them, the audience themselves popped in and out as it suited their individual plans, all synched up relative to each other only instants away from paradox by the all-consuming all-powerful smpte code. Archaic but a universal standard, difficult to replace.
When the concert truly ended, it was because the band had died. Of course, only relatively speaking, for the chrononauts, and the band itself, continued to visit the singularity and watch the show, again and again and again, ever with more participants, until time technology had spanned the universe itself, and everyone who had ever existed with access to time tech was a participant.
It was colossal, universal, immense, populous, gargantuan. So large and massive a pulse in the linear timestream that its moment of totality eventually eclipsed the frame of the concert entirely and with an explosion of coherence, It slipped to the beginning of the history of history.
What began with a heartbeat, ended with the birth of time itself.
But somebody forgot to turn off the amplifiers, and if you tune a radio to the right channel, you can still hear the hiss of abandoned devices of great architecture and unimaginable power.
They wait for the band to return.
T-shirts are still available in the lobby, but unfortunately, the board mix is absolutely, irrevocably, out of stock.
But those T-shirts are wicked, get 'em 'fore their gone, and hurry.
It's later than you think.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
67 - Big surprise for Alice
Left to her own devices for the weekend, Alice, a professional executive for a major manufacturing firm, decided to indulge in a long held secret hobby: she would write another novel. Something she had done since grade school.
She was precocious.
Saturday morning, fresh from a breakfast of toast, coffee, orange juice and eggs, she sat down in front of her computer and cracked her knuckles at the naked page. Writing was as effortless as driving a car in a television commercial for her. She didn't just dive in, she drove in.
She never cracked her knuckles in public because her mother had told her years ago that nice girls don't do that.
She knew this to be a pile of horse droppings but out of respect she continued to obey, it didn't cost her anything.
This is good advice: concessions that cost nothing are better than free.
She had a natural talent for prose, the words were already lined up long before her fingers touched the keyboard, waiting in line in her head like patient dancers in the wings.
One by one, they left her head via her fingers and she had soon darkened hundreds of pristine pages.
Sunday afternoon, with a fresh ream of paper, she printed out a 308 page novel about a woman who makes a shocking discovery.
Then she went to her special closet where she kept all her manuscripts.
She was killed by an avalanche of unsubmitted novels.
Discovered along with her body, each one would ultimately be a best seller.
She was precocious.
Saturday morning, fresh from a breakfast of toast, coffee, orange juice and eggs, she sat down in front of her computer and cracked her knuckles at the naked page. Writing was as effortless as driving a car in a television commercial for her. She didn't just dive in, she drove in.
She never cracked her knuckles in public because her mother had told her years ago that nice girls don't do that.
She knew this to be a pile of horse droppings but out of respect she continued to obey, it didn't cost her anything.
This is good advice: concessions that cost nothing are better than free.
She had a natural talent for prose, the words were already lined up long before her fingers touched the keyboard, waiting in line in her head like patient dancers in the wings.
One by one, they left her head via her fingers and she had soon darkened hundreds of pristine pages.
Sunday afternoon, with a fresh ream of paper, she printed out a 308 page novel about a woman who makes a shocking discovery.
Then she went to her special closet where she kept all her manuscripts.
She was killed by an avalanche of unsubmitted novels.
Discovered along with her body, each one would ultimately be a best seller.
Monday, November 10, 2008
68 - Feats of Cunning and Daring-Do
It was a devilish plan, full of conceit and bad intentions. There would be mayhem and deviltry and feats of cunning and daring-do. The most conceited of all was our leader, a vain man, rotten in every gummed crack. Also, he was the most eloquent, even inspired, orator I had ever heard.
Foolishness was rife on the eve of the dauntless unblinking moonrise, staring baleful and reeking of antique madness.
Made of cheese? My goodness, what else?
Buckles were thoroughly swashed, flagons of ale quaffed, bodices burst with extravagant abandon, Chandelliers were swung upon, duels were flourished on mysterious staircases to nowhere.
The hapless guards? Comic relief.
A kaleidescope of sweaty hairy roaring humanity sloshing against a tide of naked thighs.
All gone.
Foolishness was rife on the eve of the dauntless unblinking moonrise, staring baleful and reeking of antique madness.
Made of cheese? My goodness, what else?
Buckles were thoroughly swashed, flagons of ale quaffed, bodices burst with extravagant abandon, Chandelliers were swung upon, duels were flourished on mysterious staircases to nowhere.
The hapless guards? Comic relief.
A kaleidescope of sweaty hairy roaring humanity sloshing against a tide of naked thighs.
All gone.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
69 - Moist Attempts at Eroticism
Because there was a necessity,
somewhere an edge to it,
how close to the catastrophe,
does air still have lead in it?
Isn't it great,
how none of this,
has happened before?
Furniture, Laminate, Server, Calculus, Footwear, Pencils.
Aren't you glad to be here?
somewhere an edge to it,
how close to the catastrophe,
does air still have lead in it?
Isn't it great,
how none of this,
has happened before?
Furniture, Laminate, Server, Calculus, Footwear, Pencils.
Aren't you glad to be here?
Monday, October 13, 2008
70 - Damnable Fishies
"A bright morning it is for the experiment sir," said Franklin Cordliss, an assistant and grave robber.
"I imagine you think me foolish to hoist my apparatus in this dead calm? said Dudley Thorten, a revivificationist and collector of exotic tropical fish."
Dudley produced from his pocket, wrapped like a market stall fish, a mortar.
"Salt, it's packed with silver iodide and dry ice, now my fooolish apprentice, now! hoist the antenna!"
No sooner had Franklin hurried to the winches than Dudley had fired the mortar up into the clear blue sky.
There was a pop, and the sky filled with sparkles and highlights, which quickly descended into a fierce and dangerous thunderstorm.
There would be energy for the attempt after all.
Regardless, thought Franklin, the master's fish must be saved.
"I imagine you think me foolish to hoist my apparatus in this dead calm? said Dudley Thorten, a revivificationist and collector of exotic tropical fish."
Dudley produced from his pocket, wrapped like a market stall fish, a mortar.
"Salt, it's packed with silver iodide and dry ice, now my fooolish apprentice, now! hoist the antenna!"
No sooner had Franklin hurried to the winches than Dudley had fired the mortar up into the clear blue sky.
There was a pop, and the sky filled with sparkles and highlights, which quickly descended into a fierce and dangerous thunderstorm.
There would be energy for the attempt after all.
Regardless, thought Franklin, the master's fish must be saved.
71 - Music to savage the calmest beast
Two middle aged men were talking on the street corner today. One had a small simple wooden string-instrument under his arm, He carried it like a newspaper; it was as long as a flat wooden cooking spoon. I overheard them as I waited nearby for my bus.
“What is it?” said one, pointing.
“It’s an Angel Harp,” said the other, holding it up so his friend could see it clearly.
“It only has one string,” he observed.
“It only plays one note. ”said the owner, raised brow, downcast eyes.
“Which note?”
“It plays God.”
"Do you play it often?"
"It's playing right now."
"I don't hear anything."
"Don't you?"
"Well sure, the traffic, the wind, people."
"Look carefully at the string, can you see it's vibrating?"
"Yeah, but come on, are you telling me if you stop that string from vibrating everything will simple vanish?"
"No, that would be impossible,"
"That's a relief,"
"But all the sound, all the audible, all the music of the world, would certainly end."
"That's insane."
"..."
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," he said into a sudden crushing silence.
A finger lay on a dead string.
It was the end.
“What is it?” said one, pointing.
“It’s an Angel Harp,” said the other, holding it up so his friend could see it clearly.
“It only has one string,” he observed.
“It only plays one note. ”said the owner, raised brow, downcast eyes.
“Which note?”
“It plays God.”
"Do you play it often?"
"It's playing right now."
"I don't hear anything."
"Don't you?"
"Well sure, the traffic, the wind, people."
"Look carefully at the string, can you see it's vibrating?"
"Yeah, but come on, are you telling me if you stop that string from vibrating everything will simple vanish?"
"No, that would be impossible,"
"That's a relief,"
"But all the sound, all the audible, all the music of the world, would certainly end."
"That's insane."
"..."
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," he said into a sudden crushing silence.
A finger lay on a dead string.
It was the end.
Friday, October 03, 2008
72 - Gemini Moon
"Evenin' Jay good to sync,"
"Been busy, quakes shorting the 'lectrics, tunnel's down but I guess you already know,"
"Yeah, shut tonight and tomorrow, guess it's overtime for you but I'll take what breaks in the world I can get, Jackson pushing you hard down there? I know he pushed me,"
"Yeah, wouldn't be wantin' to trade places with me now, would you? Tunnel Jockey, really, what a way to make it,"
"It's got a plus side,"
"Name it,"
"Well, fer instance you met me 3 weeks subjective ago and I met you 15 minutes subjective ago,"
"You call that a plus? I'd like to see the girl that'll settle for seeing her man once every 3 weeks over his coffee break,"
"Money's good,"
"Better be,"
"This is Tunnel Control, TV-8 respond,"
"Control, this is Tunnel Vehicle eight, pre-drop check complete, am waiting taxi clearance,"
"TV-8, this is TC, you are clear to taxi to Tunnel bay 2, I say again, bay 2,"
"TV-8 confirms bay 2, am activating manoevering beams,"
"Beams on target, you may proceed to bay 2,"
"TC, in position bay 2, drop clamps auto-engaged, requesting drop clearance,"
"TV-8, you are cleared for drop on TC mark minus 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Mark"
"Drop,"
Jay fell. Always there was the fear, the sadness. the pain, squeezing him, until the retrieval beams locked onto him, slowed him down, docked TV-8 in bay 1, he exited, three weeks further in his subjective future, but not in his universe anymore.
After debriefing, he learned it had been a fruitful mission, the last universe had some vaccines that didn't exist here, they had also perfected certain directed energy systems that were only beginning to be theorized here. There had never been any earthquakes on this moon either, it had been geologically inactive for millenia.
As always, when he exited TV-8, he walked back to the lip of the tunnel and looked up, wondering about it, was it natural? unlikely, it had to have been built. he was sure.
Why, gods, why did it have to go only one way?
Jay walked to his quarters and read his own biography.
Here, his name was Frank.
"Been busy, quakes shorting the 'lectrics, tunnel's down but I guess you already know,"
"Yeah, shut tonight and tomorrow, guess it's overtime for you but I'll take what breaks in the world I can get, Jackson pushing you hard down there? I know he pushed me,"
"Yeah, wouldn't be wantin' to trade places with me now, would you? Tunnel Jockey, really, what a way to make it,"
"It's got a plus side,"
"Name it,"
"Well, fer instance you met me 3 weeks subjective ago and I met you 15 minutes subjective ago,"
"You call that a plus? I'd like to see the girl that'll settle for seeing her man once every 3 weeks over his coffee break,"
"Money's good,"
"Better be,"
"This is Tunnel Control, TV-8 respond,"
"Control, this is Tunnel Vehicle eight, pre-drop check complete, am waiting taxi clearance,"
"TV-8, this is TC, you are clear to taxi to Tunnel bay 2, I say again, bay 2,"
"TV-8 confirms bay 2, am activating manoevering beams,"
"Beams on target, you may proceed to bay 2,"
"TC, in position bay 2, drop clamps auto-engaged, requesting drop clearance,"
"TV-8, you are cleared for drop on TC mark minus 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Mark"
"Drop,"
Jay fell. Always there was the fear, the sadness. the pain, squeezing him, until the retrieval beams locked onto him, slowed him down, docked TV-8 in bay 1, he exited, three weeks further in his subjective future, but not in his universe anymore.
After debriefing, he learned it had been a fruitful mission, the last universe had some vaccines that didn't exist here, they had also perfected certain directed energy systems that were only beginning to be theorized here. There had never been any earthquakes on this moon either, it had been geologically inactive for millenia.
As always, when he exited TV-8, he walked back to the lip of the tunnel and looked up, wondering about it, was it natural? unlikely, it had to have been built. he was sure.
Why, gods, why did it have to go only one way?
Jay walked to his quarters and read his own biography.
Here, his name was Frank.
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