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.
Beyond infinity: Art / Twenty to One / Quire to Ream / Words and Images
8 is the longest letterform
Arranged and Rearranged
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
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.
Fast.
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.
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.
Fast.
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.
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
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.
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?
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?
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.
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."
"Unspeakable!"
"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."
"Unspeakable!"
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.
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