Eat you up

Long room memories have invisible elephants

2012-02-10T14:09:00.000-08:00

In human nature you find the drive to overcome. This may manifest as an individual’s slow, mistake-prone plodding against the cards he’s dealt or, in the case of the group, through war, to take. I haven’t asked about my sentence, haven’t needed to. This place, where the stone gray walls slime at dawn, where open windows have rusted brown bars that’d allow me to escape were I less an arm, it’s got legible history, in fine script, scrawled through green grime on the floor.

“I must have saved everything,” one starts. No date given. They don’t want you to know what time or day it is but I’ve at least kept track. It’s been thirteen days since my arrest, since my swift internment in this cell.

“I must have remembered everything, and they were able to read it out. They know.” The penmanship, masculine, is surely from a learned hand for handwriting, as an art, has been long lost. We few writers who’ve kept that fire lit are now sought after as political enemies, as heretics, as witches and warlocks.

The cessation of applause

2012-01-21T07:02:00.000-08:00

He who shall now not be named
The time has come
For me to forget
I cared
Third rails are deadly
Somehow you live
But your mask has fallen off
You've poisoned the argument against the evils of war
Against state abuse of power
With your own evil
With your own perverted and selfish sense of liberty
That I can no longer countenance
My biggest regret is that
I helped you fool others
And by doing so
The Devil's work

Tragedy, then farce

2012-01-18T01:01:00.000-08:00

Oh America
Soft
Benighted
And on your last knees
But there's the other self
The one with the knife
Glad for the lifted restraint
Here we are saying, "Death! Death!"
Shock and awe wasn't for them
It was for us ...
Here we are
again
screaming
"To the cross!"
When it is we who shall be nailed

TSSD: antares

2011-08-28T21:15:00.001-07:00

antares by This Song Shall Destroy

Dwellings in the Wind: Infamy

2011-08-28T21:07:00.000-07:00

The General rests his arms on the concrete ledge of a third floor balcony overlooking the Ruby Nation's capitol city. Sleek, metallic domes line the landscape like perfect beads of water, punctuated by wispy tufts of lush green. In the distance to his left stands the capitol building itself, a grand mosaic of water beads, rising high as the defense complex he's working from. To his right, structure and civilization give way to brush laden plains stretching out to the horizon. The sun, setting, looming blood orange, prepares to crash land on those dusky edges of world.

Hands to jacket pockets--the familiar cigarette case profile protruding from one rightmost. Solemn cadence of ritual attaching itself to wrists; thumb crossing the box's scarified surfaces, bursting synapses, evoking memories of the last war--of men sacrificed to it. Cigarette finding way to one palm while the other paws for lighter. Fag twixt thumb and forefinger, rolled up then down its length. He studies blindly the bumps and troughs neath thin flax wrapping. The tobacco bound within, a marvel in itself, ironically harvested by swarms of specially grown, specially programmed locusts. Everything was like that now. Insecta tech, once a top military secret, had finally made its way to the private sector.

Butt pushing way through lips; a coolness felt. A flick of the lighter's chromic hood releasing once more a jinni of incandescent flame, in turn discharging that redolent smoke he seeks. Paper burning, crinkling, waking him from reverie. He sucks, in, a fierce ember to life, a faint microcosm of the rippling red disc touching down on the outskirts--out there.

He salivates and then evacuates initial, paper rich vapors through the left side of his mouth. "Like junk threats," he thinks, "like those constantly and namelessly transmitted over Insecta antennae channels since the end of the last war. You have to pull them in, taste for substance and spit them out in the same breath if they're found void of it." Just that was taking place behind him now, behind the convex, prismatic glass.

Again he hears a crinkling, not from his smoking but the desert beyond, completing the illusion of celestial collision. His eyes adjust to the glare and refract an image of something new, long, silhouetted--moving fluid across the horizon. Air raid sirens warm their many throats and the portal door behind him slides open.

"What is it?" he says, removing his jacket, handing it to an aide.

"Provenance unknown, sir. It appears headed for the capitol building. First squad is positioned to intercept."

"Suit me up."

The initial, mucky feeling of the quick suit he'll never get used to, when the genetically engineered bug-head helmet locks in place and the foreleg gauntlets connect with graft sites on his arms. He closes his eyes to access those of the first squad; to witness their annihilation at the hundred hands of the invader: a gigantic, red centipede.

Undeterred, he coordinates the positioning of a better equipped second squad, just before the Nation's impermeable northern gate. He informs them of the enemy's strength, of its uncertain weakness and that a third squad will be there shortly to reinforce. He opens his eyes and is returned to the defense complex balcony. "I need R&D on the horn, now!" he says.

"There's no one to pilot the new suit, sir. All test subjects have been rejected by the host."

He's half hearing this as the aural feeds from second squad seem severed by screams of pain; as his staff gasp in horror at the sight of the Pede, something entirely new in Insecta development, surmounting with ease the northern gate and crawling mercilessly over water bead buildings to reach that of the capitol. It seems to writhe and bulge from within before detonating in a blinding white flash ...

Oh broken

2011-08-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Oh, oh, broken, you will think me that which bit you.
Wrote my words down so they’d bleed more than before.
Read the random tome in tongues of bitterness.
The horror that I’ve borne.
Out of my hands.
The hatred that I’ve met.
For it.
Hell hath made me, and by me you.
Relief. Sweet God, relief.
Come, we are in need.

TSSD: less changes made

2011-06-18T22:57:00.001-07:00

less changes made by This Song Shall Destroy

A heart that breaks no further

2011-06-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

A heart that breaks no further.
What am I; what are we?
All these things I don’t need.
To put an end to consequence.
Time. Biding. These days.
You and I were too different; felt something melt between sheets.
I died back there; went to hell; met the Devil.
The Devil with his tongue, and with his axe, cut me down a new road and said go.
So I went--despondent--hesitation in my gait.
Each step a life wasted, with the pressure pushing down a new grave.
Deep into the earth.
Deep into the earth.
I heard my name spoke once in jest and then no more.
I felt my presence thinned into the grove grown by the present din.
Gave things up; took much for granted.
Rode the howling wind across the desert plain
Into that vetting, setting, blood-letting sun.

Sucked out to infosea

2011-05-18T23:49:00.000-07:00

Now I’m having to contend, with noise. Not the sound that strikes your ears, but your mind, from it. The words I have to read, to be your friend.
Sucked out to infosea. Drowning. Heaven sent me.
In the ease of aftermath. Down the length of red dresses. Hot pursuit. Your moment.
Put it on.
Put it down.

I am fire

2011-03-09T20:04:00.000-08:00

You said the end was bound with holes. Lopsided and empty. Negated by neglect.
And you operated like a heist. To be continued. Wicked. Murderous and wicked.
I'm sorry to say I knew you when. When all this was occurring. You made your name and filled five glasses with her blood.
Well. Time passes. What dare we to learn? Leaving broken glass behind us. Cutting feet upon the floor.
Dim rumors. A groundswell of intent. You could have opened eyes. Opened them. You could have killed yourself.
But here in the grass two bodies must have laid.
Here in silver spring we breath all in and thank the universe for another winter's passing.
No longer chilled. No longer at the mercy of an ever present illness.
Contagion. How we mercifully met. How I haplessly abided by. Terse sage said "die".
Terse sage now says merely "open". Whispering like a knave imprisoned.
We could have built pale climaxes, could have knelt about them like a fire. Basking. Basking in a warmth made clear.
I am fire. I am heat. Disgusted by the daytime. Engulfed in bitter flame.
So many making pointless noises. Retching in the heat.
Aye, the things and weather change, like madness in the heat.
Aye. And maybe we can stay. Maybe we can say those things that bit us deep down in the past.
Each word's letter felt brushing past cracked lips.
I was solely tempted.

Made a matter of pride

2011-03-09T10:30:00.000-08:00

Before you get too caught up in the system, there's a flow that lets you move.
The tightly packed San Franciscan busses. They'll let you move.
And the ladies on the sidewalks walking, with their movie-star sunglasses, moving.
And the men digging through recycling bins just put out onto the street--they're moving too, with their hands, feeling for such things as they can later sell.
And the grey sky o'er the Bay, it's moving too, though imperceptibly.
The half quaffed coffee in your hand, may you make it last.
The embarrassment brought on by sending email in the night, after one too many beers--forget it.
This life is like the gull gliding across the Bay.
It's like the fishing boat idling across the Bay.
It's like the toothpick masts, propped up across the shore.
Casting shadows, forming webs, seeking calm.
Seeking out the calm days in a timeless storm.

c22: part 1

2011-02-27T16:08:00.000-08:00

When they told me this age would be known as the twenty-second century it didn’t make much sense. Our history was lost in the preceding age of cataclysm that both man and nature had conspired to bring. Now there were only rumors that a city remained, that all technological achievement had been preserved. Wherefore we’d seek to find, I and my men.
   We left the mountain safety on our sand skiffs laden smartly, provisioned for a fortnight’s scouting to the east, where friendly tribes might be met and trades made. “You’ll have me up,” the men sang o’er nights’ fires: “You’ll have me up, sweet ma-id-en, e’er I arrive. E’er I arrive, greet me kindly, like the dawn, in your bosom warm where a sleep’s made--where an eternity is met, God willing.”
   God. That concept’s held, though long shed the vestiges of religion. Its existence irrefutable--the wriggly sand beneath our skiffs when on land, the limbless waves on water, the pale breath of wind from the northeast regardless. You’d come to make your peace with it, eventually, out here, on your own.
   Days of swift crossing etched away at the apparent horizon till mountains more were seen. “These are not like ours,” the men said in foreboding tones, but they bore their sails and did as they were told, for tales of my late father’s ventures here were fresh in their ears yet. Aye, the men, their eyes hadn’t failed them--for though beheld were peaks and aeries, glinting surfaces betrayed an inorganic origin: that of the former age.

“All hail, Madaum of the Eastern Rim, whom my father took as friend.”
   “All hail, Padua, son of Calaphir, envoy from the Western Ledge.”
   “What news from the Outer Lands? What of the Living City?”
   “There is much to tell, my son.”
   And so we banqueted long on a great balcony overlooking the desert encased in azure sky, my men on the meat and mead brought out, and I on Madaum’s words.

Billiards Southerly

2011-01-27T21:08:00.000-08:00

And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice' den.

Behind the eight-ball, heh, n’er thought that’d be a literal thing to say, but here I is, hidin’ from the Devil, lookin’ fer God.
   What’s the Devil look like, you’re askin’? That’s a good question. When I’s first met the man t’was around Thanksgivin’, when all my kin’s around with no money ‘n less to do. Billy Joe Bob, well, he’uh came up with this brilliant idea ya see--at least it seemed brilliant at the time, said we should go down to the city and uh, you know, hustle us up some wafers--tha’s what he called ‘em: wafers--don’t ask.
   First time me ‘n Billy’s played pool, well, he hustled me good, so I was thinkin’ maybe it weren’t such a bad idea. What with his talk of certain glory and the city lights bendin’ o’er me as we motored up 10th street, I was feelin’ well nigh invincible, though it could’a had somethin’ to do with the twelver of Natty Light we split afore settin’ out. Billy had a particular place in mind, one I n’er heard of, called the Southerly Gentleman, which left me to guessin’ till we set foot in the swelter. To my greater disappointment there was not one stripper present, unless you count the strange homeless looking man with his bare, distended belly on the bar, singin’ ‘long with the country juke.
   He we avoided through the provisioning of draft beer and a pocket billiards rack, eventually coming to occupy an empty gray felt table within close proximity to the bar, where various suckers and wafers in kind suffered along privately. Not a one of ‘em looked monied but we figured there’d be time an’ beer enough, since the night lay still young. We cobbled out a couple games to create the illusion we n’er played afore, an’ must’a done a good job of it as several propositions came thereafter to go for money. These we initially refused on account of affecting authenticity, but it didn’t take long for us to start a real money game--with the Devil of all things, of course we didn’t know that then.
   So, to that first question, wha’s the Devil look like, there’s actually two respectable answers if you’d believe it. That night the Devil looked jus’ like you ‘n me, but movie star rich, dressed in suit ‘n tie fit to perfection, jet black hair freshly saloned and close cropped, mustachioed ‘n goateed. My impressions of him were congenial ‘n atavistic; even if we was to win, his money wouldn’t’a been enough; I could understand why’s so many crowded in to watch ‘im play.
   Stripes. The way he said the word, with that half grin through his mustache, sent me for an instant down ancient hallways adorned with the blood‘a innocents’; each brief syllable knocking like a siege engine ‘pon my psyche. I could see it got to Billy as well, a split second’s recognition he was goin’ to lose, but a quickness to anger smoldered up an’ a flame was in his eyes. I guess I’s solids then, said Billy.
   Now, second thing: the Devil don’t jus’ introduce hisself as such. If he had, well, Billy might still have his soul, an’ I wouldn’t be beggin’ out loud to keep mine--but I’s gettin’ ahead’a myself. Mr. Dithersby McClean Esquire III at your service, is what he says, leavin’ me ‘n Billy stumped for reply. Why, we thought, here’s a mark sent from heaven above.
   Billy ran the table to the eight-ball in his first inning, but then so did Dithersby, leaving a safety frozen ‘gainst the farthest rail, which Billy wasn’t able to do much with. The Devil won that game, including the forty dollars we had down. You boys done met your match in me, he said, shall we have another go?
   To that I could only answer in the affirmative, having not yet tested myself against the man; my pride burnin’ hole in heart ‘n anxious to get that money back. Dithersby broke again, and again he started stripes. These is real ivory balls, you boys realize? Cut from the finest beasty tusk, last of a kind, can’t get ivory easy no more. You know what ivory is right? You gots it in yer mouths right now! It’s teeth!
   Well, mister, that is quite an interesting fact. Don’ believe I e’r played with ivory balls afore, a real treat. No I did not realize tha’s what ivory was, grim though it is to consider.
   If he was tryin’ to throw me with this banter it must’a worked as I sunk only three’a my solids afore he won the game, and the last of our money.

For behold, I will send serpents, cockatrices, among you which will not be charmed, and they shall bite you, saith the Lord.

That night I couldn’t sleep, McClean’s parting words ricocheting through my mind. You boys should attend a lil’ shindig I’m puttin’ on at my place tomorrow night; I’ll give ya a chance to win yer money back.
   You shot stripes on purpose, said Billy.
   Tha’s right, do forgive my lack’a pity fer fellow hustlers.
   I suppose it’s only what we deserved, didn’t expect a fella o’ yer caliber, McClean. But you can expect a call from us tomorrow. I aim to get my money back, and then some’a yours.
   You’re certainly welcome to try.
   Mind if I ask a personal question?
   Shoot.
   Why stripes?
   That’s very astute of you to ask, Billy, very astute. I think pretty much everyone would agree that stripes is more interestin’ than solids--we should ask ourselves why. Consider, my boys, that stripes have, since the dawn of man, confounded his eye and evoked in his mind an irrational fear. Look back in time and you will see the stripe avoided in both architecture and dress, however it was saved for marks’a doom.
   Like prisoner getups.
   Very sharp, Billy, tha’s precisely right. Prisoners, prostitutes, lepers, hangmen--stripes is what they wore.

The address he gave us placed his abode amidst mid-recession desolation, nearly every house on the street had a red-lettered foreclosure sign, each eerily unlit and moldering in the damp. Our destination sat high upon a pine strewn hill, McMansion silhouetted ‘gainst ruddy sunset; Billy’s ol’ Chevy Van groaned out its ascent, wheezing up an electric ghost once the engine was let to rest. Following McClean’s somewhat unsettlin’ discourse on stripes we’d avoided any further talk of attire, figuring what we had on was good enough and that he’d have said otherwise were it important.

My friends, welcome, says McClean as we’s steppin’ through the front door, noticin’ immediately that his was no ordinary residence. From outside it looked to have two stories, but from within one saw only a large ball room, white painted walls festooned with all manner of dark shaded draperies. McClean had built hisself a royal pool hall of sorts; where the man actually lived we guessed at in whispers as he guided us across the lacquered wood floorin’, stopping at intervals to arc his hands through the air, or to facilitate introductions with one of his many guests. Among these we met a Martha Mayflower and a Tommy Lefkowitz, a Sarah Diamandis and a Daniel Blair, alls lookin’ quite majestic yet rendered otherwise immemorable by a vague similitude. I got the feelin’ somethin’ were amiss when McClean ceremoniously brought us to the center of the room where a large, circular billiards table sat on fine walnut haunches, attended by a pair’a loathsome, child-sized men in bowling caps an’ red stripey shirts, presentin’ themselves with a pair’a equally loathsome titles: Earworm an’ Azazel.
   A prized possession of mine, McClean was sayin’, this here table come down from the Air Flight Academy in Colorado Springs. They’s used to train a recruit’s motor skills on these until the 80’s, got it on surplus, course I had to make a few minor alterations.
   That is a sight, Dithersby, said Billy, quite a one, such things a man n’er imagined. I suppose tha’s a rack’a ivories set forth upon it as well.
   A very special rack’a ivories, Billy, my most prized.
   What are these alterations yer speakin' of?
   So glad you asked, said McClean, step forward here 'n I'll show you boys. See there? See the shiny blue lines there?
   We looked down onto the felt 'n saw what he was pointin' at: lines drawn or taped onto the table, reflectin' the amber light from above, formin' a demoniacal geometric symbol; then the lines seemed to crawl o'er the bumpers 'n onto the floor. I felt weightless--frozen in space while the whole wide room metamorphosed into a giant pool table, with a proportionally gigantic rack'a prized ivories.
   The Devil's voice emanated as if from the ceiling which had become lost in a swirlin' sea'a blackness. Now, my boys, said he, time to win that money back.
   I's peerin' o'er at Billy at this time; n'er in my life did I expect to see him scared, but he looked as if shot in the gut and havin' the hand'a death on 'im for the first time.
   Mc-Cleeeeean! Billy screamed. Di-thers-beeeeee! What is this? What you done to us?
   Billy boy, the Devil said, you should see yerself now. Don' piss on my damn table now, boy.
   We's sorry! Billy was screamin'. Look, heh, we'll jus' leave, you know, n'er you see us again. Jus' ... jus' show us the door 'n we'll be on our way.
   No doors no more, Billy! The Devil was laughin' an' his voice seemed to change, risin' in pitch till it sounded like a wild bird squawkin'.
   Tha's when a whoop an' holler rose up from behind the ivories an' that Earworm came runnin' toward us, in one hand holdin' what looked like some pliers, an' in the other--one o' them ol' stripey shirts!
   Let's get out'a here! Billy says, an' he starts haulin' toward where we came in at.
   Last thing I sees’a my cousin is his yella’ hide divin' into the side pocket where the door should'a been, 'n that man-beast in miniature followin' along in ululation, feet first.
   Things sit silent for a moment, an’ then I sees out the corner’a my eye what must be the Devil’s true form, like an ostrich but with a damn--lizard head on its shoulders; its long birdy legs undulatin’ ‘pon the felt, buildin’ up a head’a steam an’ rammin’ into that rack’a ivories, givin’ it the break--and wouldn’t you know what sinks first.

Any Tooth

2011-01-26T21:48:00.000-08:00

What imagined. What imagined? Broken through the darkened void; pierced through. A pale blade edge slithering, slicing gently, and only slight stars as witnesses. Light-years spent to witness.
   You made a promise. Made a promise. To. Too.
   What’s not meant to be. Not. Meant.
   In the day dreams and dither likewise. Upon the pillow where you left your head. Still dreaming. Dreaming. Still.
   Ocean tide slides green-white, frothing green-white. Moon muster. Lusting o’er.
   Valley. Valleys where wretched, wasted youth play out their biding time. Seconds, breath, tokens. Wasted.
   Bending Vampire to your whim. Every whim. Any tooth. Bloody lapse. Meant to bend. Made to scream.
   You epitomized the day dream. Day dreamer. Waking to peer wrought dust. Lingering. Nostrils. God. Bless.
   Squeamish bastard. Day dreamer. Couldn’t tell fact from lie. Now it’s your turn to lie down. Track tied. Damsel. Distressed. Made to bend. Made to lie. Made to bleed. Made to writhe. Made to suck. Made to cleanse. Made to mend. Made to break. Made to sin. Made to sex. Made to wallow in climax. Made to hide. Afterward. Sorry. Things you said.
   But, sorry.
   Won’t be.
   Said.

TSSD: wreck of ye ol jihad

2010-12-13T21:11:00.001-08:00

TSSD: Death to the mirage

2010-12-11T00:22:00.001-08:00

Isotope: Part 1

2010-11-27T20:05:00.000-08:00

The volatility of this world, I didn’t realize.
News came that North Korea had launched a surprise attack on Seoul, obliterating it. Population 10.5 million. Needless to say the U.S. retaliated with a strategic nuclear strike, but not before the North fired off its single ICBM. They sing songs about it now, sad ones. L.A. is gone.
With the world on edge; supply lines cut, oil isn’t flowing fast enough, and now supermarket shelves lay bare. When the riots began, I remember counting the reports that would echo through the city streets at night. Now the gun shots ring out all day, like fireworks, more so since the Army arrived to calm things down. They haven’t yet.
Through the ensuing madness and the coming to grips and the preparation making it sat on the kitchen table, untouched, but now I seem to have all the time in the world, here on the 15th floor. The packaging is as one would expect: brown cardboard, white label, black ink. A gift from a recently established client in Japan, in whom I had confided a certain curiosity.

Congratulations on being selected to evaluate the Dream Sequencer LT. While still a prototype the device you’ve received is the result of extensive beta testing in Japan, to wide acclaim. In our dreams we may accomplish and experience things otherwise impossible. Surely you've once had a dream of flying high above city streets, and have wished since to experience that same ecstasy. Now you can. The included manual will guide the user through configuring their Sequencer for the ultimate personalized experience. Happy dreaming.

No bigger than a dinner plate, the decanted device lay splayed across the bedside table, its three legs culminating at a carbon fiber crab shell in the center. From that a long black tube emerges, waiting to be reunited with the electrode balaclava. On the manual cover there’s a comely female model wearing a version more stylish than my humble grey one, eyes closed, eyebrows raised in expectation, thin lips curling lithely upward at the edges.

Welcome to the Dream Sequencer experience. Here you will learn how to program your device as well as best practices to follow for maximal enjoyment. This guide is organized into six sections: Perspective, Surroundings, Personas, Abilities, Memories, and Nightmares. Users should familiarize themselves with the full content of this manual before donning the balaclava for the first time to program the device. Once adequately programmed the Sequencer will activate automatically when the user enters R.E.M. sleep.

Thumbing to the end of the book to find it’s 100 pages in length, in small font; no pictures. There’s a flash from the street below, glancing off the glass wall like lightning, followed by a bubbling thunder that seems to mix with screeching tires and fade into the distance. What harm could there be in pulling on that head sock just for a moment, to get a feel for this fancy thought driven interface the Japanese have developed. Manual shmanual. I’m a geek. Put me in front of a computer interface and I’ll have it figured in no time.
If electronics are housed within the garment I can’t tell. It slides like silk, hugging the circumference of my cranium, pulling lightly across cheeks, brushing past whiskers. In the mirror I look like one of those cool Navy Seals or maybe even an old-school ninja. The umbilical cord, with its magnetic snout, latches firmly to the top; the crab shell begins to glow ice blue; the bedroom fades from perception, replaced by an infinite white space.
Rising from the ground are monolithic obsidian screens, forming a 2x3 grid, each apparently representing a programmable aspect of the system. Before I can think; before I can react there’s a sensation at my feet like standing in a sandy stream, with the current etching away any softness that surrounds, but while liquid it’s not water--it’s flesh. The stream flows toward the hovering screens, opening its mouth; human bodies step forth, all looking like me. With each heartbeat there’s a new doppelganger, taking instantly to preordained purposes, as either step in human pyramid or solemn priest and martyr. The martyrs climb and give themselves to the screens, each turning a vague flesh tone in response.

Hours have passed since I started down this cobblestone path, but I’ve yet to tire. Perhaps, I should say, it’s more of a labyrinth as the presiding walls stand taller than I can reach and the elevation seems to change as I progress; my turns forced upon me by turreted right angles. The sky’s an endless light blue, yet the sun remains aloof behind oil painted clouds.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” says a black robed figure standing atop the farthest wall, looking away from me but his voice emanates from all directions.
“Where is here, exactly?”
“Here doesn’t actually exist. You’re dreaming. You’re using that machine, aren’t you.”
“I’m …”
“Shit. Like I should care.”
“Who … are you?”
“You sure you want to know?” the figure says as he turns his head in my direction, pulling the hood back from a grinning cat face--a cat’s face, but his eyes are shut with tear ducts dripping gelatinous streaks across high feline cheek bones.
“Your eyes, are you alright?”
“You don’t remember me do you.”
“You’re …”
“Someone you buried long ago.”
“Thre … Thresh?”
“So you do remember.”
“That was--I was just a kid.”
“It’s like an eternity here, Barn. Can I call you Barn?”
“Um … sure.”
“You’ve reached the end of the labyrinth. In normal circumstances you would have switched scenes by now, but the machine changes things. See? You’ve no road left.” And it was true. He stood atop the dead end wall itself; a breeze sent ripples through his cloak.
“How do I wake up?”
“Damn. Don’t tell me, you haven’t read the manual yet. Isn’t that just like the Barnaby I used to know.”
“I wasn’t planning to sleep--just wanted to see the programming interface!”
“Something they don’t tell you, apparently: first usage is hypnotic. You were lulled into a dream state.”
“How do you know about the device?”
“Dream worlds are connected to each other, Barn. We know what’s coming, been watching the Japanese.”
“We?”
“Yes, we, the collective, subconscious creations of humanity. It’s a fucked up place, Barn, real fucked up. Surely you can imagine. And now with this machine ...”
“The real world is degenerating.”
“That’s a human perception.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s just say we have a completely different view on humanity and its real world.”
“Can you get me back?”
“Can I wake you up, you mean?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Let me show you something.” At the words, cobble stones near his wall begin to rise, forming a crude stair which I ascend. He stops me before I step off the wall’s edge, saving me from a fall that would seemingly have never ended. Then I see the cubic corkscrew of the labyrinth, reaching down; reaching ... down.

TSSD: Isotope Intro

2010-11-27T16:42:00.001-08:00

TSSD: Time Told

2010-11-21T00:13:00.003-08:00

Interview with a Lovecraftian Demon: Part 1

2010-11-17T23:08:00.000-08:00

First, what’s with the name?

About a year ago I collaborated on a story called ‘The Hat’, which is set in a Lovecraftian 17th century New England. That’s a name we gave to one of the characters.

I see, kind of a swiped from Lovecraft’s Nyarlathotep.

That’s right. Initially we didn’t set out to reuse Lovecraft’s mythos, but after some research we found that he himself encouraged it.

You mean there aren’t copyright encumbrances?

Pretty much. It’s an interesting history. Lovecraft’s literary estate was fought over by various folks who did seek to impose copyright on derivative works, a completely hypocritical act considering much of their own writing borrowed from Lovecraft’s. But today we basically have the environment that Lovecraft intended: where anyone could build stories in the world he created.

Hmm, that’s fairly unconventional, considering today’s climate. You know, not many authors are friendly to the idea of fan fiction.

Yeah, personally the whole fan fiction phenomenon rubs me the wrong way. You know, it’s one thing to write and develop your own worlds, and then maybe, as a lark, build on someone else’s, but to do it as a matter of course, well ... Lovecraft saw opening his worlds as an opportunity for furthering their influence--he encouraged reuse. I wouldn’t call the result fan fiction, it’s something else. Some call it homage, I’d call it peer fiction, though I certainly won’t claim equivalence to Lovecraft’s mastery of the language or diction.

You’d consider Lovecraft a literary hero of yours?

Without question. He tapped into that strongest human fear which he articulated so well. His stories aren’t gruesome, per se, they’re more psychological. He earned his place next to Poe; surpassed Poe in some ways. Both masters of the language.

“That strongest human fear”, you’re referring to his … that famous quote of his, uh … “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and …”, uh ...

“The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” Precisely.

Who else?

Shoo. Who else, uh … anyone who reads a lot is going to give you an inordinately long list in response to that question.

Alright, shorten it.

Well … I was raised on the likes of C.S. Lewis and Tolkien. The LOTR trilogy made me yearn for adventure; I moved west shortly after finishing it. Just recently finished Lewis’s Till We have Faces; it reminded me of how powerful a storyteller he was. Yeah, pretty much everything he’s written has a religious theme, but it’s not terribly overt, not so much as to turn an areligious reader off, you still get something from it. He’s up there.
After that I got heavy into Palahniuk, Vonnegut and Robbins. Fight Club came out as a movie, boom--I had to read everything he had written. A friend handed me Cat’s Cradle and I was hooked. Another handed me Jitterbug Perfume and I was left breathless. Then it was Herbert’s Dune series. You know, most folks think Dune and don’t realize there are six epic books behind it. One day Hollywood or somebody will do it right as a movie series and that will be bigger than LOTR. If someone in Japan did it up as an Anime flick, that would be amazing.

I completely agree. Anyone else?

In between Dune it was cyberpunk. I couldn’t get enough of that stuff: Stephenson, Gibson. Since then I’ve been studying the greats: modernist, post-modernist, whatever: Chekhov, Joyce, Beckett, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Orwell, Miller, Faulkner, Greene, Carver, McCarthy.

That’s quite a list. Would you say much of it has rubbed off on you?

Not hardly likely. I’m not fit to shine the shoes of even one of them, not even half a shoe. I figure I’ve got five more years of 100% improvement each before I’m even good. That means lots of reading and writing in the mean time.

Soundtrack for Median

2010-11-15T19:48:00.001-08:00

Median

2010-11-14T16:15:00.000-08:00

It only takes a second to make a life changing mistake at 70 mph. The music had stopped playing; I was trying to figure out why. My obstinate phone/music player/web browser/GPS device, it was asking for the password. I was looking down when the turn came and the road split, and even though I saw that on the GPS as I powered forward it seemed incapable of physical form. It only took a second to look up--to see the guard railing arc toward me.
Beyond the guard railing lies the city, spread across the foothills, blanketed in night, its many lights shimmering in space, and only a single memory avails itself to me. As children you and I rode across country for the first time. There in the midwest we saw this same phenomenon: the city organisms, woken from their slumbering by the moon, each calling to us; calling us to them. We'd lay awake at night in cheap midwestern motels wondering what gods begot those incandescent wraiths; which angels gave them voice; what our destinies held; how long it would take to grow up.
Then we spent our years growing old, constantly called--we made many mistakes. When my time came to leave I chose the west coast: that beast who had beckoned to me since our first brush with the species. Those initial nights alone I went out into it and lost myself in the pitch; there it told me many things. It said that it waited for you too, that once we had both arrived a new world order would be instituted and the shadow beasts finally freed. There I lay only half covered by the dew smell and cricket whir, and a bitterness took hold. Nay, I said, you would not come; you would never arrive--that only I would hearken to its call. Then forthwith came the moan I have been hearing ever since, meant only for my ears, in both daytime and night. The words say that I would not let my brother sing, and that I lied.

A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine: Part 4

2010-11-09T19:00:00.000-08:00

Cem strayed to the bottom of the valley while his two remaining family members walked along the ridge above. The previous night had been a cold one but he slept as if dead, insulated by the warm orange glove of his sleeping bag. If he had dreamt there was no memory of it. His father said that they would likely reach their destination in two days and that he did not know how long they would need to stay hidden. The valley floor was bisected by a small creek that seemed to have a singular purpose of transporting yellowed and fallen leaves to their ultimate resting place. Now three of the human race would sustain themselves for the duration of an illicit journey by drinking from it, this was true wilderness. Cem felt a warmth intensify on his left cheek and noticed a break in the tree canopy overhead, allowing the sun’s rays to pass through unmitigated; now those rays were in his eyes. The experience of temporary blinding light reminded him of a day in the past, not far distant, when his mother stood behind the screen door of their back porch and called him in for supper. With the sunlight in his eyes he couldn’t make her out--the screen seemed solid and opaque, dividing them. Now she was gone. Cem called his father’s words on the matter back into the grappling ring. What exactly did he mean by “God’s plan for them” or that it was their mother’s choice? On the ridge he could discern the conjoined silhouettes of his sister and old man, still tracking his own forward progress.
    “And we can trust your ... friend?” Sadie had her arms folded tightly across her stomach, focusing on the autumn colored ground before them. Dry leaves rustled and crunched beneath her feet.
    “Abner? Yeah, he’s a good man, was in the war together.” Her father adjusted the pack on his shoulders, he carried the load for all three of them. “He knows we’re coming.”
    “When’s the last time you saw him?”
    “Last year about this time, you remember I was gone for about a week then.”
    “What’s he do?”
    “He, uh, orchestrates the buying and selling of things, a broker I suppose you could say.”
    “What things?”
    “Things ... uh, you know, whatever’s in demand.”
    “Drugs?”
    “Gosh no, Sadie. Not drugs, at least. He’s an, uh, outfitter.”
    “Guns?”
    “There’s some guns.”
    Sadie stopped abruptly, her eyes still downcast but a shivering was apparent in her shoulders. “More trouble,” she said.
    “He’s all we’ve got to rely on, Sadie. He’ll help us, I promise you.”
    “How many broken promises do I need to hear!” Her voice reached down across the valley; down to Cem who froze and looked up at them. From the distance between she couldn’t make out his expression, but could guess which one he wore. When Cem was worried or frightened his eyes would open wide, his thin brown brows would furrow and his mouth would hang open slightly, like a fawn caught in headlights.
    “Shush girl! Now’s not the time to be feelin’ safe enough to yell out like that.” He looked about them as if to gain assurance that no one else heard her.
    “What is it?” shouted Cem. “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing, boy!” The old man projected a whisper toward his son. “Get your butt up here!”

TSSD: Twilight Mess

2010-11-08T22:01:00.001-08:00

Messy, but a successful experiment, I think.

A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine: Part 3

2010-11-07T23:43:00.000-08:00

Marius retired to his study and gazed upon the books that lined each wall. Over the years and throughout his own scholarship he had collected a wide assortment, from the great works of literature; to the most revelatory journals of scientific discovery; to the most obscure and terrifying accounts related to the occult. Was there a thinking man left besides himself, he wondered. The governments of the world had long crossed the threshold of acting in the interests of the people they presumed to represent, now only acting to either subsist or dominate. The governments had become organisms unto themselves, a whole new and vile species that would surely spell man’s doom if not soon subjugated by a force greater than it collectively possessed. But what might that be?

She was on the phone talking about how she just needed to calm down, and could she come over. Do I have more of my story written, she’s asking. I say yes please come over and no one will mind, no one else is home.
    It’s one of those summer days where the end is met with an effervescence of petrichor and the clouds darken, and a cool breeze begins to blow. Standing on the front porch I can see her head emerge from behind the hill of asphalt that continues to radiate heat. Like a mirage, she’s stepping through. It’s a t-shirt and jeans day, and the rain has just begun, visibly rinsing away that horrible feeling she described.
    On the porch we watch the rain continue and take deep breaths of the renewed air between sips of beer. Her parents were fighting again, she says. I knew this already, but her saying it out loud sends me like a straight line through my own pessimistic thoughts on relationships in general, and that is simply that they never last and someone will get hurt. It makes no sense to me that people who have no real understanding of themselves insist on establishing relationships and even having kids. I tell her things will certainly improve once she moves out; that they did for me.
    We discuss Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and whether we’d be cast as non-entities in his depression era Paris; then Joyce’s Ulysses and the effect it had on Faulkner; then Carl Jung’s Individuation, and how Faulkner wove that into his stories. I say I’m nowhere near that level of applied intent, and this reminds her that she wants to hear what happens next to Cem and Sadie. We were at the part where their father is about to explain why they’re on the run, she says. I’m opening my laptop.

Screenplay adaptation of Poe's Raven

2010-11-07T22:29:00.000-08:00

          INT. STUDY - NIGHT

          We see the outline of a long haired man in the darkness.
          Only his eyes are illuminated, as if wearing some strange
          robber’s mask of light.

          First shot from the side, and he’s looking down pensively.
          His eyes flick back and forth across the floor, as if
          pondering the answer to some question.

          Second shot from above, and he looks up into the camera,
          staring -- apparently disturbed and perhaps frightened.

          Black screen. Title: The Raven


          EXT. MARKET - DAY (FLASHBACK)

          Narrator walks along street with a prim lady on his arm.
          They give each other sideways glances, they are smiling;
          happy. We hear the clip clopping of a horse drawn wagon
          nearby.


          INT. STUDY - NIGHT

          Bird’s eye view of Narrator’s desk, illuminated by candles
          and a newly revived fireplace; covered with large, archaic
          looking books--each open to a certain page. He’s thumbing
          frantically through the one immediately before him.

          Close up shots on the open books, displaying strange
          forbidden rites and secrets relating to revival of the newly
          dead. We hear his paging and murmuring in the background.

          Fade between shots of his face, with eyes beginning to
          droop, and of turning pages. Then there is silence.

          Bird’s eye view of desk. We see the Narrator is motionless,
          his head limp and hanging forward. Fade to black.


          INT. STUDY - DAY (DREAM)

          Black screen. We hear the churning of a pestle and mortar.

          Camera on, close up of pestle and mortar which the Narrator
          is apparently employing in the creation of some compound.
          Pan back, a full shot of his kitchen where various basic
          ingredients are strewn about. He’s following a recipe
          outlined in one of his books.

          Close up shots on the labels on the various containers, each
          faintly reminiscent of the occult.




                                                                  2.



          INT. BEDROOM - SUNSET (DREAM)

          Bird’s eye view of the bedroom floor. The bed has been
          flipped onto its side to make room for the ritual taking
          place. The Narrator is on his knees, bent over a large
          circle drawn on the floor, apparently composed of the
          mixture he had developed over the day. He is pouring out the
          last from the mortar.

          He sits up and we see he has constructed a hexagram made of
          powder.


          INT. STUDY - NIGHT (DREAM)

          Camera shot from behind Narrator as he stares out of his
          window at the passing of the sun. He holds a knife in his
          hand and raises it up to look at. Camera shot of his
          reflection in the knife as he stares into it. The sun sets
          as he does this. It is time for the ritual to begin.


          INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT (DREAM)

          Camera follows behind Narrator who ceremoniously leads us
          into the bedroom, holding a candle in one hand, a knife in
          the other, and a book nestled beneath that arm. Queue
          strange trance music like
          http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SONGcgo7TOk as we slow motion
          our way through the aperture, long hair bounces upon
          shoulders in anticipation, the candle’s light illuminates
          the bedroom before us and dances across the tiny dunes of
          the hexagram.

          Fade through various shots of the Narrator on his knees
          before the sigil, reading incantations from the book. Music
          stepped up in tempo.

          His reading abruptly stops, closing the book and laying it
          on the floor. He’s staring forward, raising both hands above
          the middle of the hexagram; one is closed around the knife,
          the other is open, palm facing upward. Blur hands into
          foreground, as the knife is applied to the open hand.

          Close up on center of hexagram, blood drips into it, filling
          it. In the reflection we can see the hands above; the knife
          still employed.

          Camera back on Narrator as he withdraws his arms, discarding
          the knife and wrapping his hand in multiple layers of some
          cloth he had prepared. Now, ceremoniously he takes the
          candle and holds it closely over the nearest corner of the
          hexagram. It ignites.

                                                           (CONTINUED)


          CONTINUED:                                              3.



          Bird’s eye view of hexagram as it languidly turns to flame.

          An oily red flame emerges and his face is lost to view. We
          hear him coughing; choking.


          INT. STUDY - NIGHT (DREAM)

          Camera shot lost in the smoke as we hear him stumbling
          toward the window in the study to ventilate the apartment.
          He reaches the window, which he struggles with in the
          choking air before finally opening.

          Camera shot from behind the Narrator as the smoke moves as a
          single organism from his apartment into the night’s sky. He
          steps forward, looking up into the sky.

          Camera shot on the sky, the red smoke has painted a strange
          picture upon the clouds, abstract and sinister. It’s joined
          by a new soundtrack of a "gentle tapping" apparently
          emanating from beyond the clouds.


          INT. STUDY - NIGHT

          Narrator is back at his desk with his books. Close up on his
          eyes as they suddenly open, and he raises his head as if
          startled. The fire has died down and a faint light dances on
          the floor.

          He looks over at his window. The curtains are drawn but move
          slightly. He gets up and moves promptly to the window where
          he draws the curtains aside and peers upward out the window.
          Seeing nothing there he draws the curtains back, picks up a
          candle and moves to his bedroom where everything is in
          order: his bed has not been moved; there is no hexagram on
          the floor. We see a faint relief cross his face, in apparent
          realization that it was only a dream. But then the "gentle
          tapping" resumes, apparently emanating from his chamber
          door.

          He looks at his clock and sees it is the witching hour.

                              NARRATOR
                    Who on earth could it be at this
                    hour?

          More tapping.

                              NARRATOR
                    Coming! Why I do apologize, you see
                    it’s quite late and you caught me
                    dozing off.

                                                           (CONTINUED)


          CONTINUED:                                              4.


          He moves to his door and begins to unlatch the various locks
          he’s installed.

                              NARRATOR
                    You see, I could barely hear you
                    knocking, you do it so softly.

          He pulls the door open, but is stopped by a last chain lock.

          Camera from other side of door. There is utter darkness save
          the light from the aperture, providing a silhouette of the
          Narrator. He peers through the aperture, then backs up and
          shuts the door. We hear him unlatching the chain lock, and
          then he opens the door completely. His entire body is
          outlined; his features are lost but we can tell he is
          peering out into the void toward the camera. He freezes,
          apparently recalling his dream, maybe thinking it was real
          after all, and was perhaps successful in recalling her
          ghost.

                              NARRATOR
                    Len ... Lenore?

                              O.S. VOICE
                    Lenore!

          He steps back in some fright, hesitates, then shuts the
          door. Black screen.

          Camera from within chamber. We see the Narrator with his
          back against the door, exasperated, looking down, his eyes
          in shadow.


          EXT. MARKET - DAY (FLASHBACK)

          The couple come to an antiquities store. There is a bust of
          some personage in the display window.

                              LENORE
                    Oh look, Allan, how quaint! Let’s
                    do go in.

                              ALLAN
                    Certainly, my dear.

          They enter the store. The shop keeper is busy unloading the
          contents of some boxes when he notices them.

                              SHOP KEEPER
                    My friends, welcome! You’ve come to
                    the right place. We have a little
                    piece of every corner of the globe
                    here.

                                                           (CONTINUED)


          CONTINUED:                                              5.



                              LENORE
                    What can you tell me about that
                    marble bust in the window there?

                              SHOP KEEPER
                    My dear lady, what a keen eye you
                    have! What exquisite taste! And
                    what else should I expect--my, look
                    at you. That is none other than
                    Pallas Athena, recently acquired
                    from our friends in Greece,
                    apparently carved sometime in the
                    mid 16th century. I’m sorry to say
                    by whose hands is unknown, the
                    signature on the bottom has been
                    somewhat effaced.

          Lenore and the shop keeper banter on about the myth of
          Athena and the battles fought for the name of Pallas. Allan
          (the Narrator) leaves them to it, wandering to the further
          reaches of the store, finding there a set of ancient looking
          book cases, each supporting an equally ancient assortment of
          books, all leather bound. Close up on the titles, one of
          which is called the Necronomicon. He retrieves it from the
          shelf and begins to peruse. We see that he is immediately
          struck by the strangeness and apparent authenticity of the
          content.

                              ALLAN
                    A queer assortment of literature
                    you keep here.

          Shop Keeper looks over at Allan and adopts a look of dismay.
          He hurries over to the book cases.

                              SHOP KEEPER
                    There are many strange and unusual
                    things in this world, my friend. As
                    I said, we have a little piece of
                    it all here, even from those mystic
                    biblical lands in the middle east.

                    Um ... if I may.

          Shop Keeper holds out his hands for the book to be given
          back. Allan glances once more at the pages, raising his
          eyebrows, then closes the book and hands it to the other
          man.

          Shop Keeper begins to put the book back in its place.




                                                           (CONTINUED)


          CONTINUED:                                              6.



                              SHOP KEEPER
                    I’m afraid I have a bit of business
                    to take care of down the street.
                    Perhaps, there is something you’d
                    like to purchase before I close up
                    the shop for the day?

          The Shop Keeper looks over at Lenore who is still admiring
          the sculpture, and the question is left to linger.

          A tapping sound begins, and seems to come from all
          directions.


          INT. STUDY - NIGHT

          We are back before the Narrator, with his back to the door,
          looking down. The tapping sound continues, this time with an
          exact locality: the window near his desk.

          He goes to the window, pauses, then draws the curtains
          quickly as if to catch whatever it is unawares. We see his
          reflection in the glass, and then, as his expression changes
          to bafflement and shock, point of focus fades to the other
          side of the glass, and we see a large, "regal" looking
          raven. Their eyes overlay each other--it’s as if they’re
          staring intently at the other. The raven taps on the window
          with its beak. The Narrator decides that the only thing to
          do is to open the window, which he does.

          The bird flutters its wings and proceeds to step through the
          portal. Surprised and amused at this the Narrator steps back
          to give it a wide berth. The bird does not look at him as it
          hops onto the floor and then from one platform to another
          until it reaches the bust of Pallas installed over the
          chamber door.

          The Narrator is broken from his transfixed state by a chill
          wind that flows through the still open window; he moves to
          shut it. He looks up at the clouds for any remnants of his
          dream vision--suspicious that he might be dreaming
          still--and is relieved to see no trace.

                              NARRATOR
                    So that was you, eh?

          He fumbles for the cigarette case in his jacket pocket, and
          looks around the room for a box of Lucifer matches. Close up
          on warnings on match box. He delicately draws one from the
          box, strikes it, and lights the cigarette dangling from his
          mouth--he winces at the odor and swings his arm to put out
          the match. Close up on the match head, still a faint ember,
          trailing fine wisps of smoke, slow motion fade into smoke

                                                           (CONTINUED)


          CONTINUED:                                              7.



          trailing from his cigarette, fade into smoke exhaled through
          his nose.

                              NARRATOR
                    Well, do you have a name? What
                    should I call you?

                              RAVEN
                    Nevermore.

          The Narrator is surprised and amused at its ability to
          speak. We see the wheels of deduction churning in his mind.

                              NARRATOR
                    Cold, eh? I suppose you’ll be
                    leaving once it warms up. It’s ok,
                    I’ll let you out, just ... tap.

                              RAVEN
                    Nevermore.

                              NARRATOR
                    Your master must have been a happy
                    one.

          He pulls a chair before his guest and takes a seat. The
          bird’s shadow grows toward him, reaching quietly across the
          floor, up the legs of his chair, over the velvet cushioning,
          over his hand on the armrest ...


          INT. STUDY - DAY (FLASHBACK)

          Camera on the same armrest, but it is daytime in the
          chamber, and it is someone else’s hand, that of a female’s,
          that of Lenore’s. She’s looking out the window while resting
          ...


          INT. STUDY - NIGHT

          The shadow creeps over his body, until only his eyes are
          illuminated.

                              NARRATOR
                    No!

          He rises suddenly and begins to run toward the shadow’s
          source, seemingly an infinite distance away--the walls have
          melted into darkness.







                                                                  8.



          EXT. FOREST FIELD - TWILIGHT

                              NARRATOR
                    Lenore?

          He hits an obstacle full on and is halted in his tracks. The
          camera adjusts to the half-light--as his eyes presumably
          are--and we see that it is a large, feathered object,
          towering slightly above him. He backs up and finds himself
          in a field at twilight; before him stands a crow man. The
          sound of a sword fight emanates faintly from the distance;
          the angry scream of a woman can be heard.

                              NARRATOR
                    Lenore!

          He tries to pass and the bird man blocks him.

                              NARRATOR
                    Wretch!


          EXT. FOREST GLADE - BATTLE SCENE - TWILIGHT

          Lenore, dressed and otherwise symbolically equipped as
          Athena, crosses swords with a crow man. We can hear the
          Narrator’s calls to her, but apparently she cannot.


          EXT. FOREST FIELD - TWILIGHT

          The Narrator attempts to fight his way to her; each attempt
          is muted or sidestepped, but he is apparently making
          progress, evinced by the sound of swords drawing closer.

          With each attempt the number of bird men blocking his way
          increases by one.


          EXT. FOREST FIELD / GLADE - BATTLE SCENE - TWILIGHT

          Choreography depicting his own struggle is interleaved with
          Lenore/Athena’s ongoing battle.


          EXT. FOREST GLADE - BATTLE SCENE - TWILIGHT

          He arrives at the moment she is slain.

                              NARRATOR
                    No!



                                                           (CONTINUED)


          CONTINUED:                                              9.



          The bird men fade into the darkness and he is left alone in
          a spot light with the remains of her memory: the sword,
          shield, and breastplate of Athena. He lifts and holds the
          breastplate to his chest; hanging his head as the spotlight
          shrinks to a pin prick and then evaporates into thin air.

TSSD: Readyset

2010-11-06T21:25:00.001-07:00

Theme song for upcoming scene in "A Doomsday Device ..."

2010-11-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine: Part 2

2010-11-04T22:12:00.000-07:00

Here it was opened by whom he did not know. No one else had been in the office that day, yet here his mail sat, with the largest envelope sliced open at the top. Sleep had eluded him of late, and maybe the stopover at Carson’s was a mistake, beer in the morning, beer for breakfast, low had he fallen. The drunks at the bar hadn’t minded his company. He sidled up to the rail and pulled the nearest bar stool beneath him with a hook of his foot. The sour odor from the taps begot a strange temptation and he ordered. Business could wait.
    The letter that had been opened was from a recently established client, a Mrs. Nelda Nives. Nelda ... Nives. It’s always disconcerting to find one’s mail opened by someone else. Sometimes it’s the government and there’s not much one can do, but here in the case of Mrs. Nives’ letter, well it could be any number of suspects, from her recently estranged husband to the cabbie she refused to pay on account of his non-deference to ladies. Jasper McSloy never had that option, his workplace couldn’t be physically moved at a whim.
    On the evening of her first visit he was cleaning up the place. Loose cigarette butts were picked off the floor and the toilet was scrubbed. Then a knock on the thin plate glass window with his name on it. He had wondered who it was. Business had been mighty slow of late, what with all the new high tech gadgetry, why folks could do their own snooping, their own private-eyeing. Probably just a misplaced pizza order, he surmised. If so he'd take it and eat it. Instead there was this woman at the door, that quintessential broad seeking a private eye, with the fur coat and white wide brim hat and everything. Mrs. Nelda Nives. She introduced herself and presumed to take his opening of the door as an invitation.
    What could he do for her, he asked plainly. Various accouterments of cleaning remained about the room, a ragged dust mop, a roll of paper towels, baking soda. What could he do for her at this late hour, asked he. She fetched a menthol cigarette from her purse which seemed petite but still large enough to contain the entire world and its various spent artifacts. The menthol permeated the room and evoked a strong response of desire in Jasper. From then on he stared only at the ground so as to avoid any impropriety. Here was work, real work. This lady Nives had found herself in a bit of a pickle, what with her husband so often locking himself away in their basement, doing god knows what at the devil knows what hour. And then there were the government agents haranguing her at the ladies club. Supposedly her husband, a man of some notoriety in national scientific circles, had taken it upon his shoulders to foray and pioneer into matters otherwise completely forbidden to the public. What these matters were she could not say, but would pay a high price to find out.

One nice thing about living in a living room is the large bay windows opening out onto the back yard. At night I open them wide to let the coolness in, the faint oscillation of cricket chirps, the earthen smell of dew strung grass. It’s like diving into a sea of sleep. But tonight I don’t want to lose those memories just yet, no I never want to let them go.

We must have walked every inch of the city today, with time left over to take our shoes off at the shore. The water was ice cold, so cold I couldn’t feel the sand mud beneath my feet. Tala waded out and let the waves lap at the edges of her skirt, but no higher. We were baptized in the salt air and then chased back by the rising tide. On the boardwalk we afforded ourselves Miller Lite and giant pretzels, watching the passersby with a new found desire to know them all. Everyone is beautiful and ugly, she said, everyone has a little bit of God and the Devil in them. But I could never see the latter of either in her. For my part, I could never see the former of either in myself.

The last train of the night was full by the time we boarded, and we each hung to the same handle bar, pushing us together in difficult ways; at times my hand would brush across the still wet edges of her skirt. I wiggled my toes to make sure it wasn’t a dream, to see if the sand from the beach still clung to my feet. Her glasses now sat back across the top of her head, serving a secondary purpose of holding her hair in place while the train rumbled on, while strangers pressed against her. Eventually the mass dwindled and we were able to sit down. Our poor legs and feet! But it was all so worth it.

Our stop came and I walked her to her parents’ house. There was a chill in the air and she had her arms crossed over her chest, hunching over slightly. I could tell she was exhausted, but happy. We said goodbye to each other on her front porch.

On TV the war waged on. Violent but bloodless images paraded across the screen, overlayed at top and bottom with scrolling marquee graphics that either foretold of things to come, or bemoaned an innocence lost.
    “For Christ’s sake, will you turn that infernal thing off?”
    “What is it, Marius? It’s the news, don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
    Marius smiled sardonically, puffing out the left side of his lip. “What is the difference between news and propaganda nowadays, eh? No difference. What they show on TV is only what they want you to see: victory; righteousness. Do you think the innocent have been spared in the onslaught? No! They die by the thousands, but you’ll never see that on the TV.”

What happened afterward in that dream? I can’t remember now. What I’m hearing through the “walls” is that particular din of American Football on the big screen television in the front room, intermixed with raucous laughter and shouting from its local fans on the couch. Such noon ritual never appealed to me, nor the bonding necessary to truly fit in with Mannie and his friends. Television itself is a thing that I abhor, and even if I were physically at a game the passivity would drive me mad. This is what constitutes misanthropy today.
    On the couch are Mannie and two of his friends from the construction company he works for. Business has been rather slow in that quarter so I’ve gotten used to waking up this way. The house is Mannie’s, or rather his parents’, but they own a number of others. Kade sits to his left and Thorin to his right. I’m lucky this afternoon as they are so engrossed in the game they pay no attention to my passing through; no attention to the noise I create in the kitchen as I make myself some coffee and pour myself a bowl of Mealy O’s.
    My other two roommates aren’t here right now, but you’ll meet them soon. We all went to the same high school but were never really friends. Janis works full-time in arcade machine repair and is the only girl I know who is crazy enough to live in a house full of boys. She’s very interesting when she’s around, but I rarely see her. Loy is taking classes at the community college here and doesn’t need to work on account of being bankrolled by his parents. He says the place to be is in robotics, that that’s where he’s headed, to automate more people out of a job. Once I asked him what everyone would do without jobs and he said that’s utopia. An idealist, I suppose.
    There’s a commercial playing on the TV now. The couch is temporarily vacated and I’m beset on all sides by Mannie’s cadre, now engaged in the selection of fine cans of light beer from the fridge. Were I smart I’d go back to my room before they start in, but it’s too late--must be halftime. Kade’s leering at me; asking where that girl of mine is. Mannie guffaws and says she ain’t nobody’s girl yet. He’s right.

Why Laura Miller's Wrong

2010-11-03T16:23:00.000-07:00

So Laura Miller of Salon has criticized NanoWrimo participants for wasting their time and not reading enough. She's decided that responding to comments there would also be a waste of time, instead weighing in on MobyLives:

I made the mistake of going off to read a book (ironically enough) after posting the Salon piece and suspect it’s rather a lost cause wading into the self-feeding frenzy the comments have since become — at a certain point they take on a life of their own and you stop reading them.
But this blog has a more thoughtful audience, so I do want to reiterate what is in fact the key point of my piece, not something I “expand” it to include:
My intention was not to discourage people from writing. I have no particular problem with people writing, especially if they do it primarily for their own personal satisfaction: I just don’t think we need fund-raising nonprofit organizations to cheer them on. I don’t think the rest of us ought to congratulate them when they insist on telling us about it. If it gives them pleasure, great, but I think we need to get dial down the idea that writing is an especially admirable or exceptional activity or that the people who do it are something special and deserve special support.
BUT THAT IS NOT MY MAIN POINT. My main point is that we should be doing ALL of these things for *readers* instead. Because at this stage, I think readers contribute more to our collective literary culture, and because readers are a vanishing breed. It’s time we celebrated them, valorized them, treated them like heroes.

Who is "we", lady? Feel free to start your readers' appreciation group. No writer is going to get very far without also reading. You've created a nice stereotype of the NanoWrimo participant, a nice generalization. Certainly there are those who fit into it, that's one section of the whole, how large or small I do not know, but it's not indicative of the whole.

Frankly, I wasn't too enthused about trying it again this year. But the energy you get from participating in a writers' movement is kind of intoxicating--and dare I say fun. It's nice to meet other folks who are passionate about writing, and there's no need to judge them by the quality of their work. People change and hopefully improve; if they keep writing and reading they will most likely improve.

Finally, I own more books now than ever in my life. I give great used books a good home, and I learn from them. The end of NanoWrimo last year was concluded with a "Pep Talk" by Peter Carey. In it he recommended a book titled Reading Like a Writer; subtitled "A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them." It's a wonderful book that I may not have been introduced to had I not participated. In turn I'd recommend reading both that Pep Talk and that book to you, Laura Miller, so you can have a better understanding of what NanoWrimo is all about. In the meantime: shut the fuck up.

A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine: Part 1

2010-11-02T12:09:00.001-07:00

One day I’ll have a real chair, one that doesn’t cut the circulation off at the knees. This one’s made of wood and straw, and my back doesn’t quite fit, but it will have to do for now--she’s coming over.
    Have you ever known an impossibility? You can’t hold it. It’s not like fire or ice, or anything you will feel, in fact you won’t feel a thing as it will never touch your hands to begin with. Tala. I shouldn’t know you.
    We met so long ago in elementary school; neither of us have made it out yet, out of this town. I remember you saying how you’d move to New York, or even San Francisco, that there was life. Here everyone is dead or dying. Even if they are healthy as jackrabbits they are dying. Fricasseed before the TV sets in their bedrooms.
    This beer I snuck out of the fridge, it’s got an awful taste, but Tala will drink it. Not to say she has bad taste, quite the contrary. But it’s a rare event when she has money to spend, even on alcohol. Tala, you shouldn’t come here. I doubt Mannie will notice the missing bottles.
    I moved out of my parents’ house last year; found a room for rent, well, it’s not really a room, not as most people would think of one, with a door. I’m living in the living room, I guess you could say. I’ve done my best to provision for walls and soundproofing, but it’s kind of hopeless in that regard. I have three roommates, each with a real room. But money’s an issue for me too, so I deal, for now.
    Mannie was pretty miffed that I would want to keep my piano here, I don’t play it much on that account. It was inherited from my grandmother. She thought I had talent; willed it to me. Oh grandmother. Talent?
    I’m out of work. Well, there was a recent gig at the local movie theater, but so many folks are looking for work it kind of lowers the standards of treatment. They had me mostly cleaning bathrooms. I quit to write my book.
    Do I think I can survive by selling my book? Well, I haven’t written it all yet. I know what it’s about. When she gets here you can listen to what I’ve got so far. If I do have talent, you can say so; if I don’t, well, I’d rather not know. I’m going to try this and if it doesn’t work out I guess I’ll get a job serving coffee somewhere, if the robots haven’t taken that over now too. Have they?

The doorbell rings and I announce that it’s for me; I’ll get it. It’s her, I know it is. She called me to say she was coming over. Tala, what do you see in me? Do you think I have talent? Oh god if only that were true, we wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
    The front door is inlaid with painted glass; I can see a human form on the other side. Whoever it is has long hair that falls down to the shoulders. Tala’s is long and dark, and falls farther than that. It’s her. For a poor girl she has exquisite taste. She wears her perfume so smartly that I practically have to beat Mannie back in order to open the door. And now Mannie gets to see her too. She’s wearing a short skirt of all things, with sandals so her legs are exposed more than they should be. But I know it’s hot, and this is how poor girls dress. If I have talent, Tala, I’ll buy you whatever you like, whatever dress you’d like.
    Her bangs hang over her forehead as is fashionable here. I don’t have a problem with that at all. She’s smiling. She says something, a greeting, but I don’t hear. Something, a ringing buzzing droning is in my ears. I went to the doctor once about that, thought my head was going to explode, but evidently it’s just blood rushing to my brain. Why would that happen now?
    She’s wearing those big, movie star sunglasses that are so trendy nowadays. But I know they came from the Amoco on the corner. They have this whole display of glasses that look just like the expensive kind, but are only about two bucks each. She’s stepping across the threshold, exposing each knee, and I can hear Mannie panting in the background. Luckily, I happen to know he’s not her type. I also happen to know what that is: the artsy type. If I have talent she could love me.
    We walk past Mannie to my “room” and close the “door”. The door is real, but there aren’t any hinges so it’s kind of like sliding a boulder over the entrance of a cave. She goes immediately to the piano; it’s her favorite possession of mine. She’s sitting on the bench, sliding the keyboard cover up and back, ceremoniously, sanctimoniously. She can’t play with both hands at the same time yet, but she does have a knack--a talent. She’s talented and artsy. Anything she tries she’s good at. Tala, don’t you know that the world can’t stop you, can’t obliterate you. No matter where you go you will rule through the hearts of men.
    I go to my desk and open my laptop. There on the screen is my book. As she plays she says I should read aloud what I have so far.

“When we get to the corner of the glade, I want you to run. You got to run until you see your sister, hear?” The old baseball cap, loose and leaning down on his forehead, seemed to vibrate as he spoke. It didn’t have a word printed on it. It was red and spongy in front, with white mesh in back, and had one of those straps you adjust by lining up the rivets on one side with the holes in the other.
    “But pa, I can’t run fast as you!”
    “You had better do what I tell ya! Ol’ Williams an’ his dogs’ll be onto us before you can say hop, skip, and jump!”
    “Yes--yessir.” Cem put his hand into the one his father had proffered before him. In it he could feel a sweat and an agony, as if the words just spoken were coursing out through his bloodstream; pumping through the small veins in his fingers. The daylight was waning, and they had long lost sight of Sadie. Sadie was a runner; she could move like the wind.
    “Let’s go, boy!” The words had an invigorating effect on Cem. How he floated across the rock croppings in his path, how he flew over the gnarled tree roots, even as they grasped at the sneakers on his feet. Everything became a blur.
    Sadie stood in a pool of moonlight, solemnly, much like her mother. With that same solemnity she looked from father to brother, back to father, noting the sweat pouring off his brow, dripping down and off his chin, noting the baseball cap now turned sideways, grabbing up a tuft of his white gray hair from the back and bunching it up in a pig tail. She didn’t say anything, not with her mouth anyway--it was all with her eyes--all the blame.
    “Sadie, girl,” the man heaved the words out, panted them out. “You’re alright ... good.”
    “I’m alright, papa.” Something welled inside her and she shut her eyelids to hold it back.
    “Pa,” Cem said. “Where we goin’? Why ain’t we takin’ the road like normal folks?”
    Sadie opened her eyes. “Yeah, tell ‘im papa. I need to hear it said as well.”
    Their father stood thinking for a moment, before he told them why they were on the run, and why their mother wasn’t with them now. He avoided Sadie’s red glare; Cem had that lost look in his eyes. “Well, about that ...”

Tala stops her piano playing so I stop reading. She’s looking at me now, and it feels wrong for some reason, I shouldn’t love her or want her, but she’s in my “room” staring at me. She asks what the title is. It’s just a working title. For now it’s called “A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine”. She thinks that’s poetic. She wants to know when we start hearing about the doomsday device, and what I had in mind when I came up with that string of words. Without her playing, without that soundtrack, my voice seems to ring across the hardwood flooring, through the door we slid over that aperture to the hallway. I’m sure Mannie is in the kitchen now, laughing at me. And that reminds me of the beer. It’s barely noon, but Tala doesn’t mind the taste at all.
    I tell her I’m no Poe. This title wasn’t crafted by some intent or design, it just kind of bubbled up and I ran with it. Yes the plot device is an actual doomsday device, but not in the way you might think, that’s the trick, and I can’t just reveal the thing right away. She thinks this is clever. God, she shouldn’t be here, staring at me, drinking Mannie’s beer that I stole.
    Park, she says my name. Park, Park, let’s go to the city today. We both know neither of us have money enough to do much there, but we can walk around and maybe have a beer or two. I’m closing my laptop.

There’s barely anyone on the train at this hour, so most seats are empty, but she followed right behind me as I selected a particular row and sat down. There’s an awkward moment where we vie for ownership of the armrest between us--I let her win. Selecting a seat on the train has become quite a challenge of late, they all seem to have some leftover tidbit of a meal stuck on them, but the ones I chose were clean in that regard. We’re both staring out the window as the train moves forward. I forgot to bring sunglasses so I’m having to squint, but Tala has her movie star glasses on; besides the slight tilt of her head I can’t tell what she’s looking at. In the reflection on the window I’m looking into her eyes intently, or where I think are her eyes. She smiles.
    Before we get to the city we must stop at every town along the way. Only a few depart or board at each interval. Men in business suits with leather attache cases; women in prim sun dresses with their children in tow. No one seems to speak once they board. Tala is humming one of her songs, still staring out the window through those glasses that obscure most of her face, yet make her seem more beautiful.
    Will I ever write a story about her, she’s asking. Maybe I can work her into the doomsday device story somehow, she says. Lady you will save the world, not end it, don’t you see that? I say that this book, it’s not just one story but many that all intersect at a certain event across time and space. I tell her I’ve only just started, so, sure, I can work her in--someone like her. To this she replies with one of those cute half laugh-half hums of hers. Lady I could write a lifetime on just your mannerisms.

Across the window flash those signs that we’ve been watching for, they say we’ve almost arrived. The train begins to slow and other, parallel tracks come into view, each with its own parked series of cars and engines. We hear the whooshing of hydraulic brakes and the screeching of metal wheels. Below the police are getting ready with their dogs.

Magical Foam Brush

2010-10-24T12:18:00.001-07:00

Before we piled into the car and went down to the city you had something to say to me, you said. The trip was not planned; it was not premeditated in any way--it was a spontaneous decision we just made, you and I. In the city there will be places to eat and dance, just you and I, so what now is this thing?
    The road there, it’s really a highway with lanes enough for us to travel quickly. I suppose there is time. The car has a full tank of gas and I took it to the coin op wash yesterday. You remember that time we first went, and neither of us had used one before. The labels on the control knob were faded, and we had to test each setting until we found the magical foam brush. That’s what I used first yesterday, doesn’t it make the most sense? The foam is pink and smells sweet, not quite like soap. The car was covered in pink foamy swirls before I switched the knob, switched it down to rinse. You have to hurry with the rinse process lest the alarm sound. When that happens it means you’ll need to put in another dollar. That first day we went, do you remember scrounging for quarters? We almost ran out of time.
    I’ve checked the tires. It took me just one moment with the air gauge we bought on that first trip to the car wash. You unscrew the fill cap and place the head of the gauge on the valve stem. When that happens its cheap plastic tongue sticks out and tells you how much pressure’s in the tire. They all read 40 psi. Give me one second to wash the grime from my hands and then you can tell me.
    The kitchen is filled with the smell of your perfume; it’s not the kind I bought you, don’t you like that? What it smells like is sweet, like the magical pink foam, but something else--is it honey? I don’t know what to think. It’s not the kind I bought you.
    The dress you’re wearing I’ve never seen, and I dare say it isn’t modest like the ones I’ve bought you, don’t you like those? All the men will stare at you, and then they’ll stare at me, then back at you. Why not that nice Cambridge blue one?
    What’s this you say? We’ll be meeting some new friends of yours? But I thought it would be just us? Dining alone; dancing alone; no others. Why do there have to be others?

TSSD: Control

2010-10-24T10:23:00.001-07:00

http://tssd.bandcamp.com/track/control

A Rainy Sunday Before the Mass

2010-10-17T16:27:00.001-07:00

It’s Sunday before the parish at the end of the street. It’s raining and they all filter in; the congregants filter down from the farms nearby, the women waiting their whole week for this moment, when they would don again their finery and heels, and hold their heads high. Even as the rain drenches them; even as it intrudes upon their purposes and musses up their hair, they hold their heads high.
    I’ve never been to a Mass; I’ve yet to set foot inside a Catholic church--it must be something else--I’ve no right to look upon these women, yet they fascinate me and I watch.
    Oh sure, some are beset by family members, children and men, but it’s the women that I watch. This is their special moment, somehow, in the rain--in spite of the rain--because of the rain. The men don’t like it so much, but they are here for the women, here to give comfort on the one day none is needed.
    I wonder what they all do in there, exactly. Should I become Catholic for a day and follow this new arrival beyond those sacred walls? Here she is by herself, no children trail behind her braying like pet goats, no man stays steps ahead in dull mock pride. Her head is wrapped in white, and I know my umbrella would do a better job, it is black. Why if I insisted on preserving her from further bombardment would she disavow herself? Would she see the folly in such ritual, Sunday after Sunday, dressing up in finery; taking bread and wine as if it were some actual flesh and blood?
    Now I must wonder if it’s really wise to attempt wooing of such a one. Maybe, in her thirst and hunger after so many Sundays spent outside the redemptive show, one night, maybe on a Sunday, she’d await my falling asleep and then commence to dine--on me!
    Nay, best to let them to their bread and wine, their flesh and their blood; best to let them believe it all and come here every Sunday dressed so fine, and stepping so high in their heels. I will only watch; that should be enough.

Whither Nano?

2010-10-17T16:23:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again, dare I try to write fifty thousand words of prose fiction in a month? I shall, but not as I tried last year, with a story in mind, with one I care about, in third person past tense, requiring all sorts of research before I can even set forth a single word. No, this time will be different. I've learned.
This time I will write in first person present tense, and there will be no story in mind at the outset. There will be no sharing of words written, and no looking back on them. It will be pure stream of consciousness--an outpouring of thought, wherein maybe, a story will emerge, but one I will not care to preserve from bad prose or from wanton, flippant interest. Whatever emerges, I will not care too much for, if only so I do not hesitate.

Tables

2010-10-13T21:07:00.000-07:00

Those sound waves generated by the crickets, what color could they be? A synesthete might know. She might say they were green. I’m speaking into the bottom end of my cell, speaking into it while holding it aloft--I’m not even listening. I hear the crickets, and now, maybe, something else, an echo of my voice, but changed, alien and sinister, mocking me; telling me that we humans are no longer alone in this world--that we no longer have it to ourselves.
    “So how long do you think we have,” I ask. At the bottom of it all, before the thrones of cruel gods there is laughter still.
    “Not long,” you say. “Not long.” I can hear your voice through the headphone, even though I’m holding my cell aloft. Always so loud, I can’t think when you’re speaking, even now. I can’t concentrate. Your voice calls up all the demons from within, and I’m left with the rest of my time batting them down--whittling tiny stakes from discarded crucifixes, found atop that landfill there, the one standing between us. If you are outside, talking on your phone like I am, you can see it. They’ve installed lights on it now, blinking so as to warn off pilots. It’s grown that big. When we were kids there was no landfill, do you remember? Why there was Bobby Joe’s house, and Country Bob’s, and many others’, but they didn’t have any kids.
    “How’d you make out?” I ask. How’d you make out. I know goddamn well how. You’d been telling me for years this was coming, and I just laughed along with everyone else. Laughed and said you were a fool.
    “Got most of it out before China shorted.” That’s all? That’s all you’re going to say through that fucking receiver of yours? I swear it’s like you’ve hacked into my phone; it’s like you’ve become the goddamn thing. Here I’m holding it as far as my arms will let me, but it’s like you’re right here beside me now, rubbing it in, you’re rich and I’m poor, and oh how tables turn, and oh how the meek will inherit the earth.
    “Yeah? That’s nice,” I say. “That’s real good,” I say. And now what else?

heels

2010-10-09T09:17:00.000-07:00

i am with myself--not with the lie
the lie i left on the other side of the fence
as i climbed
foot upon face, face upon glass, teeth tasting flesh
to greener pastures, to defecation fields ...

the neighbors' fence
that show
i wore a red dress and heels
and danced
first slowly, for i'd never worn heels
then excitedly as i learned to step with only my toes
how it must have looked
when my act ended i bowed; there was an uproarious applause
i lifted my eyes and saw, dejectedly, it was not for me
there was a finale: a giant screen
i could not look away
and yet saw nothing there
but the crowd in their avarice surrounded me on stage
as i had blocked their view
it was then i learned that nothing's sacred ...

the thing ended and not a soul came to greet me
i hurried to my chair among the great mass of common spectator seating and found my coat
i moved impatiently amongst the bellowing cavalcade to the exit door
and found my car stolen ...

the little tents in the refugee camps look like fields of headstones in the moonlight ...

i glance down at my hands
not flesh but words
glistening in the moonlight
so freshly and eloquently lolled from the oft bitten and begotten tongues of my forefathers':

"i am with myself--not with the lie"
so i must be the lie, after all

The Tunnel: One More Day

2010-08-02T00:18:00.001-07:00

"You seem to be enjoying it here."
    "You aren't?"
    "Not quite. Look ... Devin, maybe it's time we split ways. I've enjoyed your company, and you are the fuckin Devil 'n all, but if you want to hang around here I'm not interested in stoppin you."
    "You're gonna make me choose."
    "Sadly, yes."
    Bart could tell this saddened the Devil some, but he had no interest in staying in the camp another night. Splitting ways now would not be the end of the world, since that had already come to pass for both of them.
    "One more day."
    "What?"
    "Let's stay one more day here; we can't just leave without saying goodbye, can we?"
    "I suppose not. You got it. One more day."

The Tunnel: Billboard

2010-07-26T21:09:00.000-07:00

Bart woke alone to the sound of conversation beyond a flapping sheet of tar paper, that apparently served as a makeshift door for the room he'd been shown the night before. In the daylight he could see that the walls were simply sheets of plywood that had been nailed together at the edges; the roof had apparently served as part of a billboard in a past life: a pair of huge, gleaming teeth shone above him, and he had the vague sense of how Odysseus and his men must have felt while in the presence of Cyclops.
    Raising himself from a crude mattress of foam cast offs, he stepped through the paper portal and saw Devin sitting before a newly stoked fire, smoking a cigarette, and engaged in discussion with Carl and Pete.
    "Well, well, look who's up," Pete said. Devin turned around and squinted his eyes at Bart while inhaling from his cigarette.
    "It is I," said Bart in a mock bow.
    "Devin here says you got a brother in the Armed Forces."
    "That's right ... I do."
    "Good man. Where's he stationed at?"
    "In the Middle East somewhere. I'm ashamed to say his exact whereabouts are unknown to me at present."
    "That is the way it goes sometimes. Pete here did a stint during the first Gulf War. Me, I served a couple tours in Nam. That's where I met Selby."
    "All vets, huh?"
    "Nearly so. Tell your brother not to expect much help from Uncle Sam when he gets back."
    "If he gets back."
    "You shut up, his brother's standin' right there for God's sake."
    "It's OK, we're not close."
    "Well then, let me ask you a political question."
    "Shoot."
    "Since you got blood on the line, even though you say you ain't close, what's your take on the War?"
    "I think we're killin' alot of innocent people, and that just means more Terrorism. It is a self-fulfilling, endless war of aggression by a predatory State."
    This last drew low whistles from his audience.
    "Heh, see Pete, some of the younger generation is thinkin' for itself after all."
    Pete looked over at Devin, "Did you know he felt that way?"
    "Can't say I did. We hadn't gotten to talk about the War yet. But it seems we agree." Devin took another long draw from his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nose.

The Tunnel: Squirrels

2010-07-25T11:56:00.001-07:00

"Why is it you think," Carl had his pistol out, aimed a squirrel that had taken to burying something just beyond the camp. "Why is it people think squirrels look cute and harmless while rats look evil and diseased?"
    "Squirrels aren't cute and harmless?" Devin asked.
    "Hell no! They're vicious creatures: just as diseased; just as evil."
    "Well, they are kind of cute, with the bushy tail and the barking and chasing each other around the trees."
    "That's just what I mean! Folks buy into appearances too easily."
    Devin hadn't slept the previous night, not since the strange encounter with Jerome. "That Jerome fellow," he said, "what happened?"
    Carl paused and gave Devin a sullen look, he lowered his arm and shoved the pistol back into his pants. "Well, it ain't a pretty story." He paused again, apparently considering how the tale might best be told. "Jerome was one of the original homesteaders here--he and Selby.
    "Back then anything went, as everyone was just glad to survive. But Jerome was an alcoholic and he put everyone through a fair amount of shit; fuckin' with peoples' emotions.
    "We put it to a vote: this wasn't to be a camp for abusive drunks: no alcohol or drugs allowed. That was only a few weeks ago and Jerome's departure was a bitter one, to say the least."
    "I see," said Devin. He thought about what Jerome had said to him, about the dream after image; he was surprised to remember who he was.
    "He got to you, didn't he--what he said?"
    "I suppose so."
    "Don't pay him no never mind. He was drunk, and God knows what else."

Big Toe

2010-07-05T12:47:00.000-07:00

I wonder if I'll feel it.
   Feel the bird-shot push my tongue through the roof of my mouth. It's a normal 12-gauge. Nothing fancy. Bought at Wallmart on special--one hundred and fifty bucks. Got it for home defense.
   This home. Been foreclosed on. Wife and daughter left. I stayed. Empty rooms.
   But I'll leave something for the rich fucks to remember me by. The vultures; the wolves; the cannibals.
    When they find me. Headless. The blood will have dried. A new coat of paint for the master bedroom. Maybe they'll knock the debt down a little.
   Some might not think it an easy thing: holding the barrel to my neck with both hands, feeling at the trigger with a big toe. Cold aluminum. Anodized black.
    That's how Curt and Earnest did it.
    Curt must have realized that the kind of music he was making only made sense while he still made it. That selfish bastard. Took his music with him.
    And Earnest--Hem. Sad story. Sadder than mine. You forgive him his indiscretions. Great writer. Up there.
    Well, time's a wastin'. I know how much folks nowadays value their time. Jersey Shore. The Weakest Link. Survivor. Hurry up.
    This world's gone sour, man. It's just getting sold as fresh. The American Dream put through the wash with those dryer sheets that make everything smell like lemonade.
    Coworkers used to say that's how I smelt.

Lazarus: Sleeping Among the Grasses

2010-05-22T14:30:00.000-07:00

That night I slept among the grasses. The winds blew in a constant whisper and all the many grey blades chattered along. Glad to have brought at least a jacket, I draped it over my chest and arms and swiftly drowned in the wake of the previous night's dreams.
    Silently the same woman, the same false prophet, stepping toward me from the void, stepping with bare white feet and perfect toes. I remembered my impression of them formed the night before: smooth white pebbles arranged in fine sand.
    "And you wanted ... what?"
    That voice remembered too, as if I never left, as if the dream had never ended.
    "To be normal." My words effortless, as if I were just an impression on celluloid with an accompanying sound track.
    "You aren't?"
    "Am I?" That same odd feeling of hope from the night before, welling up from my gut; engulfing my lungs, stealing my breath, and then ...
    "You're ... a vampire."
    I could feel the celluloid crinkle as my eyes twitched in disbelief. But then I remembered a world outside the dream. Putting my tongue to each canine; feeling a familiar curvature and razor sharpness, inspecting the tiny holes at the end of each.
    "Where will you go?"
    "Where else can I go?" Then the knowledge returned: the ancient lore; the tales of enclaves hidden among the world of men. And then I awoke.

Misunderstanding the Tea Party (and Rand Paul)

2010-05-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

So the Tea Party "movement" has culminated in Rand Paul's nomination for a Kentucky Senate seat. I do not think it a great shame what has since come to pass: national exposure of various unpopular opinions that he holds, and subsequent mainstream outrage. His father's presidential run in 2008 met a similar fate, though it was certainly more successful.
I've read various Ron Paul essays and speeches since about 2003, so though I've not met him in person I feel I know him fairly well. Rand Paul I've only heard speeches from, but they never struck me as particularly libertarian.
I supported Ron's run in 2008, and voted for him in the Georgia primary. I normally don't vote in presidential elections as I tend to see it as a choice between two evils, but Ron's anti-war and limited government platform appealed to me greatly, and of course he was not an establishment politician. It was this very appeal that inspired the "Money Bombs": grass roots funding organized through the internet, a potent device that went on to power other like minded candidates in their bids for various offices.
For a moment Ron had support from folks across the political spectrum, but it did not take long before various personal views of his were exposed, personal views that those on the "left" found completely ridiculous, and the numbers of supporters dwindled. Those who remained comprised of mostly libertarians and conservatives, and they mixed.
The Tea Party "movement" has always seemed fairly farcical to me, even more so after Glenn Beck got in on the act; even more so after Sarah Palin got involved. But I don't think folks on the "left" understand it, and I'd wager that their constant insults will only cause the thing to grow. The Republicans do, oh boy do they, as it contains a fragment of the very powerful George W. base that they created, fucked over, and then lost, so getting it back under control is of utmost importance.
However, I think it's inaccurate to say Tea Party supporters all hold the same core set of beliefs, that they are all "white", that they are racist. If you look closely you'll see they're actually a rather diverse group of people; what holds them together is anger and frustration with the direction in which this country is headed. No doubt many of them have been affected negatively by the Wars on Terror and by the economic depression. This "movement" would be a flash in the pan if things were to get much better instead of much worse. Whichever you think it will be is still a guess at this point.

Since winning the nomination, Rand has been floundering on the national stage. In a way I'm surprised since he surely knew that he'd face such criticism and should have been prepared for it. It's obvious he lacks his father's rhetorical skill, and did not learn much from his father's many missteps in 2008. But like I say, I do not think it a great shame, in fact I think we've learned some great lessons in the few days since the Tea Party surprised the establishment by nominating Rand. We've learned that there is a still a huge wound covering the belly of America. Rand foolishly pulled at its scab and met his political demise. But here's a fact: if the economy/dollar crashes, businesses will have to operate in a completely different manner from how they do today. Lots of things will have to be rethought, and I hope totalitarianism will not be tolerated just like I hope racism won't be.

Archipelego: Cape Horn Fever

2010-05-08T12:50:00.000-07:00

"We shall head south along the coast until we reach the end of it."
Ikonov had it in his head: that we would sail around Cape Horn, circumnavigate South America, and loop back around through the Panama Canal. I studied the various maps and marveled at the miles in between. That our expedition would travel so far seemed impossible and unlikely to me then, though the captain had to his name seven such trips, each made in fewer than one hundred days. The "journey to the end of the world", he called it.

Archipelago: Ikonov's Grin

2010-05-07T17:25:00.001-07:00

Starved; blocked. I couldn't write. Months passed and I still couldn't.
    "How do you expect to write anything? Your well is empty. You must replenish it with experience."
    Ikonov, in his usual dry tone and Russian accent, telling me what I should have known. Ikonov who had, just a year before, signed a million dollar book deal with Signets. I loved and hated him. My years at university meant shit compared to his experience.
    "We will go, together. We will have ... an adventure. You will have plenty to write afterward, trust me."
    I trusted him. We made plans; rented a ship: a catamaran as big as Ikonov's house on Rodeo Drive.

The captain and owner scared the shit out me. First sight, first glimpse. A hard man who'd apparently lived a hard life. I could sense the resentment immediately. He could smell the upper-middle class on me; the expensive college education. But he and Ikonov got along, like war buddies, like brothers. I didn't bother them when they were together.

We left the Port of Los Angeles the following month. Ikonov spent much of his advance to lease and supply the ship. I never noticed the man to be unhappy. Instead he looked out onto the world with a fierce grin. A grin like the one Heracles must have worn at Nemea, like the one Custer must have worn at Little Bighorn. A "fuck you" grin. An "I will eat you up" grin.

Archipelago: How it spoke

2010-05-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

What the monkey said was true: "We are the product of all our scars." I meant to see him ... it again. It had been a year since. A year since that first pilgrimage.
    Somehow the unreal nature of the scene made sense. In the dank coolness, the dirt smell, it sat. White fur, hollow eyes, plastic features. My colleague, Ikonov, and I, standing there, not knowing whether the thing was dead. And then it spoke those words.
    We'd later wonder how, without moving its mouth, it spoke.

There are tales and there are tales. Some must come before others, and some should never be told. Those foremost in my mind aren't my own, they're his ... its, the monkey's.
    For any of it to make sense I must start from the beginning.

Wings of Wax: Betrayal

2010-04-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

INT.Â MINOS - SECURITY COMMAND CENTER - DAY

We see a room with multitiered flooring and huge flat screen monitors displaying various graphs. The biggest screen sits at front-center and shows the same cross section view of the Labyrinth that was introduced in Daedalus' presentation. A number of yellow dots move through it and are eventually intercepted and erased by red dots.

ARADNEA

Damn it!

MALE COWORKER 1

(Takes off his visor.)

We're done.

ARADNEA

No! There's a hole, I know it.

PASIPHAE (O.S.)

We're done, Aradnea.

ARADNEA

Pasiphae? When did you ... ?

PASIPHAE

The board and I have been watching the entire time. We're satisfied with Daedalus's solution.

INT.Â THE ETHER - MINERVA'S TEMPLE - DAY

Minerva and Apollo sit opposite each other playing a game of Go. The door to the balcony is open, and we see it's a beautiful day outside.

Outside a clamor begins, those gathered to worship are apparently disturbed by something.

They both go to the balcony, camera follows behind. We see the crowd below are turned facing towards Minos, many of them crying out in wonder and surprise.

Camera follows their gaze and we see a faint grey sphere encapsulating Minos, flickering on like a florescent light.

APOLLO

I suppose it should no longer be a mystery, where Poseidon has gone.

Minerva looks Apollo in the face. Camera close on her, we can see she's greatly disturbed.

INT.Â AETHRA - BOARD ROOM - DAY

The board of Aethra, mostly men, sits around a large table in a well lit room with large windows.

MALE BOARD MEMBER 1 (JOHN)

It's an act of aggression.

MALE BOARD MEMBER 2

I wouldn't go that far, John. Remote scanner analysis shows that it's a defense field of some kind.

JOHN

It violates our treaty with Minos. In absence of a declaration of intent, we are free, nay, bidden to speculate on what their motives might be.

MALE BOARD MEMBER 2

Dare I ask whether anyone has contacted Minos since the field went up?

Room is silent.

MALE BOARD MEMBER 2

Well, what are we waiting for? Let's not allow a simple misunderstanding to ruin relations between Aethra and Minos.

JOHN

(Annoyed)

May I suggest we also get one of our men onto the ground there to investigate it first hand?

MALE BOARD MEMBER 2

Who did you have in mind?

JOHN

Theseus, of course.

INT.Â MINOS - DAEDALUS' QUARTERS - NIGHT

Daedalus and Icarus are packing their bags. It's apparent they intend to leave this night. Icarus has a worried look on his face, like he expects something horrible to happen at any moment.

ICARUS

Hurry!

DAEDALUS

Will you calm down? There's nothing to worry about.

ICARUS

Don't answer it!

At that moment the door bell rings. Daedalus eyes Icarus suspiciously and suddenly takes on a serious look of concern.

DAEDALUS

Keep packing.

ICARUS

But ... !

Daedalus puts a finger to his mouth and looks Icarus in the eyes. Icarus turns immediately back to packing, more hurried and exasperated than before.

Daedalus goes to the door, we see a look of surprise when he looks into the video screen, we see his brow furrow and his jaw clench. He pushes a button and the door slides out of sight. Pasiphae is revealed, standing on the opposite side. She's looking into Daedalus' eyes with a look of disappointment almost of hurt.

DAEDALUS

It's a bit late to be calling, isn't it?

PASIPHAE

(Cocking her head and looking into the room)

Where are you going?

DAEDALUS

(Squints)

How did you ... ?

(Shakes his head)

Never mind.

Daedalus turns and goes back to packing, leaving the door open. Pasiphae enters.

PASIPHAE

Icarus, where are you two going?

DAEDALUS

Don't answer her.

Icarus looks at Pasiphae in obvious fear, his eyes widen.

PASIPHAE

Why are you leaving, Daed?

DAEDALUS

The contract has been fulfilled, and I've been paid.

PASIPHAE

Well, yes, but there will surely be more work. Don't you ... don't you like it here?

DAEDALUS

(Looking Pasiphae up and down and frowning)

Maybe I liked it a little too much.

PASIPHAE

(Nearly crying, but it's not clear whether it's out of sadness or anger)

Don't ... do this.

INT.Â THE ETHER - MINERVA'S TEMPLE - MINERVA'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Minerva and Theseus lay in bed together. Minerva lays in Theseus' arms, she's holding them around her as if for comfort.

THESEUS

They want me to infiltrate the defense field.

MINERVA

It's too dangerous, Theseus. If you died there ... we'd ...

THESEUS

I'm not going to die. I'm going to protect you. What he's done (beat) it's unforgivable.

MINERVA

You will not be able to defeat him.

THESEUS

Yeah, well, we'll just have to see about that.

INT.Â MINOS - LIVING QUARTERS HALLWAY - NIGHT

Daedalus and Icarus are fully laden with gear bags, and are walking briskly down the hallway toward the exit. Pasiphae is following them in a near daze, she walks unsteadily and bounces into the walls of the hallway.

PASIPHAE

(Throwing herself onto Daedalus and screaming)

No!

DAEDALUS

Get. Off. Me. Woman!

Daedalus turns and shoves Pasiphae to the ground, he knows maybe too hard. She hits it hard and grunts as if she's been hurt.

GUARD 1 (O.S.)

Freeze!

Daedalus rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and raises his hands.

DAEDALUS

It's not what it looks like.

Icarus backs away from the guard who is now blocking their exit and aiming a gun at them. Icarus feels for Daedalus' presence as he hesitantly step backwards. He finally reaches Daedalus, they are back to back.

Another guard enters the scene.

GUARD 1

(Skeptical and angry)

Not what it looks like, huh?

GUARD 2

(Takes in the scene and sees Pasiphae lying on the ground)

Miss Pasiphae!

GUARD 1

I got here in time to see Daedalus throw her onto the ground.

DAEDALUS

I'm telling you, she was harassing me. Let us pass.

GUARD 2

(Points his weapon at Daedalus)

Not a chance in hell of that, my friend. Take even a step and you're done.

DAEDALUS

Don't you idiots know who I am?

PASIPHAE

(As if regaining consciousness)

Uhhh ...

Guard 2 keeps his weapon on Daedalus and runs around him to reach Pasiphae.

GUARD 2

Miss Pasiphae! Stay still, we're getting a doctor.

GUARD 1

(Pulls out a radio device and begins to speak into it)

This is Unit 12, we have a situation in the boarding room corridor. Miss Pasiphae has been injured. We have a suspect surrounded. Request medical assistance and backup.

INT.Â MINOS - ARADNEA'S QUARTERS - NIGHT

Aradnea stands at her door watching the video screen showing the corridor outside. Daedalus is being roughly shackled by a group of guards. A medic attends to Pasiphae who is now fully conscious, but sullen and speechless.

DAEDALUS

Unhand me, you cretins! Pasiphae! Tell them it was all just a misunderstanding! (beat) Pasiphae?

Daedalus struggles to turn and face her. When he is finally able to he widens his eyes and furrows his brow.

DAEDALUS

Why you! Look at her! She's laughing!

GUARD 3

(To Guard 2)

I think we've heard enough from mister genius for one night. Shut him up.

GUARD 2

With pleasure.

Guard 2 gets another device out of his utility belt, a taser. He enables it and then rams it into Daedalus' back. Daedalus screams and then falls limp.

Step back and we focus on Aradnea again, close up on face. She's frozen, almost in shock, obviously undergoing an internal crisis.

ICARUS (O.S.)

Father? (beat) Father! (beat) Father!