"Plus ca change, Plus c'est la meme chose..."
Alphonse Carr.
Then, Rush made it 'awesomeness.'
There was lowish oxygen in the saucer, so I asked if there was a climate-control guy or something. Three of the random greys answered at once, from three directions, that there was. (That was really weird.)
"Blinx, impilt sook pazar nint linik glurgen, Klargen."
"Very well. I want it 68 degrees, 7% oxygen, and I want the air to smell like Pez candies." I answered.
"Blinx, Klargen." (I am getting to like this very much about now... We all know that the answer 'blinx' also contains the command form ending 'nx' so there's an absolute. No retorts with an 'nx.' Nice.)
"Location? Course? Report."
It was all falling together, I silently mused. (But blocked from transmitting.)
They sprang into action. It was impressive. Little thinnies move fast when they know sides of buttered bread and all that. Because of the telepathy (not really, it was just highly computerized) their control boards would light up as they arrived, preset for their idiosyncracies, preferences, whatever they have...
"Computer - play some Soundgarden, loudly, stat."
"Blinx, Klargen." It chose "Outshined."
"Gold stars to Computer for that choice. Now, something different... Who's next on two-fers?"
They all had that blank look again. Several consoles hummed like they were emitting energy of an unknown nature.
"Music off."
I already knew where we were. We were over the SW tip of Lopez Island, above the beach of blue glass shards, rounded by a century of waves into soft cobalt blue cobbles... We were more or less stationary and cloaked at 1200 meters. Low fog in tendrils blew from the NW past Shark Reef. The craft moved randomly with the clouds well above, and was infinitely stealthy, so I wasn't freaked we were so close to NAS-Whidbey. They couldn't see shit of us. I could see two F-18s, magnified on the defensive screen, that may have sniffed something on their radars briefly, but they were climbing, hooking back like they were headed to Yakima or something, so, what the hey?
The XO grey came from wherever he'd been and did a little bow. I nodded back.
"Klargen?" He actually seemed concerned.
"XO. We're still cloaked?"
"Aye." (Funny how THAT word is the same.)
"Drop to 100 meters, isolate my bodily atmospherics and prepare for physical transfer. I want full amplification on all frequencies, including osmic. Got it?"
His little grey brow furrowed, I swear... "Blinx, Klargen."
Maybe he knew what I was gonna do, bless his teensy 6-chamber hearts.
But he did it. And it was a good one. Only took a second, and it was stored. Amplification would take a few niptuks, but I could wait.
"Helm, coordinate with tactical for location and vector information. Begin photogrammetric and vibrational search. "
"Blinx Klargen." So crisp. I love when they answer at the same time and it sounds like early 'Car's' songs, reverberates a bit.
"Science Officer?"
"Klargen?" He was pissed because he knew, too. I'm sure he had better things to do.
"Find Her. Quietly. No EM nonsense."
"Gling brak blim, Klargen." ("As you wish" for you newbs.)
Wait. 'What am I doing?' I thought. I wanted a crowd of sorts.
"Helm, Defensive, begin random 1 second de-cloakings and position anomalies. Keep us below the clouds. Smartly." I already know they hate that shit, so gripin' isn't gonna help.
"Blinx, Klargen."
The random changes tended to mess with the inertial dampeners, so I stumbled back to my 'rotatey-chair' and latched the belt.
The mainscreen showed us over the cemetary, several miles south of the village. Facing north. The sun peeked though in places but not here. There was a slight breeze against the low trees.
A blink later, we were a 1/4 mile to the north or so. In the sun. The screen compensated.
"Klargen, oopan to tohna, nimt." They found both of them in less than 10 seconds. Spectacular work these guys do.
"Excellent," I giggle. "Cloak up boys. Take us, Helm."
"Blinx, Klargen." He fiddled and we were there. And I could see both of them, laughing and talking, standing in the parking lot of the new grocery store.
"Steady, Helm. Hover. Imaginary lover."
"Klargen?"
"Just seeing if you were listening, as you were." I decided right then and there to buy a round for this bridge staff. They were kickin' butt.
"Science, let 'er rip. Cropdust time. Full magnification on auditory and osmic. Suppress local noises."
I think the Clash said it best long ago...
"The crowd caught a whiff of that crazy casbah jive."
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Carbon Monoxide and Taxes...
Enough of either CO or taxes will effectively make you a non-entity, but this doesn't mean you should avoid them entirely. Because that almost impossible, as it turns out.
We live in a closed, entropic system. Everything in our atmosphere, biosphere and geosphere is tending toward utter chaos. And that's a 'built-in rule.' Actually, a law. (Pause for consideration.)
Have you caught your breath? (I know - you're thinking - "But the implications are staggering.")
Hello? Yeah, they are. Mind-bogglingly so.
Redundancy. The cornerstone of engineering, in my realm. If it wants to load up and fall, make it stay. Twice. And then add a steel strap, just for the seismic issues that inevitably occur in The Ring Of Fire.
20 years ago I had carbon monoxide poisoning. I was looking for my tax documents, and the heat from the stove - preheating, then cooking the crap outta - vaporized my teflon pan and some eggs and olive oil. I remember waking up several times but not the passing out thing, and I woke up in the living room, the bathroom, the shower, and then the hospital. Pools of saliva are involved, so I don't even know how long I was out. Don't remember much in between. Never did find the right documents, if I recall.
What the fuck am I talking about? Inevitability. That smothering sense of guilt/remorse/loss that makes you wish that you'd done things differently at the time...
I'm pretty sure I'd have bought a winning lottery ticket. And kissed a girl "Happy Birthday."
Begin a glacier. (?) Not anymore.
We live in a closed, entropic system. Everything in our atmosphere, biosphere and geosphere is tending toward utter chaos. And that's a 'built-in rule.' Actually, a law. (Pause for consideration.)
Have you caught your breath? (I know - you're thinking - "But the implications are staggering.")
Hello? Yeah, they are. Mind-bogglingly so.
Redundancy. The cornerstone of engineering, in my realm. If it wants to load up and fall, make it stay. Twice. And then add a steel strap, just for the seismic issues that inevitably occur in The Ring Of Fire.
20 years ago I had carbon monoxide poisoning. I was looking for my tax documents, and the heat from the stove - preheating, then cooking the crap outta - vaporized my teflon pan and some eggs and olive oil. I remember waking up several times but not the passing out thing, and I woke up in the living room, the bathroom, the shower, and then the hospital. Pools of saliva are involved, so I don't even know how long I was out. Don't remember much in between. Never did find the right documents, if I recall.
What the fuck am I talking about? Inevitability. That smothering sense of guilt/remorse/loss that makes you wish that you'd done things differently at the time...
I'm pretty sure I'd have bought a winning lottery ticket. And kissed a girl "Happy Birthday."
Begin a glacier. (?) Not anymore.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Warp Negative 911! (Addendum)
If I was a guitar... (Which I've been, before, a few lives ago. You all KNOW that.)
Islam wasn't involved in the events of September 11, 2001, in case you're someone who believes that. Fool. So sorry for that.
I have badges and memories that confirm that all for me.
The media lies. And repeats lies. Until YOU believe them.
So, I'd be open-tuned, as a guitar.
Restrictions are for The Fearful. Bible-belters. They LOVE fear.
(Fear? Not me. I don't react well to it. I tend to freak initially, then I get calm, re-evaluate, deploy emergency blankets and first-aid dressings, logic, something effective. It's weird.)
Grizzly Bear? Done it. Hypothermia? Been there. Unless you have a personal wolf-pack armed with ninja swords, UFOs AND rattlesnakes, I'm not afraid of you. Most lawyers can't take a good ol' 'neck-shakin.' It feels relaxing, until it breaks suddenly. Then they cave, as their breath calms. softly. I've always enjoyed that part of it.
I digress...
Just try it... I HAVE an emergency blanket. Several, actually. Dispersed. Strategically. (Like my throwing knives and shuriken.)
So the firemen and the police were dukin' it out on Church Street, behind Trinity Church, a few minutes after Giuliani put the smack-down on all the idle hands. Maybe November 1st or 2nd... 75 of each (NYPD, FDNY, and PAPD) down to 25 or something like that, it was a dangerous place to be and all. They didn't react well.
All I need is the air that I breathe. (Bush's White House and Christine Whitman's EPA made sure I sucked some serious asbestos and myriad chemicals burning incessantly, ones that'd never been found before. Ever. (Did I say 'ever?') Yeah, I breathed THOSE. Asbestos was just the beginning.)
I counted 17 armored cars lined up on The Avenue of The Finest from west to east, obviously empty, tall on their axles, idling just in front of the NYPD headquarters. Seemingly bored. What's going on?
Armored cars? There must be money about.
But there they were, solemn, waiting. The drivers seemed peeved.
I was in a climbing harness for safety, drilling a wall for an antenna mount.
(They'd just busted the firemen and the ironworkers trying to bust open the Bank of Nova Scotia vault, found intact, chalk full of gold and silver. They (They?) found early evidence of obvious cutting and prying, and snuck in cameras. They DO that. It was all on closed-circuit TV, in case the defense had a differing story to tell.)
It was a balmy sunny day, but late in fall. We'd been there so long that we were inured to the security and the other BS. The roof we were working on was a few hundred feet south and east of Tower 1's old place... across Broadway, but obviously UNDER the shadow of the World Trade Center towers. Too close, but undamaged. The roof aggregate was river rock. It'd been steam-cleaned by the FBI contractors, like everything was, but it wasn't really clean. There were pieces. It was a 'cleared roof.'
Did I mention it was sunny day? It was. Sweet and humid.
But I still felt like shit, strapped in up there, occasionally watching the cranes in The Pit. That's what we all called it.
Then the melee broke out, and I could hear it 400+ feet in the air to the SE, on the rooftop across and down from the NASDAQ Building. It was unavoidable. Fracases carry.
Inexplicably, I was full of nausea. On the ledge above Lower Manhattan, 400 feet up. Probably not the best place to be when feeling sick. Or irritated. I felt both. I just felt wrongish. So I 'called in sick' while I was working. And everyone knew something was going on, not just with me, but everywhere in that sector.
It didn't pass the 'smell test.' Something was fishy. But not literally.
Underneath the WTC was hundred of billions in gold. $230 million worth was recovered.
Where IS all that gold? When the the riot hit full peak, the armored cars pulled into the pit, and they disappeared into the tunnel under WTC4 with a purpose.
I didn't see them again, and no record of them ever coming out exists. Hundreds of billions.
Gone.
And you wonder what 9/11 was about? It was a heist. On multiple levels.
Billions and billions.
I found a taxi up near Houston Street, and bought a few t-shirts at a kiosk before I got in.
And then I wondered if the news would cover the gold rescue. They didn't.
It disappeared that day.
I still find the power chords.
If my brakes fail, or I go of a cliff, or I'm ever involved in something nefarious, according to the authorities, it's bullshit. Completely. I've spread out the evidence, fuckers.
I saw it. It happened. Someone stole 17 armored cars worth of gold from Ground Zero.
Do I have to be more specific in my accusation?
The Carlyle Group bought a gold mine in November 2001. Do your research.
E Minor strum at 4/8 time.
Islam wasn't involved in the events of September 11, 2001, in case you're someone who believes that. Fool. So sorry for that.
I have badges and memories that confirm that all for me.
The media lies. And repeats lies. Until YOU believe them.
So, I'd be open-tuned, as a guitar.
Restrictions are for The Fearful. Bible-belters. They LOVE fear.
(Fear? Not me. I don't react well to it. I tend to freak initially, then I get calm, re-evaluate, deploy emergency blankets and first-aid dressings, logic, something effective. It's weird.)
Grizzly Bear? Done it. Hypothermia? Been there. Unless you have a personal wolf-pack armed with ninja swords, UFOs AND rattlesnakes, I'm not afraid of you. Most lawyers can't take a good ol' 'neck-shakin.' It feels relaxing, until it breaks suddenly. Then they cave, as their breath calms. softly. I've always enjoyed that part of it.
I digress...
Just try it... I HAVE an emergency blanket. Several, actually. Dispersed. Strategically. (Like my throwing knives and shuriken.)
So the firemen and the police were dukin' it out on Church Street, behind Trinity Church, a few minutes after Giuliani put the smack-down on all the idle hands. Maybe November 1st or 2nd... 75 of each (NYPD, FDNY, and PAPD) down to 25 or something like that, it was a dangerous place to be and all. They didn't react well.
All I need is the air that I breathe. (Bush's White House and Christine Whitman's EPA made sure I sucked some serious asbestos and myriad chemicals burning incessantly, ones that'd never been found before. Ever. (Did I say 'ever?') Yeah, I breathed THOSE. Asbestos was just the beginning.)
I counted 17 armored cars lined up on The Avenue of The Finest from west to east, obviously empty, tall on their axles, idling just in front of the NYPD headquarters. Seemingly bored. What's going on?
Armored cars? There must be money about.
But there they were, solemn, waiting. The drivers seemed peeved.
I was in a climbing harness for safety, drilling a wall for an antenna mount.
(They'd just busted the firemen and the ironworkers trying to bust open the Bank of Nova Scotia vault, found intact, chalk full of gold and silver. They (They?) found early evidence of obvious cutting and prying, and snuck in cameras. They DO that. It was all on closed-circuit TV, in case the defense had a differing story to tell.)
It was a balmy sunny day, but late in fall. We'd been there so long that we were inured to the security and the other BS. The roof we were working on was a few hundred feet south and east of Tower 1's old place... across Broadway, but obviously UNDER the shadow of the World Trade Center towers. Too close, but undamaged. The roof aggregate was river rock. It'd been steam-cleaned by the FBI contractors, like everything was, but it wasn't really clean. There were pieces. It was a 'cleared roof.'
Did I mention it was sunny day? It was. Sweet and humid.
But I still felt like shit, strapped in up there, occasionally watching the cranes in The Pit. That's what we all called it.
Then the melee broke out, and I could hear it 400+ feet in the air to the SE, on the rooftop across and down from the NASDAQ Building. It was unavoidable. Fracases carry.
Inexplicably, I was full of nausea. On the ledge above Lower Manhattan, 400 feet up. Probably not the best place to be when feeling sick. Or irritated. I felt both. I just felt wrongish. So I 'called in sick' while I was working. And everyone knew something was going on, not just with me, but everywhere in that sector.
It didn't pass the 'smell test.' Something was fishy. But not literally.
Underneath the WTC was hundred of billions in gold. $230 million worth was recovered.
Where IS all that gold? When the the riot hit full peak, the armored cars pulled into the pit, and they disappeared into the tunnel under WTC4 with a purpose.
I didn't see them again, and no record of them ever coming out exists. Hundreds of billions.
Gone.
And you wonder what 9/11 was about? It was a heist. On multiple levels.
Billions and billions.
I found a taxi up near Houston Street, and bought a few t-shirts at a kiosk before I got in.
And then I wondered if the news would cover the gold rescue. They didn't.
It disappeared that day.
I still find the power chords.
If my brakes fail, or I go of a cliff, or I'm ever involved in something nefarious, according to the authorities, it's bullshit. Completely. I've spread out the evidence, fuckers.
I saw it. It happened. Someone stole 17 armored cars worth of gold from Ground Zero.
Do I have to be more specific in my accusation?
The Carlyle Group bought a gold mine in November 2001. Do your research.
E Minor strum at 4/8 time.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Klargen calls it a "Sling Blade."
"...Nothing's really sane but everything's amazin'
(Slowly takin' over,)
Baby have you noticed the sky is re-arrangin'?
(And truly moving me.)
OahoaHHoah, the ground beneath us crumbles
And we fall.
So I wonder, will we fall?
Because I don't want to be alone.
Caught up in a spiral..."
Does anyone else groove on William Orbit?
Ahem. (Distracted.) What's the best way to cut mushrooms? Never mind.
Take a piece of paper, your standard 8"x11" white copy paper. (Find it, you know you have some.)
Look at it. (Careful not to get a paper cut... that shit stings.)
It's the whole world, really. "Everybody knows that the good guys lost..."
Really. It could be anything. SO really, it's 'plastic.' Look up THAT definition.
Paper is plastic. (Steel is so plastic it isn't even funny.)
Fold it into an airplane - how many ways can you do that? - or wad it up and burn it. I really don't care, subjectively, but I'd like to point out that that thin plank of processed wood isn't free to the world. (Squirrels would chirrup something about it, if they had a 'Squirrel Fox News' to beat their drum.)
The human world is creating a debt to the rest of the planet, and if you haven't already grasped that, then it's too late for you. There are myriad factors that contribute to, and aggravate, the system.
Technology. It turns trees into paper, and rare-earth minerals and oil and pretty rocks and radio waves into computers with Internet access. And then, people penetrate their orifices with - frankly - anything - and film it. ("I seent it.")
Knowledge. It is better than ignorance. I'm pretty sure the Bible says so. (Wait, FUCK! I didn't capitalize 'the' before "The Bible." I'm going to Hell. Shit.) These words are between parenthetical marks, and they know how precarious that can be. (I can make that judgment, because I'm a BAMF and I can write whatever words tickle my fancy. HEY! Has anyone ever SEEN a 'fancy?' I'd love to see one, just to say so...) Are they in Europe?
Am I supposed to pay attention to the details or not? Which ones? It's not like there's a manual to read. SO I get defensive, sarcastic, bitter. No one trained me to the NEW rules. The greed offends me. The ends vs means arguments to support killing people before they can think to kill you. Some are overly concerned with final product, regardless off the morality involved to get there. Monsanto comes to mind. Profit and chemicals never do good things together, (Remember them at the prom? He was all over her, it was embarrassing. I saw her nipple.)
Looks good, though, right? On Monday?
Gloves off. Fair warning.
"As I stand here, I ponder greater things..." Candlebox once sang.
Memories are like a nasty 'passive voice' in your life, my life, everyone's lives. Right? People have survived some incredible circumstances - we all know of several right off the top of our heads - and lived to tell the tale. Some knew it was comin.' Shackleton probably had interesting dreams.
The memories ARE the warnings.
But the future doesn't listen, it's like a puppy. (But you still want to kiss it, even though it peed on the good Persian carpet. It's still sooo cute, right?)
If I'm ever abducted by a UFO, they're gonna regret it, those pasty mother-scratchers. That body-paralysis shit doesn't work on me - aHa! Oh, yeah, I'd go along like I was incapacitated and all, but then... Don't they get it, I'm 'me?'
I'll have control of that interstellar ship within a minute. We'd still be heading south over Elliott Bay. I'll have to deduce it's maneuvering capabilities, and gain trust in the officer ranks. Shouldn't be an issue. Thirty hektars later...
"Call me Klargen!" (That's alien-speak for "Captain," in case you're out of the loop. Newbs...)
"Heading?" I ask towards the obvious helmsman. He's a skinny, grey alien. Nondescript. They all look alike for a bit.
"English, muthahfuckah, do you speak it?" I do my best Sam L. Jackson impression.
"Glurg ning bang glim, smil pinit banut, Klargen." (Nice!) His lips didn't EVEN move.
"Very well. Slow to impulse. Come about to heading 295, pass Whidbey Island and Point No Point, then reconfigure. I'll be in my quarters."
"Blinx."
"Blinx? P'onlanje..? I'm the FUCKIN Klargen here!"
"Blinx Klargen, nimt onor ripiz pilg nint!"
They all snap to attention. They know.
"That's what I thought. Easy miss. As you were," I say, on my way to the Captain's/Klargen's Quarters. Rather modest, except for the bed. It was an ornate, seemingly hand-carved, beautiful piece of furniture. The ceiling was a bit low for me, but, shit, this thing can suffice.
These guys are easy, I think. The door shusses behind me, and the one in the blue smock is there, probing.
"Klargen?"
"What? We there already?"
"Blinx, Klargen." He almost bowed, which I found I liked, all the sudden.
I still wanted to whip them into shape.
"Blinx my kumquat! Get us to some uncommon ground, somewhere up in the San Juans, like Lopez, they won't notice anything up there, stoner freaks. And bring beer."
He didn't move a muscle. So I pushed. Hard. Harder than he thought I could, I'd bet. My temples ached a bit, (from the pushing) but it was worth it to see him squirm somewhat.
"Ampoo dez ba'aht blinx, Klargen.' So, he does understand. I could think/speak everything I needed to communicate to these wiry bastards, without wasting all that energy lost making sounds.
I like the idea of that. I pull out a piece of paper from their 'Zeerocks' copier.
"This is plastic."
'Blinx, Klargen.' I started folding it furiously.
A few moments later, the door shussed again. It needed lubrication, maybe, I could hear it and all.
"Lopez glurgen impilt nix pang, Klargen."
"Taisetsu ja nakata," I replied, fucking with him, with Japanese. I toss the plane at him and it rolls right and stalls. The air IS a little thin on a UFO.
"Klargen needs entertainment," I laugh.
That's the way I roll on a UFO. That's why they won't abduct me. They know their shit's weak.
They might call it a Kaiser blade, but I call it a "Sling Blade."
SO I'm right, in a way.
They LOVE the paper airplanes, in case that was a question.
(Slowly takin' over,)
Baby have you noticed the sky is re-arrangin'?
(And truly moving me.)
OahoaHHoah, the ground beneath us crumbles
And we fall.
So I wonder, will we fall?
Because I don't want to be alone.
Caught up in a spiral..."
Does anyone else groove on William Orbit?
Ahem. (Distracted.) What's the best way to cut mushrooms? Never mind.
Take a piece of paper, your standard 8"x11" white copy paper. (Find it, you know you have some.)
Look at it. (Careful not to get a paper cut... that shit stings.)
It's the whole world, really. "Everybody knows that the good guys lost..."
Really. It could be anything. SO really, it's 'plastic.' Look up THAT definition.
Paper is plastic. (Steel is so plastic it isn't even funny.)
Fold it into an airplane - how many ways can you do that? - or wad it up and burn it. I really don't care, subjectively, but I'd like to point out that that thin plank of processed wood isn't free to the world. (Squirrels would chirrup something about it, if they had a 'Squirrel Fox News' to beat their drum.)
The human world is creating a debt to the rest of the planet, and if you haven't already grasped that, then it's too late for you. There are myriad factors that contribute to, and aggravate, the system.
Technology. It turns trees into paper, and rare-earth minerals and oil and pretty rocks and radio waves into computers with Internet access. And then, people penetrate their orifices with - frankly - anything - and film it. ("I seent it.")
Knowledge. It is better than ignorance. I'm pretty sure the Bible says so. (Wait, FUCK! I didn't capitalize 'the' before "The Bible." I'm going to Hell. Shit.) These words are between parenthetical marks, and they know how precarious that can be. (I can make that judgment, because I'm a BAMF and I can write whatever words tickle my fancy. HEY! Has anyone ever SEEN a 'fancy?' I'd love to see one, just to say so...) Are they in Europe?
Am I supposed to pay attention to the details or not? Which ones? It's not like there's a manual to read. SO I get defensive, sarcastic, bitter. No one trained me to the NEW rules. The greed offends me. The ends vs means arguments to support killing people before they can think to kill you. Some are overly concerned with final product, regardless off the morality involved to get there. Monsanto comes to mind. Profit and chemicals never do good things together, (Remember them at the prom? He was all over her, it was embarrassing. I saw her nipple.)
Looks good, though, right? On Monday?
Gloves off. Fair warning.
"As I stand here, I ponder greater things..." Candlebox once sang.
Memories are like a nasty 'passive voice' in your life, my life, everyone's lives. Right? People have survived some incredible circumstances - we all know of several right off the top of our heads - and lived to tell the tale. Some knew it was comin.' Shackleton probably had interesting dreams.
The memories ARE the warnings.
But the future doesn't listen, it's like a puppy. (But you still want to kiss it, even though it peed on the good Persian carpet. It's still sooo cute, right?)
If I'm ever abducted by a UFO, they're gonna regret it, those pasty mother-scratchers. That body-paralysis shit doesn't work on me - aHa! Oh, yeah, I'd go along like I was incapacitated and all, but then... Don't they get it, I'm 'me?'
I'll have control of that interstellar ship within a minute. We'd still be heading south over Elliott Bay. I'll have to deduce it's maneuvering capabilities, and gain trust in the officer ranks. Shouldn't be an issue. Thirty hektars later...
"Call me Klargen!" (That's alien-speak for "Captain," in case you're out of the loop. Newbs...)
"Heading?" I ask towards the obvious helmsman. He's a skinny, grey alien. Nondescript. They all look alike for a bit.
"English, muthahfuckah, do you speak it?" I do my best Sam L. Jackson impression.
"Glurg ning bang glim, smil pinit banut, Klargen." (Nice!) His lips didn't EVEN move.
"Very well. Slow to impulse. Come about to heading 295, pass Whidbey Island and Point No Point, then reconfigure. I'll be in my quarters."
"Blinx."
"Blinx? P'onlanje..? I'm the FUCKIN Klargen here!"
"Blinx Klargen, nimt onor ripiz pilg nint!"
They all snap to attention. They know.
"That's what I thought. Easy miss. As you were," I say, on my way to the Captain's/Klargen's Quarters. Rather modest, except for the bed. It was an ornate, seemingly hand-carved, beautiful piece of furniture. The ceiling was a bit low for me, but, shit, this thing can suffice.
These guys are easy, I think. The door shusses behind me, and the one in the blue smock is there, probing.
"Klargen?"
"What? We there already?"
"Blinx, Klargen." He almost bowed, which I found I liked, all the sudden.
I still wanted to whip them into shape.
"Blinx my kumquat! Get us to some uncommon ground, somewhere up in the San Juans, like Lopez, they won't notice anything up there, stoner freaks. And bring beer."
He didn't move a muscle. So I pushed. Hard. Harder than he thought I could, I'd bet. My temples ached a bit, (from the pushing) but it was worth it to see him squirm somewhat.
"Ampoo dez ba'aht blinx, Klargen.' So, he does understand. I could think/speak everything I needed to communicate to these wiry bastards, without wasting all that energy lost making sounds.
I like the idea of that. I pull out a piece of paper from their 'Zeerocks' copier.
"This is plastic."
'Blinx, Klargen.' I started folding it furiously.
A few moments later, the door shussed again. It needed lubrication, maybe, I could hear it and all.
"Lopez glurgen impilt nix pang, Klargen."
"Taisetsu ja nakata," I replied, fucking with him, with Japanese. I toss the plane at him and it rolls right and stalls. The air IS a little thin on a UFO.
"Klargen needs entertainment," I laugh.
That's the way I roll on a UFO. That's why they won't abduct me. They know their shit's weak.
They might call it a Kaiser blade, but I call it a "Sling Blade."
SO I'm right, in a way.
They LOVE the paper airplanes, in case that was a question.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Find Them, They're There
I've left coins in different places.
At the time, in Europe, the mid to mid-late-mid 80's, it seemed like the thing to do - I could hide them on a USO bus tour one weekend and miraculously 'find' them a year later. We're talking mostly Pisa and Rome. And a few castles in Germany.
Probably zero interest so far. There is a coin in a hole in The Leaning Tower in Pisa, and one in the Colosseum in Rome. I shoulda hid coins in the Pentagon and The Empire State Building, but, no.
Nyet.
It ISN'T that easy.
Get a notepad. Yes, I'll wait. (Whistling and sighing ensue.) Ready? No?! Dag-nabbit? (I'm dyin' here.) A good pen. Check in the thing by the sink, there's always one there.
The Pisa Coin.
This one ISN'T easy to find. Due diligence, all that shit. Get to Pisa. Buy the ticket to climb the stairs. There aren't that many, it's a fixed distance roughly 'round and up.' Go to the sixth level of The Leaning Tower, one step at a time. Count them, for all I care. I hope they haven't closed off the 'outdoor rings.' They may have. ('They?') Again, with the 'they.'
On the extreme north side of the Tower, look to a hole in the wall about six feet up, a really round hole, maybe three inches deep or so. The marble is really white there, so the hole is obvious as 'fruitcake.'
Reach on there with a fingertip, probe, and there I'll be. Is it the 500 lira coin or the 1965 US quarter?
Maybe you'll tell me. Shit, I can't remember.
The Roma coin.
This one may be inaccessible now. Same as before, get to Italy, but this time be in Rome. It happens with planning, people - SO - buy the tickets for the Colosseum, and deviate from the norm. You'll be in a group of tourists, wondering about their sniffles, when... When the procession heads off the first level to go down, veer left. Really left. No, lefter thanthat - the outside ring. At the last 'safe' vestibule there's an old piece of marble column laying on the 'ground.' Go to the south/southeast side of it and squat down. There's a raised lip on one side. From your knees, line up the raised lip to the hole in the wall. It might take some creative sways, so chill. It's pretty obvious, once you think about it.
PS... there's a coin in there.
Tell me all about it.
At the time, in Europe, the mid to mid-late-mid 80's, it seemed like the thing to do - I could hide them on a USO bus tour one weekend and miraculously 'find' them a year later. We're talking mostly Pisa and Rome. And a few castles in Germany.
Probably zero interest so far. There is a coin in a hole in The Leaning Tower in Pisa, and one in the Colosseum in Rome. I shoulda hid coins in the Pentagon and The Empire State Building, but, no.
Nyet.
It ISN'T that easy.
Get a notepad. Yes, I'll wait. (Whistling and sighing ensue.) Ready? No?! Dag-nabbit? (I'm dyin' here.) A good pen. Check in the thing by the sink, there's always one there.
The Pisa Coin.
This one ISN'T easy to find. Due diligence, all that shit. Get to Pisa. Buy the ticket to climb the stairs. There aren't that many, it's a fixed distance roughly 'round and up.' Go to the sixth level of The Leaning Tower, one step at a time. Count them, for all I care. I hope they haven't closed off the 'outdoor rings.' They may have. ('They?') Again, with the 'they.'
On the extreme north side of the Tower, look to a hole in the wall about six feet up, a really round hole, maybe three inches deep or so. The marble is really white there, so the hole is obvious as 'fruitcake.'
Reach on there with a fingertip, probe, and there I'll be. Is it the 500 lira coin or the 1965 US quarter?
Maybe you'll tell me. Shit, I can't remember.
The Roma coin.
This one may be inaccessible now. Same as before, get to Italy, but this time be in Rome. It happens with planning, people - SO - buy the tickets for the Colosseum, and deviate from the norm. You'll be in a group of tourists, wondering about their sniffles, when... When the procession heads off the first level to go down, veer left. Really left. No, lefter thanthat - the outside ring. At the last 'safe' vestibule there's an old piece of marble column laying on the 'ground.' Go to the south/southeast side of it and squat down. There's a raised lip on one side. From your knees, line up the raised lip to the hole in the wall. It might take some creative sways, so chill. It's pretty obvious, once you think about it.
PS... there's a coin in there.
Tell me all about it.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sometimes I DIDN'T Watch TV
""Sometimes, people forget..." The Who says it bestly...
Oh, there were times. I remember them, because I was actually DOING things. Probably, push-ups. So, there were memories of things other than laughter sound-tracks, unpaid characters vying for a tax-laden Mil-spot by debasing themselves, Honda CRXs, bad beef jerky, Manhattanites with big apartments and bad banter...
Kinda glad I missed that all, actually. The Early 90's SUCKED, as it were. Television wouldn't have helped. (Except for 'Star Trek: The Next Generation.' Because of Whorf. It's a long story involving salvation, combat and glory, so...)
Being outside the USA during the late 80's, now - hindsight 20-20 and all that - seems like some sort of enforced bliss. I was permanently employed in the US Army as some sort of mercenary, but, without digressing, I was okay with that. Plus, the foreign experience thing. Have you ever eaten a pig's foot in jelly? Bought good mustard in a convenient squeeze-tube? Bread-lets by the kilogram?
Yeah. Precisely my point.
From what I read in The Stars and Stripes, the homeland then was becoming a mess. Bush I wasn't that good for the world after that CIA fuck-up in Kuwait. Was anybody paying attention in 1989 or 1990? I ask because I didn't see it in the neon and hand-print t-shirts. Lots of bad beer. No evidence hidden in the newly-mown grassy knolls? No ankle tattoos? And what's with these new 'latte' things? WHAT THE FUCK?!
"'Have you even been to deep Mexico?' comes to mind." Norteno mariachi... with the tubas? Hmm? Spit it out!
Maybe This Is a Test. El pero esta blanco? Quick - what is 'pi' to seven digits?
Wow, I DO digress. It really is all I do. It's practically a career. Digressing. I'm a digressor. I'll readily admit it. That's why I have a sword by the door, because this ONE time...
...so that mailman isn't on this route anymore.
Phew. Is it hot in here?
"If I could make a wish, I think I'd pass..." The Hollies rule.
SO, I didn't watch TV for a long while. Minus a bunch of movies on VHS or early, 12 inch videodiscs, I basically missed the 1984-1999 television time period. (You KNOW the movies - "Repo Man" "Dune," "Terminator" and "Empire Strikes Back." so shut up about that.) (GAH!)
Perhaps, you can imagine my imagined horror. No "Urkel." No "Alf." No Olsen twins. It was almost magic. I didn't know who Jon-Benet was because I was in Korea. A pageant girl murdered? (Is this a quiz?) I say the brother DID it. His voice was in the 911 background, but he was supposed to be of fat college. What possible outcome would make parents clam up? BEEP! Alex, 'What is a guilty sibling?"
"Correct."
"I'll take Onion Recipes for $1200."
"This double-named city in WA State is famous for sweet yellow onions."
(Hey! It's not Kent, Auburn or Federal Way. No answer EVER will include them unless the answer is "This shithole has horrific crimes and doesn't do JACK SHIT about it, because everyone who lives there is a an actual piece of shit. We checked.)
It's Saturday night. I'm not watching "Saturday Night Live" and that's something. I can recall staying up late enough in 1977 to watch the new episodes, but I was more of an SCTV fan, truth be told.
Maybe it's okay to go without television. Maybe you can survive... I did, for almost a decade, until those damned "X-Files" debuted. I DO Believe.
(The evidence is out there, unless you're too busy, or watching TV.)
But if you watch Fox News and believe it, I'm gonna be the boogey-man that comes and gets you.
TV makes monsters. I just emulate them.
SO delicious.
Except "Roswell."
Oh, there were times. I remember them, because I was actually DOING things. Probably, push-ups. So, there were memories of things other than laughter sound-tracks, unpaid characters vying for a tax-laden Mil-spot by debasing themselves, Honda CRXs, bad beef jerky, Manhattanites with big apartments and bad banter...
Kinda glad I missed that all, actually. The Early 90's SUCKED, as it were. Television wouldn't have helped. (Except for 'Star Trek: The Next Generation.' Because of Whorf. It's a long story involving salvation, combat and glory, so...)
Being outside the USA during the late 80's, now - hindsight 20-20 and all that - seems like some sort of enforced bliss. I was permanently employed in the US Army as some sort of mercenary, but, without digressing, I was okay with that. Plus, the foreign experience thing. Have you ever eaten a pig's foot in jelly? Bought good mustard in a convenient squeeze-tube? Bread-lets by the kilogram?
Yeah. Precisely my point.
From what I read in The Stars and Stripes, the homeland then was becoming a mess. Bush I wasn't that good for the world after that CIA fuck-up in Kuwait. Was anybody paying attention in 1989 or 1990? I ask because I didn't see it in the neon and hand-print t-shirts. Lots of bad beer. No evidence hidden in the newly-mown grassy knolls? No ankle tattoos? And what's with these new 'latte' things? WHAT THE FUCK?!
"'Have you even been to deep Mexico?' comes to mind." Norteno mariachi... with the tubas? Hmm? Spit it out!
Maybe This Is a Test. El pero esta blanco? Quick - what is 'pi' to seven digits?
Wow, I DO digress. It really is all I do. It's practically a career. Digressing. I'm a digressor. I'll readily admit it. That's why I have a sword by the door, because this ONE time...
...so that mailman isn't on this route anymore.
Phew. Is it hot in here?
"If I could make a wish, I think I'd pass..." The Hollies rule.
SO, I didn't watch TV for a long while. Minus a bunch of movies on VHS or early, 12 inch videodiscs, I basically missed the 1984-1999 television time period. (You KNOW the movies - "Repo Man" "Dune," "Terminator" and "Empire Strikes Back." so shut up about that.) (GAH!)
Perhaps, you can imagine my imagined horror. No "Urkel." No "Alf." No Olsen twins. It was almost magic. I didn't know who Jon-Benet was because I was in Korea. A pageant girl murdered? (Is this a quiz?) I say the brother DID it. His voice was in the 911 background, but he was supposed to be of fat college. What possible outcome would make parents clam up? BEEP! Alex, 'What is a guilty sibling?"
"Correct."
"I'll take Onion Recipes for $1200."
"This double-named city in WA State is famous for sweet yellow onions."
(Hey! It's not Kent, Auburn or Federal Way. No answer EVER will include them unless the answer is "This shithole has horrific crimes and doesn't do JACK SHIT about it, because everyone who lives there is a an actual piece of shit. We checked.)
It's Saturday night. I'm not watching "Saturday Night Live" and that's something. I can recall staying up late enough in 1977 to watch the new episodes, but I was more of an SCTV fan, truth be told.
Maybe it's okay to go without television. Maybe you can survive... I did, for almost a decade, until those damned "X-Files" debuted. I DO Believe.
(The evidence is out there, unless you're too busy, or watching TV.)
But if you watch Fox News and believe it, I'm gonna be the boogey-man that comes and gets you.
TV makes monsters. I just emulate them.
SO delicious.
Except "Roswell."
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Dreams of Blue Tape
The One Thing You Can't Control.
Paint only goes where you put it. (I'm going with the synopsis first.)
I'm done with blue tape, except for extra-ordinary circumstances. (Taping down visqueen to a floor, the not-at-all inevitable Rapture (?), and painting stripes come to mind. Meh, don't do much of those.)
But, otherwise, no more.
Because, at a certain point, it's easier to paint that line - while you're there - than it is to mask it as perfectly as possible, and then paint over it later. And, then, pull the tape and throw it away.
(Away? Is that a place or a concept? We - both - know that answer.)
(Later? There IS no 'later' according to the quantum physicists, so "Get 'er done." Jeez. Science CAN be a bitch. And so can 'cutting-in paint.')
I used to be a procrastinator. A blue-taper. Found ways to avoid 'doing things.' Some would dare to say I was, hmmm, a bit 'lazy.' I was in my 20's, and I found I still needed long-missed sleep... but being that I was in my 20's, some of my proclivities may have precluded a lack of slumber opportunities. I was partying as much as I could. (Like BEFORE it was 1999.) After the Army, back in The World, I craved American culture again, felt I'd deserved an extended fete, and.. and, after that saturation, I needed sleep. I was spent.
Sleep. Glorious, seductive sleep. My nocturnal angels wait to whisper tales in my ears. The pillow beckons, crisp and cool. I fall away, soon to be the imaginary hero I REALLY am once again... floating like a feather, measuring time a different way, allowing threads I've submerged to weave back into the fold... WAYYY better than a hot-tub...
I didn't get THAT kind of sleep in my 20's. Maybe I hadn't learned to need sleep, like a normal human, I suspected. (Because I'm so awesome, of course.) But I still stayed up, way way late, convinced I'd miss something unless I did. I abused nicotine, alcohol, carbs, chocolate, U2, ANYTHING that'd keep me conscious - and thinking - so I couldn't miss anything. I was content to let it all sort itself out later. ("Later" - There it is, again. Doesn't HE know? Time, 'ticking away the moments that make up a dull day.' {You're digressing.} )
Therefore, typing about 'sleep' leads to typing about 'dreams.'
And you can't control your dreams. You can submerge active memories, color things a different tone, and suppress all you want while you're awake, but dreams don't follow the rules of 'consciousness.'
You can be ready for a night of peaceful bliss, and end up with a nightmare. Is it bad karma? Repressed bullshit? What the F? You can define how you go to sleep, but not how, and/or of what, you dream. The dream-state does it's own thing. You can only control so much. (What an awful lesson that was to learn. I blame 'Star Wars.')
Dreams can paint you into a corner. Recurring dreams, so much more so. And where was all your mental preparation there? Hmm? HMMM-MM? They creep under the barriers you've so carefully masked off, past all the 'construct' and effort. Defying you. Flipping the bird at you.
This has NOTHING to do with blue tape. It's about paint.
Exactly. Blue tape is a symbol, of something that at one time seemed useful, and may have been the best thing going, but now, now... not so much. I've LEARNED how to be better than blue tape.
We'll talk about that 'later...'
In our dreams.
Paint only goes where you put it. (I'm going with the synopsis first.)
I'm done with blue tape, except for extra-ordinary circumstances. (Taping down visqueen to a floor, the not-at-all inevitable Rapture (?), and painting stripes come to mind. Meh, don't do much of those.)
But, otherwise, no more.
Because, at a certain point, it's easier to paint that line - while you're there - than it is to mask it as perfectly as possible, and then paint over it later. And, then, pull the tape and throw it away.
(Away? Is that a place or a concept? We - both - know that answer.)
(Later? There IS no 'later' according to the quantum physicists, so "Get 'er done." Jeez. Science CAN be a bitch. And so can 'cutting-in paint.')
I used to be a procrastinator. A blue-taper. Found ways to avoid 'doing things.' Some would dare to say I was, hmmm, a bit 'lazy.' I was in my 20's, and I found I still needed long-missed sleep... but being that I was in my 20's, some of my proclivities may have precluded a lack of slumber opportunities. I was partying as much as I could. (Like BEFORE it was 1999.) After the Army, back in The World, I craved American culture again, felt I'd deserved an extended fete, and.. and, after that saturation, I needed sleep. I was spent.
Sleep. Glorious, seductive sleep. My nocturnal angels wait to whisper tales in my ears. The pillow beckons, crisp and cool. I fall away, soon to be the imaginary hero I REALLY am once again... floating like a feather, measuring time a different way, allowing threads I've submerged to weave back into the fold... WAYYY better than a hot-tub...
I didn't get THAT kind of sleep in my 20's. Maybe I hadn't learned to need sleep, like a normal human, I suspected. (Because I'm so awesome, of course.) But I still stayed up, way way late, convinced I'd miss something unless I did. I abused nicotine, alcohol, carbs, chocolate, U2, ANYTHING that'd keep me conscious - and thinking - so I couldn't miss anything. I was content to let it all sort itself out later. ("Later" - There it is, again. Doesn't HE know? Time, 'ticking away the moments that make up a dull day.' {You're digressing.} )
Therefore, typing about 'sleep' leads to typing about 'dreams.'
And you can't control your dreams. You can submerge active memories, color things a different tone, and suppress all you want while you're awake, but dreams don't follow the rules of 'consciousness.'
You can be ready for a night of peaceful bliss, and end up with a nightmare. Is it bad karma? Repressed bullshit? What the F? You can define how you go to sleep, but not how, and/or of what, you dream. The dream-state does it's own thing. You can only control so much. (What an awful lesson that was to learn. I blame 'Star Wars.')
Dreams can paint you into a corner. Recurring dreams, so much more so. And where was all your mental preparation there? Hmm? HMMM-MM? They creep under the barriers you've so carefully masked off, past all the 'construct' and effort. Defying you. Flipping the bird at you.
This has NOTHING to do with blue tape. It's about paint.
Exactly. Blue tape is a symbol, of something that at one time seemed useful, and may have been the best thing going, but now, now... not so much. I've LEARNED how to be better than blue tape.
We'll talk about that 'later...'
In our dreams.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Lovingly Past Midnight
Now. Here. The adverb, as we know it, is on life support. Book your flight.
I knew it long ago. (It stopped sending postcards from Cebu, Ko Samui, wherever it went for relaxation from being THE adverb... It works quietly behind the scenes of English, as we know, unsung, like a 'personal massager.')
Sigh.
Now, myriad technological-wonders are attached, beeping, pinging smartly, giving us up-to-the-second updates on its condition. Arteries hold drip-lines, veins have been tapped for samples - endlessly - it seems, unmentionables have been vigorously palpated, the proverbial gown is on. ('Can you see my ass crack in this?')
Someone in the scrubbed-bleachy hall, probably an overly cynical nurse, murmurs "It doesn't look good. Serious."
Dag nabbit.
Today I heard the call of a bald eagle, and I knew that little, paltry chitter-up from occasional sightings, and I looked up from my exterior trim-painting. The sky was deep blue, but thick clouds off the to the left obscured the Olympics. The city was mostly in cloud-shade, but yellowish sun beat down on the cargo ships anchored in Elliott Bay, Queen Anne and Magnolia, and occasionally flicked off the waves, wind-beaten as they were...
There wasn't just one, but THREE bald eagles cruising on the updraft coming up the beach from Alki. They were - perhaps - 150 feet from me, curling in the top of the flow, riding for free on the results of the westerly wind and the forest terrain. A ferry cut through ultra-blue water peaked with slashed white-caps, nestled into the same, odd breezes.
(And I didn't spill any paint.)
The adverb used to be so lively, so wonderfully vibrant. You should've seen it in spring, in light colors, flitting though the flowers, sniffing at the bees. I almost thought it had a special friend, that smile so fetching...
Turns out, people like language more efficient. Devolution, some would call it. I call it neglect.
Adverb wants food from that deli across the street from the hospital. (They don't have 'American' cheese there, Thank a Deity...) They've got a good, oily pastrami, so...
I scanned the chart hanging on the outside of the door frame, and even though I didn't know wht the heck it said, I know it wasn't good. The graph is going down. It's not like 'shit' rarely happens. (It makes a career of happening, until it's outsourced to several non-descript factories in Guangzhou.) In the middle of the page, there was a line that read, in poorly-mastered cursive, 'Abused, underused, neglected.'
I wanted to weep, unconsolably, but I thought better of it. What would the Adverb think? That I was a puss. We had some great times, notably before the Bush Administrations, throwing out the 'ly' like it w'a'nt no thang. (It was like dancing.) Usually I indulged it, made it feel welcome, offered some quickly reheated left-overs, maybe a Snapple if it was thirsty. A good beer if I had any left.
But I never had the couch ready. I could've been more accommodating. Those little soaps in the shower kept disappearing, and I wrongly thought it was Adverb. Maybe it was just me.
No more letters, no more cards. Not even e-mails. If it wasn't for the silly bracelet, they wouldn't have known to call me. (They?)
I got a voicemail from Vegas, maybe it was Adverb. Sounded soundly drunk, said it's been at the tables for awhile, then walked The Strip. It was all slurred, basically a confession of doom.
Then all this.
So I know Adverb is on it's last legs. I'm gonna hold it's hand. Lovingly, after midnight.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Lop sau, Ton sau, Pak sau...(wait for it) Cheun choi - U wish!"
Lop sau is a left-handed, overhand sweeping block against any right-hand attack...
There isn't enough ethyl alcohol, amber lager, manna, maple syrup, fissionable fuel...
...To power THIS engine. (Phuk!) (I was calling my butler, he's Vietnamese - so give me a break.)
I don't like running on low-energy fuels... like vegan food, clarinet solos, persistent bad luck at roulette, Aries chicks, 9-volt batteries, curried potatoes, fresh-water eels...
"Sorry, bio-diesel, you're a wuss - and you know it. You've heard it before me. You have a good personality, really. It's ME, not you. Yes, you're cute, but... Have a great life, though..."
Give me love and energy and release. Smiles. (Isn't that a Hindu god? Mah'sturb'ithra? Something like that... they've got everything already figured out in India, and there's a god for it. Seriously. Like Kali, the Bowler of Destruction. Hello? Have you seen the drawings? Hmm?)
If you don't like alcohol, you probably aren't over 18 yrs old, so please look for Disney programming elsewhere.
Good, they're gone.
Press this button. (Blogspot people, put a button HERE. Okay, HERE. Thanks, man. That check's in the mail, really. I thought I sent it out already, and you won't return my calls... Have you out-sourced the service department? Sas'rikal?)
Pink-clad princesses? Tutus? Prancing, spinning? Who are you kidding? That ersatz age ended 300 years ago. I remember all that shit, at least 250 years back, so don't pretend it hasn't already happened, because - yo, I was there.
Not that I don't love swords, but...
Good luck with that, pink-dinks! 'Pink' has never won a war. Ever. Pink doesn't win wars, and Everyone Knows That. Purple thought it would win once, after the French, but... pfhhht, they know now. Blue and green, baby. B&G FTW! Nature wins in the end. So many mushroom clouds in our planet's past, so many to go... But I regress.
Ton sau is a right-handed, strong circular sweep to clear...
Tonic KNOWS it. (I always underrated them. Like cheap beer, angel hair pasta, powdered saffron, lipstick lesbians... )
"If you could only see the way she loves me,
Maybe you would understand,
Why I feel this way about our love,
And what I must do..."
(I only like the first 33+ seconds of that song, not for the lyrics, but because of the acoustic guitar, so, the open-tuned chord changes... fuckin' delicious. Ethereal. Transcendental. (Do they give you nitrous for that? In the studio?))
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY -
(But WE are watching YOU if YOU read This, Hackers.)
At one point in my life, I knew when and where the US Dept. of Defense would go 'pretty orange.' (In the late 80's, that was something. (Like porno on beta.) NATO-Secret in that day, but - practically - useless information now. However, still rattling around my noggin, and back then they made me wear a .45 caliber to NOT talk... Aigghhhh.
Damn, quit twisting my arm, Pink! It was in the Michaelsrombach bowl, but before the Queck Bridge, westward-looking. If those Communist fucks got a heavy bridging unit to that piss-ant bridge... Ouch.)
Pastelly, permanent colors. Everlasting melty-metal neons. A rich splay of delicious, deathly beauty. Sinistre. You wouldn't want to see it, unless you were on 'E' or LSD or something equally palette-able. "It's pronounced 'Noo-kyoo-luhr.'" I always wanted to see just one, a faraway fission mushroom cloud, a localized devastaticon.
So pretty. Low-energy fuel. Fission.
Pak sau is a left-handed, slap-down control of the others' elbows. Better to aim it right, tie them up a bit.
But my testosterone diverges from the topic... (but, shit - explosions! They're soooo cool if you aren't IN them. The flash/shock wave is sublime, all-encompassing, unavoidable. Overpowering. Tasty. The closer, the better, right?)
I've been trained to be jaded. Indirectly. Women do that. Indirectly. No, wait, they do it directly.
You know you're out there - begin a glacier! - rubbing slowly against the world. Plowing over the terrain. Grinding - some would say, 'sanding.' Doesn't lessen it. Rubbing away at the pith and marrow.
Some of us will remember, that's our informal job. Don't pretend you're fusion.
I'll know the difference.
Keep waitin' for that cheun choi. Rabbit punches. I know I'll be waiting. Fusion waits forever, or until the fuel's expended.
The physicists have proven that. What can stop it? Not pink.
And what'll be on The Other Side?
I'm bettin' on blue and green. Fusion loves those two.
There isn't enough ethyl alcohol, amber lager, manna, maple syrup, fissionable fuel...
...To power THIS engine. (Phuk!) (I was calling my butler, he's Vietnamese - so give me a break.)
I don't like running on low-energy fuels... like vegan food, clarinet solos, persistent bad luck at roulette, Aries chicks, 9-volt batteries, curried potatoes, fresh-water eels...
"Sorry, bio-diesel, you're a wuss - and you know it. You've heard it before me. You have a good personality, really. It's ME, not you. Yes, you're cute, but... Have a great life, though..."
Give me love and energy and release. Smiles. (Isn't that a Hindu god? Mah'sturb'ithra? Something like that... they've got everything already figured out in India, and there's a god for it. Seriously. Like Kali, the Bowler of Destruction. Hello? Have you seen the drawings? Hmm?)
If you don't like alcohol, you probably aren't over 18 yrs old, so please look for Disney programming elsewhere.
Good, they're gone.
Press this button. (Blogspot people, put a button HERE. Okay, HERE. Thanks, man. That check's in the mail, really. I thought I sent it out already, and you won't return my calls... Have you out-sourced the service department? Sas'rikal?)
Pink-clad princesses? Tutus? Prancing, spinning? Who are you kidding? That ersatz age ended 300 years ago. I remember all that shit, at least 250 years back, so don't pretend it hasn't already happened, because - yo, I was there.
Not that I don't love swords, but...
Good luck with that, pink-dinks! 'Pink' has never won a war. Ever. Pink doesn't win wars, and Everyone Knows That. Purple thought it would win once, after the French, but... pfhhht, they know now. Blue and green, baby. B&G FTW! Nature wins in the end. So many mushroom clouds in our planet's past, so many to go... But I regress.
Ton sau is a right-handed, strong circular sweep to clear...
Tonic KNOWS it. (I always underrated them. Like cheap beer, angel hair pasta, powdered saffron, lipstick lesbians... )
"If you could only see the way she loves me,
Maybe you would understand,
Why I feel this way about our love,
And what I must do..."
(I only like the first 33+ seconds of that song, not for the lyrics, but because of the acoustic guitar, so, the open-tuned chord changes... fuckin' delicious. Ethereal. Transcendental. (Do they give you nitrous for that? In the studio?))
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY -
(But WE are watching YOU if YOU read This, Hackers.)
At one point in my life, I knew when and where the US Dept. of Defense would go 'pretty orange.' (In the late 80's, that was something. (Like porno on beta.) NATO-Secret in that day, but - practically - useless information now. However, still rattling around my noggin, and back then they made me wear a .45 caliber to NOT talk... Aigghhhh.
Damn, quit twisting my arm, Pink! It was in the Michaelsrombach bowl, but before the Queck Bridge, westward-looking. If those Communist fucks got a heavy bridging unit to that piss-ant bridge... Ouch.)
Pastelly, permanent colors. Everlasting melty-metal neons. A rich splay of delicious, deathly beauty. Sinistre. You wouldn't want to see it, unless you were on 'E' or LSD or something equally palette-able. "It's pronounced 'Noo-kyoo-luhr.'" I always wanted to see just one, a faraway fission mushroom cloud, a localized devastaticon.
So pretty. Low-energy fuel. Fission.
Pak sau is a left-handed, slap-down control of the others' elbows. Better to aim it right, tie them up a bit.
But my testosterone diverges from the topic... (but, shit - explosions! They're soooo cool if you aren't IN them. The flash/shock wave is sublime, all-encompassing, unavoidable. Overpowering. Tasty. The closer, the better, right?)
I've been trained to be jaded. Indirectly. Women do that. Indirectly. No, wait, they do it directly.
You know you're out there - begin a glacier! - rubbing slowly against the world. Plowing over the terrain. Grinding - some would say, 'sanding.' Doesn't lessen it. Rubbing away at the pith and marrow.
Some of us will remember, that's our informal job. Don't pretend you're fusion.
I'll know the difference.
Keep waitin' for that cheun choi. Rabbit punches. I know I'll be waiting. Fusion waits forever, or until the fuel's expended.
The physicists have proven that. What can stop it? Not pink.
And what'll be on The Other Side?
I'm bettin' on blue and green. Fusion loves those two.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wisdom Teeth
Some would say I know a few things. Skills and magic. I'd respond, modestly, that 'I was thoroughly trained.' Especially at driving. I used to love driving.
Ich liebe Alles.
Tom Petty's "It's Good To Be King" fades into such a beautiful ensemble, drifts off, explores tonal realms... somewhere around the 4 minute mark. I rewind it a lot. On the road, even more so.
Leaves skitter across windy, cozily empty rural roads. Forgotten corn rots, no one cares, listens as we pass. Songbirds do their 'bird' things, tucking in for the night. Soon, I am in awe, jogging into the woods. Two Labs as lieutenants. Wet and cool and dark as the sun sets in the southwest. Inviting, in a Goth way. An owl moves silently under the canopy of spruce and fir, twisting between the trunks, air-lurking, wings splaying and contorting to make the turns. The rain tastes fresh dripping from the cedars, mildly reminiscent of rust, or perhaps salt from the Sound only a mile off to the west. Booted feet find familiar berms, the trail goes faster, and leaner. Remembered.
Then I woke up again. Fich.
Despite polling numbers, I must uncomfortably steer into a tirade... a type of crimson squall. (That'll stain the sails, I know.)
Think five years back or so...
An odd feeling crept through me - and I'm sure YOU felt the same way - as President W. the Shrub rubbed the German Chancellor's shoulders uncomfortably in the endless TV replays...
"It rubs the lotion on its skin..."
(Angela Merkel felt it. Bet on it. He HAS an underground bunker already! Frickin' Cheney's got some sort of Ring of Unindictability. Isn't anyone paying attention? The emperor has no smooth moves! Profound doubt ensued. And I already had issues with them after NYC.)
(Nein, nicht an der WTC.) (That's what She said. Ba doom pish.)
I know that I loved Germany when I was there. Clean. Autobahns. Castles. Rib-stickin' food. Beer. Frauleins. Hair gel. Trains on time. You can pee anywhere! An' Reagan watchin' our backs... How could anything be wrong? AND - Convenient enemy across the border, well-defined and evilish, practically junior varsity. The USSR/Warsaw Pact played that part so well for young idealistic US boys like myself... I KNEW I was good, so those guys MUST be bad. They were on the Other Side, right? (We were all like Luke and Hans in those days. Lukes and Hanses? Wait. Lukes and Hansens? Hansen und Luken? Fich!)
Oh, the 80's were a spectacle to behold in Europe. I can't paint a pseudo-rosy-enough picture of that time. We all knew it could come crashing down, so we enjoyed what oppurtunity we had. Time and Purpose found meaning there, and we got paid for it! We wore uniforms, but we thought 'ambassadors at 180 km/p/h...' (Our official fates were something along the lines of 'die in place here in your tank, defending Europe,' but that was good enough for us.)
Imminent nuclear conflict makes for fantastic parties. Everybody should have them. Do the neon/shaved head theme! Crack some glow-sticks!
I know I miss certain doom. It provides focus. A man on a tightrope is remarkably in tune, I'll warrant. Speaking of that...
"...Sometimes you wear 'L'air du Temps,' but not today."
I know I don't like those new blue-toned headlights. My retinas care even less for them. Oh yeah, they've been around for a few years now. These new ones are the color of 'ego.' They practically spell "a-s-s-h-o-l-e' with nothing but a blinding roar of paired 'Willy Loman' beams.
I almost wish they were always on Audis, because I somehow have a hugely negative reaction to them, as well. I see them in my rear-view mirror quite a bit, perpetrating nonsense. Less than foot off my chrome. Dichs. Arsehohle. (Add your own umlauts.)
Who buys a German car that's as cheap as you can get? Pretenders, that's who. (OhhOoh, you've got a fine European sports car! Nice tires? Orange dashboard lights, so cool... Quit tailgating me, hang up the phone, and wake the hell up! Drop the sandwich, honey. We're driving here!) (Do this and I won't call you in as a suspected drunk/drug addict. Deal?)
Germany. Renowned for its engineering and manufacturing talents. (Soooo precise. I'd love to see a German CSI show. "Ze man schpewed, und dann vee caught hims sex seconds later-hosen.") And masterfully political... oooch. (Only one war away from world domination, eh, Schatzen?)
I know I don't like people trying to make left turns in the city. They're holding up the whole world because they can't route-plan. Accidents happen, pedestrians get smished, all because people can't do their own direction-finding anymore. Three rights is less dangerous than one left. I'll bet the Germans have a saying for that Truth.
The German language has often been called the 'language of war.' I'm not even gonna look that up, I've heard it so often. But I didn't learn enough of it to feel that way. It was a way to get ice cream, pork, chocolate, 'Lucky Strikes.' Streiken mit Lucken? Fich!
I know I love clean water, golden light, beer, and cooked pigs. So I'll never have a problem with the Germans.
Plus we shared that 'doom thing' for a while.
Come to think of it, I may even have a medal that says that. Eine Cookenpiggenbeerenmedal.
"You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?"
Oh, you bet.
But not today.
Ich liebe Alles.
Tom Petty's "It's Good To Be King" fades into such a beautiful ensemble, drifts off, explores tonal realms... somewhere around the 4 minute mark. I rewind it a lot. On the road, even more so.
Leaves skitter across windy, cozily empty rural roads. Forgotten corn rots, no one cares, listens as we pass. Songbirds do their 'bird' things, tucking in for the night. Soon, I am in awe, jogging into the woods. Two Labs as lieutenants. Wet and cool and dark as the sun sets in the southwest. Inviting, in a Goth way. An owl moves silently under the canopy of spruce and fir, twisting between the trunks, air-lurking, wings splaying and contorting to make the turns. The rain tastes fresh dripping from the cedars, mildly reminiscent of rust, or perhaps salt from the Sound only a mile off to the west. Booted feet find familiar berms, the trail goes faster, and leaner. Remembered.
Then I woke up again. Fich.
Despite polling numbers, I must uncomfortably steer into a tirade... a type of crimson squall. (That'll stain the sails, I know.)
Think five years back or so...
An odd feeling crept through me - and I'm sure YOU felt the same way - as President W. the Shrub rubbed the German Chancellor's shoulders uncomfortably in the endless TV replays...
"It rubs the lotion on its skin..."
(Angela Merkel felt it. Bet on it. He HAS an underground bunker already! Frickin' Cheney's got some sort of Ring of Unindictability. Isn't anyone paying attention? The emperor has no smooth moves! Profound doubt ensued. And I already had issues with them after NYC.)
(Nein, nicht an der WTC.) (That's what She said. Ba doom pish.)
I know that I loved Germany when I was there. Clean. Autobahns. Castles. Rib-stickin' food. Beer. Frauleins. Hair gel. Trains on time. You can pee anywhere! An' Reagan watchin' our backs... How could anything be wrong? AND - Convenient enemy across the border, well-defined and evilish, practically junior varsity. The USSR/Warsaw Pact played that part so well for young idealistic US boys like myself... I KNEW I was good, so those guys MUST be bad. They were on the Other Side, right? (We were all like Luke and Hans in those days. Lukes and Hanses? Wait. Lukes and Hansens? Hansen und Luken? Fich!)
Oh, the 80's were a spectacle to behold in Europe. I can't paint a pseudo-rosy-enough picture of that time. We all knew it could come crashing down, so we enjoyed what oppurtunity we had. Time and Purpose found meaning there, and we got paid for it! We wore uniforms, but we thought 'ambassadors at 180 km/p/h...' (Our official fates were something along the lines of 'die in place here in your tank, defending Europe,' but that was good enough for us.)
Imminent nuclear conflict makes for fantastic parties. Everybody should have them. Do the neon/shaved head theme! Crack some glow-sticks!
I know I miss certain doom. It provides focus. A man on a tightrope is remarkably in tune, I'll warrant. Speaking of that...
"...Sometimes you wear 'L'air du Temps,' but not today."
I know I don't like those new blue-toned headlights. My retinas care even less for them. Oh yeah, they've been around for a few years now. These new ones are the color of 'ego.' They practically spell "a-s-s-h-o-l-e' with nothing but a blinding roar of paired 'Willy Loman' beams.
I almost wish they were always on Audis, because I somehow have a hugely negative reaction to them, as well. I see them in my rear-view mirror quite a bit, perpetrating nonsense. Less than foot off my chrome. Dichs. Arsehohle. (Add your own umlauts.)
Who buys a German car that's as cheap as you can get? Pretenders, that's who. (OhhOoh, you've got a fine European sports car! Nice tires? Orange dashboard lights, so cool... Quit tailgating me, hang up the phone, and wake the hell up! Drop the sandwich, honey. We're driving here!) (Do this and I won't call you in as a suspected drunk/drug addict. Deal?)
Germany. Renowned for its engineering and manufacturing talents. (Soooo precise. I'd love to see a German CSI show. "Ze man schpewed, und dann vee caught hims sex seconds later-hosen.") And masterfully political... oooch. (Only one war away from world domination, eh, Schatzen?)
I know I don't like people trying to make left turns in the city. They're holding up the whole world because they can't route-plan. Accidents happen, pedestrians get smished, all because people can't do their own direction-finding anymore. Three rights is less dangerous than one left. I'll bet the Germans have a saying for that Truth.
The German language has often been called the 'language of war.' I'm not even gonna look that up, I've heard it so often. But I didn't learn enough of it to feel that way. It was a way to get ice cream, pork, chocolate, 'Lucky Strikes.' Streiken mit Lucken? Fich!
I know I love clean water, golden light, beer, and cooked pigs. So I'll never have a problem with the Germans.
Plus we shared that 'doom thing' for a while.
Come to think of it, I may even have a medal that says that. Eine Cookenpiggenbeerenmedal.
"You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?"
Oh, you bet.
But not today.
Monday, January 24, 2011
On A Dis-chordantly Different Note...
Let's talk about streetlights. Regular city orangish street lights. Seemingly BORING. Ok, not seemingly. They know more than they tell. And they only have a brutish, simple language - not even to the level of grunts and clicks of Neanderthals. Just 'on,' or - as a contrast, off.
"Big Kahuna Burger? I ain't heard of them."
I don't know about you, but I put them out ahead of me. (Not consciously. That'd be Jedi-crazy.)
It just happens. 'Plink.'
They go out. Sometimes two, three at a time - like they were waiting for a particular reason - dying out in rapid succession, with nary a flicker, they're out. In a row, it actually looks cool on a quiet side street, the schmeary orange glow on the leaves of the myriad trees, replaced by moonlight, or just caressings of decreasing darkness... The dogs never seem to mind, as their noses tell them more than their eyes. The fixed entities don't care... (Unfeeling bastards.)
Streetlights. They freakin' go out. Been seeing it for almost twenty years.
Not ALL of them. Only a few. Some. A bushelful. Mere smidgens of the whole. (Could they track me this way?) (They?)
But it is consistent, and that is what worries me. Or, more to the point, CONCERNS me.
Because - WHY? How? Explain?
Why would lights go out ahead of me, what did I do, why do I notice them endlessly? Don't I wash my hands often enough? Am I exuding some sort of 'hot' electromagnetic flavor that miraculously turns the streetlights off? I'm not THAT hot. Ok, I AM. But I brood.
These are hard-wired street lights, set to come on at a certain 'lack' and go off when the 'want' is satiated, like a rising sun breathing into a new day. They don't have any opinions - or - do they?
Something must be aberrant. (The hair on my neck used to stand up, but I man-scape that scritchy stuff these days, so there's nothing to reveal that involuntary response... better living through razors.)
"May I have a drink of your tasty beverage with which to wash this down?"
I spend a lot of time walking the dogs when I'm home, and a good deal of that is at night, so I guess I'm in the 'right' place at the right time. Is that enough? These things have independent sensors that determine light and dark, or whatever their on/off function calls itself. If it's dark, they come on. If I come by, running the night, they may or may not go out. It's like a cheesy 80's rock song.
"I put out street lights
Walkin' down the way
They just go out, Baby
No matter what you say..."
They seem to go out more often if I'm angry. When I walk my hound dog - he's a coonhound mix so he sniffs with complete canine purpose - I find I get peeved about pausing so often to let him consume some aroma that's hovering below my olfactory range. (Dog lilacs.) But - I want to walk, my pace is set, the leashes are a certain length. My arms only stretch SO far. My other dog seems to pace me perfectly, she never stretches me out beyond what I'm ready for.
Then it begins, subtly.
"What does Marcellus Wallace look like?"
Hound dog lingers. LINGERS. My pulse quickens, and I know it. He snorts and snoots his way to China for all I can tell, so if I have a head of steam, it's the last thing I want. Someone's probably watching me, judging. The headphone cord gets tangly. My arms get pulled two directions, my attention wavers, my Ipod skips a song... 'Air Supply?' NO!
The center DOESN'T hold. (Yeats, you dog.)
Then, when my blood curdles up, one'll go out ahead of me. My side of the street. 'Znip.' I see it. It happened. I know it, consciously. Timing is all, right? Why THEN? And we're off...
I pull the dogs, swearing under my breath, exasperated for the zillionth time... Let's keep moving, Hunden.
Then another light. Out. Buhznish. Same side of the street, only a handful of steps beyond the last.
"Ezekiel 25:17. The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides..."
It's more dramatic if I'm in a vehicle. Looks like it's planned, even. More so if I point it out to the other occupants of said vehicle. It doesn't seem to matter who, no one can cancel it out, so far.
My lady-love didn't believe 'I put out lights' until she had no choice but to believe it. Three or four in a row is fairly convincing. Replacing light bulbs in the house gets tedious.
SO, it is a phenomenon in my life. We make adjustments for this sort of thing. I've basically gotten used to it, it's a bonafide. No one has dampened it yet, so I'll just live with it.
When I googled 'street light interference' I discovered that I'm some sort of 'indigo' and I can levitate and create ice-fire and mow lawns with lasers or something REALLY cool.
SO am I inhabited by spirits or depressed? (Who isn't?) I had an energy drink today, so...
The lights still go out. You could track me by it at times. 'They' know it.
Now, we all do.
Chill. I'm reducing Seattle's power bill.
"Any time of day is the right time for pie."
"Big Kahuna Burger? I ain't heard of them."
I don't know about you, but I put them out ahead of me. (Not consciously. That'd be Jedi-crazy.)
It just happens. 'Plink.'
They go out. Sometimes two, three at a time - like they were waiting for a particular reason - dying out in rapid succession, with nary a flicker, they're out. In a row, it actually looks cool on a quiet side street, the schmeary orange glow on the leaves of the myriad trees, replaced by moonlight, or just caressings of decreasing darkness... The dogs never seem to mind, as their noses tell them more than their eyes. The fixed entities don't care... (Unfeeling bastards.)
Streetlights. They freakin' go out. Been seeing it for almost twenty years.
Not ALL of them. Only a few. Some. A bushelful. Mere smidgens of the whole. (Could they track me this way?) (They?)
But it is consistent, and that is what worries me. Or, more to the point, CONCERNS me.
Because - WHY? How? Explain?
Why would lights go out ahead of me, what did I do, why do I notice them endlessly? Don't I wash my hands often enough? Am I exuding some sort of 'hot' electromagnetic flavor that miraculously turns the streetlights off? I'm not THAT hot. Ok, I AM. But I brood.
These are hard-wired street lights, set to come on at a certain 'lack' and go off when the 'want' is satiated, like a rising sun breathing into a new day. They don't have any opinions - or - do they?
Something must be aberrant. (The hair on my neck used to stand up, but I man-scape that scritchy stuff these days, so there's nothing to reveal that involuntary response... better living through razors.)
"May I have a drink of your tasty beverage with which to wash this down?"
I spend a lot of time walking the dogs when I'm home, and a good deal of that is at night, so I guess I'm in the 'right' place at the right time. Is that enough? These things have independent sensors that determine light and dark, or whatever their on/off function calls itself. If it's dark, they come on. If I come by, running the night, they may or may not go out. It's like a cheesy 80's rock song.
"I put out street lights
Walkin' down the way
They just go out, Baby
No matter what you say..."
They seem to go out more often if I'm angry. When I walk my hound dog - he's a coonhound mix so he sniffs with complete canine purpose - I find I get peeved about pausing so often to let him consume some aroma that's hovering below my olfactory range. (Dog lilacs.) But - I want to walk, my pace is set, the leashes are a certain length. My arms only stretch SO far. My other dog seems to pace me perfectly, she never stretches me out beyond what I'm ready for.
Then it begins, subtly.
"What does Marcellus Wallace look like?"
Hound dog lingers. LINGERS. My pulse quickens, and I know it. He snorts and snoots his way to China for all I can tell, so if I have a head of steam, it's the last thing I want. Someone's probably watching me, judging. The headphone cord gets tangly. My arms get pulled two directions, my attention wavers, my Ipod skips a song... 'Air Supply?' NO!
The center DOESN'T hold. (Yeats, you dog.)
Then, when my blood curdles up, one'll go out ahead of me. My side of the street. 'Znip.' I see it. It happened. I know it, consciously. Timing is all, right? Why THEN? And we're off...
I pull the dogs, swearing under my breath, exasperated for the zillionth time... Let's keep moving, Hunden.
Then another light. Out. Buhznish. Same side of the street, only a handful of steps beyond the last.
"Ezekiel 25:17. The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides..."
It's more dramatic if I'm in a vehicle. Looks like it's planned, even. More so if I point it out to the other occupants of said vehicle. It doesn't seem to matter who, no one can cancel it out, so far.
My lady-love didn't believe 'I put out lights' until she had no choice but to believe it. Three or four in a row is fairly convincing. Replacing light bulbs in the house gets tedious.
SO, it is a phenomenon in my life. We make adjustments for this sort of thing. I've basically gotten used to it, it's a bonafide. No one has dampened it yet, so I'll just live with it.
When I googled 'street light interference' I discovered that I'm some sort of 'indigo' and I can levitate and create ice-fire and mow lawns with lasers or something REALLY cool.
SO am I inhabited by spirits or depressed? (Who isn't?) I had an energy drink today, so...
The lights still go out. You could track me by it at times. 'They' know it.
Now, we all do.
Chill. I'm reducing Seattle's power bill.
"Any time of day is the right time for pie."
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Schizznit for Beeyotches
Percussion. You gotta love it. Especially the ping-ride details.
I'm listening to 'Rush' on the Ipod right now. Sublime. And I still feel a connection to the place I was when I first heard them. It was 1978.
I was still a kid, in the doldrums of Arlington Heights, WA. Trees. The eastern reaches of the 98223. It was so far from civilization you could still SMELL the 50's.
Letterman's jackets. Initiations. Duck and Cover. Skirts. Rotten leaves.
The world seemed simpler, but was it because I was simpler then? (Now, I'm three instances away from being a masked and /or caped crusader. Another story...)
Arlington was a football town then, and probably still wants to be. In my freshman and senior years we won the State Championship, and I was a strong booster of such domination. (In retrospect, I blame testosterone. I was so hepped up, I would've supported totalitarianism, if that was what was given to me.) I've learned a lot since then.
Rhythms never get easier. Complexity always wins. Chaos finds purchase. We all suffer the outcomes. Platitudes soothe the willing. Idealism bears a false fruit - sweet, tart, yet unfulfilling...
Alas, I've been trying to pay attention to the details. They vex me, those bastards. Sometimes, keeping your eyes open can be nasty. Three nights ago, I saw a dead body blown apart on the southbound lanes of Interstate 5 near Marysville. First, I saw lights on top of the overpass - an ambulance, looked like. I moved into the center lane. Underneath the overpass, a State Trooper turned on his lights, and as I crossed into the left lane, he threw a flare into the right lane. I slowed down to 40 or so. The flare came up to full illumination, and I saw the trooper move alongside the the far side of his car. The overpass seemed like a gate, lit from underneath. A red gate. My eyes drifted back to the road proper.
I didn't want to see what I saw. My mind raced to find a better explanation.
Looked like a deer at first, a multiply-bruised, beaten, bloodied torso, basically devoid of limbs, haunting the center lane.(Human?) Some scattered limbs away in the right lane, (LOOKS human.) Lots of crimson spatter, bits of pink fluff, and then blue jeans, - holding a leg akimbo - all greeted me - I realized it was only attached because it hadn't been thrown off and away by centrifugal forces or direct battery.
I thank some Deity I didn't hit him as well. I felt that he was gone. Violently erased. Reduced.
It WAS a him, I'm pretty sure. I saw him closer than I would have liked to. In some of my memory, I see him with a tattoo on his shoulder, just a few feet outside my truck.
Sha-muthah-frackin-zam! I don't want to live with that as my dominant image this week. Tonight, I made an alfredo with Indonesian shrimp over egg noodles and steamed some broccoli. Lotsa sea salt, that's it. A dash of paprika, oh yeah. A shallot and four cloves of garlic - practically a gastronomic garter belt. Parm, oh, the parm loved the heavy cream. The basil was blushing. I chopped it before it could protest further...
And life goes on...
I'm listening to 'Rush' on the Ipod right now. Sublime. And I still feel a connection to the place I was when I first heard them. It was 1978.
I was still a kid, in the doldrums of Arlington Heights, WA. Trees. The eastern reaches of the 98223. It was so far from civilization you could still SMELL the 50's.
Letterman's jackets. Initiations. Duck and Cover. Skirts. Rotten leaves.
The world seemed simpler, but was it because I was simpler then? (Now, I'm three instances away from being a masked and /or caped crusader. Another story...)
Arlington was a football town then, and probably still wants to be. In my freshman and senior years we won the State Championship, and I was a strong booster of such domination. (In retrospect, I blame testosterone. I was so hepped up, I would've supported totalitarianism, if that was what was given to me.) I've learned a lot since then.
Rhythms never get easier. Complexity always wins. Chaos finds purchase. We all suffer the outcomes. Platitudes soothe the willing. Idealism bears a false fruit - sweet, tart, yet unfulfilling...
Alas, I've been trying to pay attention to the details. They vex me, those bastards. Sometimes, keeping your eyes open can be nasty. Three nights ago, I saw a dead body blown apart on the southbound lanes of Interstate 5 near Marysville. First, I saw lights on top of the overpass - an ambulance, looked like. I moved into the center lane. Underneath the overpass, a State Trooper turned on his lights, and as I crossed into the left lane, he threw a flare into the right lane. I slowed down to 40 or so. The flare came up to full illumination, and I saw the trooper move alongside the the far side of his car. The overpass seemed like a gate, lit from underneath. A red gate. My eyes drifted back to the road proper.
I didn't want to see what I saw. My mind raced to find a better explanation.
Looked like a deer at first, a multiply-bruised, beaten, bloodied torso, basically devoid of limbs, haunting the center lane.(Human?) Some scattered limbs away in the right lane, (LOOKS human.) Lots of crimson spatter, bits of pink fluff, and then blue jeans, - holding a leg akimbo - all greeted me - I realized it was only attached because it hadn't been thrown off and away by centrifugal forces or direct battery.
I thank some Deity I didn't hit him as well. I felt that he was gone. Violently erased. Reduced.
It WAS a him, I'm pretty sure. I saw him closer than I would have liked to. In some of my memory, I see him with a tattoo on his shoulder, just a few feet outside my truck.
Sha-muthah-frackin-zam! I don't want to live with that as my dominant image this week. Tonight, I made an alfredo with Indonesian shrimp over egg noodles and steamed some broccoli. Lotsa sea salt, that's it. A dash of paprika, oh yeah. A shallot and four cloves of garlic - practically a gastronomic garter belt. Parm, oh, the parm loved the heavy cream. The basil was blushing. I chopped it before it could protest further...
And life goes on...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A New Version
...And we're back. It's been awhile.
This current update of the old "Dead 'N' Berryed" is brought to you by the Greek Letter I can't find on this keyboard that represents 'Delta.'
Which implies a change. A transition. Metamorphosis. To some, smoke and mirrors.
I suppose I'm tired of being a residential builder, building things, but only because I'm getting older, and - reluctantly - wiser. The market has completely fallen out on new construction. The dedicated builder-guys I know have been doing remodels and repair jobs for the last 2 years. Me too. Nothing new is being attempted here, in the Seattle area.
Physically, it's getting tougher. My sinew feels the decades. Old joints creak, lifting power shrinks a bit all the while. The weather and Nature's chaos foreshadow just what shocks you might have to take - cold, mold, wind, rot, pollen, live wires, raccoon shit - but still dole out whatever whim seems perfectly inappropriate. Sheeting the roof? Windstorm. Always. Pouring a slab? Rain. Wanna paint? Cold spell. Merde occurs. Remodel is hell. Dust knows no bounds. It will end up in your lungs, if you're breathing. (Fact: Most people do breathe. Forget where I read that.)
The center doesn't hold.
What's the solution - hell, what's the question? (Is this a quiz? Damn, I've had few beers.)
Episode IV: A New Hope
We all have learned in our own lives that there are tricks to any speciality. (Cue music.)
Oh, tricks. I LOVE them.
Chisels love to cut with the grain, so I try to do that. The wood gives and you can almost hear a sigh of submission. Sweet. Notches want to BE.
If you can get directly underneath a huge load, you can move it. Twenty-foot-long 6x6 pole? (I'm lucky...I look good doing it.)
No one had an 'easy' childhood. Going from 2 cells to fifty trillion in 20 years is exhausting. You need sleep, and gravy. Lots of gravy.
And stimulus. Work. Travel. Diversion. Play. Interests. Romance. SOMETHING. People need something. (Damn, I'm brilliant.) Jim Morrison basically said that people need 'something sacred.' Without a sacred something, I think there's a 'want.'
I'm in that group. I want. I'm a wanter.
I have my memories, of awesome travel, great jobs, cool clients, tasty food, wonderful times. But I still want. I don't have the job 'I Was Born For.' I love people, but work with wood, steel, gypsum, tools. I love languages, and foreign culture - but concrete is silent. I crave an audience in my work life, but my 'friends' are occupied by others now.
I'm starting this again to remind myself that I used to like to write - to word-process, to assemble words within a construct - and think of strange things.
Building is no longer strange to me.
I'm diving into the deep end of the pool.
See you there.
This current update of the old "Dead 'N' Berryed" is brought to you by the Greek Letter I can't find on this keyboard that represents 'Delta.'
Which implies a change. A transition. Metamorphosis. To some, smoke and mirrors.
I suppose I'm tired of being a residential builder, building things, but only because I'm getting older, and - reluctantly - wiser. The market has completely fallen out on new construction. The dedicated builder-guys I know have been doing remodels and repair jobs for the last 2 years. Me too. Nothing new is being attempted here, in the Seattle area.
Physically, it's getting tougher. My sinew feels the decades. Old joints creak, lifting power shrinks a bit all the while. The weather and Nature's chaos foreshadow just what shocks you might have to take - cold, mold, wind, rot, pollen, live wires, raccoon shit - but still dole out whatever whim seems perfectly inappropriate. Sheeting the roof? Windstorm. Always. Pouring a slab? Rain. Wanna paint? Cold spell. Merde occurs. Remodel is hell. Dust knows no bounds. It will end up in your lungs, if you're breathing. (Fact: Most people do breathe. Forget where I read that.)
The center doesn't hold.
What's the solution - hell, what's the question? (Is this a quiz? Damn, I've had few beers.)
Episode IV: A New Hope
We all have learned in our own lives that there are tricks to any speciality. (Cue music.)
Oh, tricks. I LOVE them.
Chisels love to cut with the grain, so I try to do that. The wood gives and you can almost hear a sigh of submission. Sweet. Notches want to BE.
If you can get directly underneath a huge load, you can move it. Twenty-foot-long 6x6 pole? (I'm lucky...I look good doing it.)
No one had an 'easy' childhood. Going from 2 cells to fifty trillion in 20 years is exhausting. You need sleep, and gravy. Lots of gravy.
And stimulus. Work. Travel. Diversion. Play. Interests. Romance. SOMETHING. People need something. (Damn, I'm brilliant.) Jim Morrison basically said that people need 'something sacred.' Without a sacred something, I think there's a 'want.'
I'm in that group. I want. I'm a wanter.
I have my memories, of awesome travel, great jobs, cool clients, tasty food, wonderful times. But I still want. I don't have the job 'I Was Born For.' I love people, but work with wood, steel, gypsum, tools. I love languages, and foreign culture - but concrete is silent. I crave an audience in my work life, but my 'friends' are occupied by others now.
I'm starting this again to remind myself that I used to like to write - to word-process, to assemble words within a construct - and think of strange things.
Building is no longer strange to me.
I'm diving into the deep end of the pool.
See you there.
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