Mother of god! I dropped this zesty salsa all over my freshly starched white shirt. My brain faltered. My head let me down. I need a shnazzy cleaning product to remove this blemish. It's outside of the tie-buffer. It's outside of the boundary of tie bufferdom. In the distance I saw a red circle. That was my target. I have been a pilot for almost 8 years. I've seen my fair share of tough landings, but in terms of suicide missions, this was my first.
Tah-boooo. I will stalk you until the day you die...she said. She said, a hundred times. It's a Texas mow-down. Vvvvrrrrr...motion sickness. To many mistresses down to speak of to dream of a little vice, a small vice me and you. Little afternoons, tiny indulgences. Steppin' and driftin' in the fiery aftermath, of my destruction, which was taboo to mention. Even in this terrifying new medium. Freaky squeak the E. I know that money is the big funny.
Hey quick question, actually no, actually my question doesn't make much sense anymore. In that short time...my question no longer made sense. Twas irrelevant. Sick [sic]. In the big money. Wet dreams. Muddy transactions. What the fuck is that noise? Listen, think twice about what I'm going to say right now: I can't figure you out. What a tell. What a sick and twisted lie. Slime. Slime. Fallout. Begin, to end. Tell me what I want to hear.
Imperative, you say? I'll try interrogative. Who was there on the night of the alleged rape? What do you mean your dad will beat this? What do you mean you hate [racial epithet]? How can you be so insensitive? What's a rake? Isn't that for leaves? Why dost thou celebrate bygones? I found proof, aren't you scared? Why aren't you scared? Why do you talk about your dad so much? What about your mom? Do you have a mom? I don't, Chris.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Conservation Designation
As the car approached the flashing light, Peeter assumed it was one of those used car lots spending an up-month's profit on a massive strobe light. Would you be surprised to learn that the flashes were coming from the boardwalk? Would you be shocked to learn that a wizard with a true blue robe and felty white stars had tripped and dropped his magic wand over the railing? Magic wands self-destruct like slow-motion firecrackers in the summer season. The little white plastic caps blow off and an airborn stream of, well, magic, combusts all over the place. It's pretty cool in the dark because it looks like a freak firecracker. All the little stars and magic dust, aflame. Unforgettable. The wizard had splinters all in his right soul, for he had tripped, on a boardwalk, and when you trip on a boardwalk, and you're a wizard, well, you gotta take responsibility for what happens.
As it turns out all that happened was that some bystanders got a pretty sexy drowsy feeling to slowly slurp through their bodies. That's the closest sensation it can be related to. Imagine strolling on the parking lot pavement just below the boardwalk. You and your date just finished some crappy clam bar special, you could taste the sand in the clams and you chalk it up to the "experience." [ five sentences censored ] Heading to your car, parked nose-first against the boardwalk beams, an enormous fountain of burning magic erupts in front of you (on the other side of the boardwalk, after all, people who walk on the boardwalk actually stay near the railing closer to the shore, obviously). Little tender charms, aflame, and flying to about 150 feet in the air. Little crescent moons and five-pointed stars, little fusillis and annoying farfalles, religious icons and transportation signifiers, cute bunnies and ugly spiders, and other interesting things in fiery whites, greens, reds, and some orange.
What's remarkable about the whole situation is that unlike a firecracker, a single magic wands can last all night. So the clam bar customers no-looked their napkins/bibs back behind them on the red leather stools they had been perched on slurping away at sea juice. They moved to the window and slowly, realized there was nothing to be afraid of...magic was in the air. Peeter realized what it was too, in time, and called the authorities, he was that kind of guy.
The couple ducked below the boardwalk and had an incredible view of both ends of the magic wand, spewing majestic tender charms from both ends, kind of nervously alternating, defying gravity, contorting into the positions of a pin drop in rewind and fast-forward. They laid down on the sand and looked up through the cracks in the boardwalk. The magic would sometimes shoot right over them and steadily fall on to their faces. It didn't hurt because it's magic and magic doesn't hurt...even when it's on fire.
I guess there are better places to lie down and look up at the stars from than from under a boardwalk. For example, places with less than 98% obstruction of the sky above you would be better. Also places where debris from the bottom of people's feet didn't slip through the cracks you are counting on to give you glimpses of night sky...would be better. But for the couple, that night, a magic night, all of that didn't matter. The charms gave off a glittery glorious light that illuminated the underbelly of the boardwalk, not to mention the night sky off to their sides. They looked at each other and beyond their faces the shore and the shops. The charm lit up the ocean and the windows equally intensely. Regular motion slowed because intense light at night does that. It's that ferris wheel inertia moment, ya know. You can only go around and around a ferris wheel so many times, or a carousel, at night, without feeling that inertia moment. Your brain is like, all right, this fixed path is boring me to tears, I'm gonna put it on autopilot this next time around. Your mind "wheels." Cinematographers love this shit because audiences love it because it makes sense to us.
The cops pulled the couple (that you imagined) out from the boardwalk and extinguished the magic wand before the grand finale. Fucking idiots. The wizard got arrested because the state doesn't allow firecrackers. Why should he get arrested? Because to people on a job all this mind inertia and lovey-dovey tender charm shit means [word censored].
I'll give you a job.
As it turns out all that happened was that some bystanders got a pretty sexy drowsy feeling to slowly slurp through their bodies. That's the closest sensation it can be related to. Imagine strolling on the parking lot pavement just below the boardwalk. You and your date just finished some crappy clam bar special, you could taste the sand in the clams and you chalk it up to the "experience." [ five sentences censored ] Heading to your car, parked nose-first against the boardwalk beams, an enormous fountain of burning magic erupts in front of you (on the other side of the boardwalk, after all, people who walk on the boardwalk actually stay near the railing closer to the shore, obviously). Little tender charms, aflame, and flying to about 150 feet in the air. Little crescent moons and five-pointed stars, little fusillis and annoying farfalles, religious icons and transportation signifiers, cute bunnies and ugly spiders, and other interesting things in fiery whites, greens, reds, and some orange.
What's remarkable about the whole situation is that unlike a firecracker, a single magic wands can last all night. So the clam bar customers no-looked their napkins/bibs back behind them on the red leather stools they had been perched on slurping away at sea juice. They moved to the window and slowly, realized there was nothing to be afraid of...magic was in the air. Peeter realized what it was too, in time, and called the authorities, he was that kind of guy.
The couple ducked below the boardwalk and had an incredible view of both ends of the magic wand, spewing majestic tender charms from both ends, kind of nervously alternating, defying gravity, contorting into the positions of a pin drop in rewind and fast-forward. They laid down on the sand and looked up through the cracks in the boardwalk. The magic would sometimes shoot right over them and steadily fall on to their faces. It didn't hurt because it's magic and magic doesn't hurt...even when it's on fire.
I guess there are better places to lie down and look up at the stars from than from under a boardwalk. For example, places with less than 98% obstruction of the sky above you would be better. Also places where debris from the bottom of people's feet didn't slip through the cracks you are counting on to give you glimpses of night sky...would be better. But for the couple, that night, a magic night, all of that didn't matter. The charms gave off a glittery glorious light that illuminated the underbelly of the boardwalk, not to mention the night sky off to their sides. They looked at each other and beyond their faces the shore and the shops. The charm lit up the ocean and the windows equally intensely. Regular motion slowed because intense light at night does that. It's that ferris wheel inertia moment, ya know. You can only go around and around a ferris wheel so many times, or a carousel, at night, without feeling that inertia moment. Your brain is like, all right, this fixed path is boring me to tears, I'm gonna put it on autopilot this next time around. Your mind "wheels." Cinematographers love this shit because audiences love it because it makes sense to us.
The cops pulled the couple (that you imagined) out from the boardwalk and extinguished the magic wand before the grand finale. Fucking idiots. The wizard got arrested because the state doesn't allow firecrackers. Why should he get arrested? Because to people on a job all this mind inertia and lovey-dovey tender charm shit means [word censored].
I'll give you a job.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
1893-1993
Standing on a crack that (ultimately) pierced the water table, the tiny Mexican unfolded his plastic table, intending to array some East Asian artesanal products. A trivial task to some, the tan man's short arms needed to scale, prop, rotate and skew in a very ... sigh ... very short amount of time. This wasn't magic, it was chemistry, biology, physics, and calculus. As he entered phase three, The Rotation, his arms crossed right over left, knuckles facing each other, preparing for an epic 540.
A crowd of insects tuned their buzzes to a roar around him, flying in narrow ellipses that mimicked the three-dimensional maneuver that the little man had less-than-halfway completed. A small red creature with a raindrop thorax and asymmetrically-extending, yellow wings came closest to the world's best amigo. The red and yellow bundle bug had just removed some bandages that the local tattoo artist had instructed her not to remove for another two weeks. The tattoo, done by world-famous fruit-fly-wing artist Miró J. Chianese, evoked Yuan pop culture and a certain glossectimitable impotence.
Also in attendance for the Magnificent 540 was the very Miró J. Chianese that had performed the delicate wingjob. Wearing a brand new necklace from the Qdoba collection and showing it off, Miró was deeply entranced with the whole scene. The corners of objects dripped with tropical coloration. Every color abandoned any of its passive instincts. Everything boasted a rich sheen of elation, of supreme effort, of consummate kinetics. The artist leveled his gaze intently on the red and yellow former customer.
He grew nostalgic. He got melodramatic. A giant red curtain opened and his mind stood alone on a stage lost in the floodlights. "Those circles ... those colors ... " Gradually, Miró started talking to himself, painting pictures. In a hall white string-frays stained in blood hung beside black slacks. Beneath the slacks, tattoos...right-to-left cursive, poppy sprinkles and thick eyelashes against brown flesh. The American president! Twenty-seven for the blue and orange! A small bed in a small apartment with comfy pillows, me and her, red and yellow and light blue and light violet, and a seemingly useless white linen. He kept his eyes on her as she wheeled around and around near the little Mexican man completing a quadruple axle. Determined to speak to her and bring up their past, he creeped ahead.
Out of the corner of one of his eyes, he saw an old business associate...it died.
It's dead, AHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Having stumbled upon the definition of a term that I learned earlier this year, I have tried to stray from employing the roman á clef technique in writing but have ended up with pathetic drafts and a 15-day drought. The crux of my problem with it is how dishonest it is. Whoever wrote about the term in Wikipedia pinpointed the technique's ability to mask meaning behind ridiculous symbols. So I tried, unsuccessfully, to do something more honest but have come to accept that I can't do it yet.
A crowd of insects tuned their buzzes to a roar around him, flying in narrow ellipses that mimicked the three-dimensional maneuver that the little man had less-than-halfway completed. A small red creature with a raindrop thorax and asymmetrically-extending, yellow wings came closest to the world's best amigo. The red and yellow bundle bug had just removed some bandages that the local tattoo artist had instructed her not to remove for another two weeks. The tattoo, done by world-famous fruit-fly-wing artist Miró J. Chianese, evoked Yuan pop culture and a certain glossectimitable impotence.
Also in attendance for the Magnificent 540 was the very Miró J. Chianese that had performed the delicate wingjob. Wearing a brand new necklace from the Qdoba collection and showing it off, Miró was deeply entranced with the whole scene. The corners of objects dripped with tropical coloration. Every color abandoned any of its passive instincts. Everything boasted a rich sheen of elation, of supreme effort, of consummate kinetics. The artist leveled his gaze intently on the red and yellow former customer.
He grew nostalgic. He got melodramatic. A giant red curtain opened and his mind stood alone on a stage lost in the floodlights. "Those circles ... those colors ... " Gradually, Miró started talking to himself, painting pictures. In a hall white string-frays stained in blood hung beside black slacks. Beneath the slacks, tattoos...right-to-left cursive, poppy sprinkles and thick eyelashes against brown flesh. The American president! Twenty-seven for the blue and orange! A small bed in a small apartment with comfy pillows, me and her, red and yellow and light blue and light violet, and a seemingly useless white linen. He kept his eyes on her as she wheeled around and around near the little Mexican man completing a quadruple axle. Determined to speak to her and bring up their past, he creeped ahead.
Out of the corner of one of his eyes, he saw an old business associate...it died.
It's dead, AHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Having stumbled upon the definition of a term that I learned earlier this year, I have tried to stray from employing the roman á clef technique in writing but have ended up with pathetic drafts and a 15-day drought. The crux of my problem with it is how dishonest it is. Whoever wrote about the term in Wikipedia pinpointed the technique's ability to mask meaning behind ridiculous symbols. So I tried, unsuccessfully, to do something more honest but have come to accept that I can't do it yet.
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