MeTube: Infinite Loop - Charlie's Diary:
'via Blog this'
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
[The Official Playwrights of Facebook] New Doc: September Opportunities
Sent from my iPhone
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Date: August 31, 2011 6:53:25 PM EDT
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Subject: [The Official Playwrights of Facebook] New Doc: September Opportunities
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Onychomancy - The Encyclopedia of Divination
http://www.adula.com/index.php?title=
Onychomancy Reminds me of some behaviors shown in some autism.
Sent from my iPhone
Onychomancy Reminds me of some behaviors shown in some autism.
Sent from my iPhone
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Daily Kos: Running the Industrial Revolution in Reverse
Research for SF novel and or AD 2000 Future Shock, Reverse Industrial Revolution, Dystopian, Stuff I'm thinking about. http://www.dailykos.com/story/2011/08/21/1008941/-Running-the-Industrial-Revo...
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
Slate Magazine
I need to learn to write faster. http://mobile.slate.com/rss.jsp?rssid=411&item=http%3a%2f%2fwww.slate.com%2fd...
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
Slate Magazine
I need to learn to write faster. http://mobile.slate.com/rss.jsp?rssid=411&item=http%3a%2f%2fwww.slate.com%2fd...
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
William Somerset Maugham - Biography and Works. Search Texts, Read Online. Discuss.
STUFF I'M THINKING ABOUT http://www.online-literature.com/maugham/
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
DAILY IMPROV 8
Saving Ourselves I sing unto to you songs of love and life,
Whispers to your ears, the tickles
Of my words that ignite your
Heart
And stokes into flame the your leviathan mind
Our thoughts are energy
that Courses into our mouths
When our lips touch and we melt, juxtaposed by a kiss and
Mutual electrocution,
Nerve endings standing tall in the saddle to ride like prayer
To the setting sun,
angelic and holy. I fall at your feet
And worship what is
And what could be. Sent from my iPhone
Whispers to your ears, the tickles
Of my words that ignite your
Heart
And stokes into flame the your leviathan mind
Our thoughts are energy
that Courses into our mouths
When our lips touch and we melt, juxtaposed by a kiss and
Mutual electrocution,
Nerve endings standing tall in the saddle to ride like prayer
To the setting sun,
angelic and holy. I fall at your feet
And worship what is
And what could be. Sent from my iPhone
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
THE DAILY IMPROV #8
Poetically Pathetic
There are problems with The writing of poetry.
the biggest,
the poem shouldn't Sound too much like
a poem,
otherwise it smells
up the page, nothing
but farts and belches
on each line, stinking,
breath, ass and feet,
nothing original,
only that organic earthiness
that comes with rot. The poems that rhyme like those by Shelly, and Byron, Suess
and Ogden Nash were clever
and enlightening, but the advent
of pop music and the greeting
card business has ruined the A B A format.
The four lines per stanza with alternating rhyming lines
Leaves me cold,
especially my old Beatle's, Pink Floyd inspired stuff,
the whole moon, June, croon, spoon thing irritates me.
And I really become annoyed when a poem states the obvious. We owe to ourselves to explore beyond the obvious.
Each line should contain the microcosms of a tiny universe,
that blend each macroscopic mmmmm with every ahhhhh.
That moment of vindication.
when the obvious is transcended
Virgil is not needed as guide through each concentric circle
Of hell. Sent from my iPhone
There are problems with The writing of poetry.
the biggest,
the poem shouldn't Sound too much like
a poem,
otherwise it smells
up the page, nothing
but farts and belches
on each line, stinking,
breath, ass and feet,
nothing original,
only that organic earthiness
that comes with rot. The poems that rhyme like those by Shelly, and Byron, Suess
and Ogden Nash were clever
and enlightening, but the advent
of pop music and the greeting
card business has ruined the A B A format.
The four lines per stanza with alternating rhyming lines
Leaves me cold,
especially my old Beatle's, Pink Floyd inspired stuff,
the whole moon, June, croon, spoon thing irritates me.
And I really become annoyed when a poem states the obvious. We owe to ourselves to explore beyond the obvious.
Each line should contain the microcosms of a tiny universe,
that blend each macroscopic mmmmm with every ahhhhh.
That moment of vindication.
when the obvious is transcended
Virgil is not needed as guide through each concentric circle
Of hell. Sent from my iPhone
Sunday, August 21, 2011
I've seen the light with eyes behind my head
Would you buy a used car from this man? 
Sent from my iPhone
THE DAILY IMPROV #7
No Nipple Clamps
Velvet monkeys shoot lasers from their eyes.
There are beans that are more dangerous than human beans.
Talking heads bow to those masters
That dabble with phonics and ebonics.
There is no way anything here makes sense,
unless my subconscious actually influences the economy and I
know where there is a door that allows access to Obama's mind.
I abbreviate those things that have lengths, the URLS shorten with will power and there is no mail today.
You don't have mail.
Mopping floors and scrubbed away, the pirates bleed on the chests of booze and women that We all love.
Victory Bung Poop.
Pity Newt Gingrich.
Tired and dragged
I dream that I am
Dead.
No more nipple
Clamps
Only nipple rings and piercings.
Arg!
TSent from my iPhone
Velvet monkeys shoot lasers from their eyes.
There are beans that are more dangerous than human beans.
Talking heads bow to those masters
That dabble with phonics and ebonics.
There is no way anything here makes sense,
unless my subconscious actually influences the economy and I
know where there is a door that allows access to Obama's mind.
I abbreviate those things that have lengths, the URLS shorten with will power and there is no mail today.
You don't have mail.
Mopping floors and scrubbed away, the pirates bleed on the chests of booze and women that We all love.
Victory Bung Poop.
Pity Newt Gingrich.
Tired and dragged
I dream that I am
Dead.
No more nipple
Clamps
Only nipple rings and piercings.
Arg!
TSent from my iPhone
Saturday, August 20, 2011
THE DAILY IMPROV 6
The ends of things 1.
I bought a tiny new notebook today and put it in my pocket.
Its blank pages I consider An affront And a challenge
I want to fill the negative
Space
With positive matter and I
Know how dangerous That can be, 2.
How, everything that seems
Important to everyone Will come to an abrupt
Ending. 3.
People are afraid of endings
They are too terminal,
Too inflexible and too
Static,
And that is why they never
Finish anything, they're Scared of the state of
Completion,
Terrified to be committed
To some kind of
Finality and fixed
Determination. 4.
And they go back to the beginnings
And find comfort in revisions,
Killing their darlings And starting over and over
Never reaching the ends of things 5.
And then there are those that deny they trade Freedom for security And deserve neither
Because they're stuck
Between lines, from
A majority point of view
And mount up in a crusader frenzy To storm the castles and keeps
of the Holy Land to bring back
Treasures that lose their value
And may have been worthless All along. 7.
There is a futility of marrying or having a relationship with partners with Polarities that push away and all that time claim love. They deprive themselves evenness and try to be what and who they
Are not and could never be.
They turn their backs on true attractions and to whom they wish to surrender
But they fight against being repelled,
And hope their oaths, vows,
rationalizations, intellectualizing, And the deep seated need to do right by the other, an almost
Psychotic compulsion to do what is considered good and normal in their own eyes and the eyes of everyone else
Force them to live against themselves And the natural order of
The ends of things.
Sent from my iPhone
I bought a tiny new notebook today and put it in my pocket.
Its blank pages I consider An affront And a challenge
I want to fill the negative
Space
With positive matter and I
Know how dangerous That can be, 2.
How, everything that seems
Important to everyone Will come to an abrupt
Ending. 3.
People are afraid of endings
They are too terminal,
Too inflexible and too
Static,
And that is why they never
Finish anything, they're Scared of the state of
Completion,
Terrified to be committed
To some kind of
Finality and fixed
Determination. 4.
And they go back to the beginnings
And find comfort in revisions,
Killing their darlings And starting over and over
Never reaching the ends of things 5.
And then there are those that deny they trade Freedom for security And deserve neither
Because they're stuck
Between lines, from
A majority point of view
And mount up in a crusader frenzy To storm the castles and keeps
of the Holy Land to bring back
Treasures that lose their value
And may have been worthless All along. 7.
There is a futility of marrying or having a relationship with partners with Polarities that push away and all that time claim love. They deprive themselves evenness and try to be what and who they
Are not and could never be.
They turn their backs on true attractions and to whom they wish to surrender
But they fight against being repelled,
And hope their oaths, vows,
rationalizations, intellectualizing, And the deep seated need to do right by the other, an almost
Psychotic compulsion to do what is considered good and normal in their own eyes and the eyes of everyone else
Force them to live against themselves And the natural order of
The ends of things.
Sent from my iPhone
Thursday, August 18, 2011
THE DAILY IMPROV #5 NO CONTROL
No Control The remote control slip out of Grant's hand, fell between his legs and plopped into the dirty toilet water. He had been looking forward all day to watching American Idol, his fav. The guy's on the road crew had been talking about the new chick on there that hit all those high notes. Grant read somewhere that Pat Benatar had sang opera or was trained as an opera singer or some shit. But this chick on Idol, all the guys on the crew liked her. Liked her hell, they fucking loved her or they would have loved to fuck her. Even Toby, that quiet fucker who didn't say shit if he had a mouthful was turned on by her. Grant asked him point blank and Toby gave him a look that had 'Duh' written all over it. They stood around and bull shitted, leaning on their shovels or on the sides of the one dump trucks. The goddamn Caterpillar D10NC Bulldozer shit the bed again and they had to wait until the that creepy Sid Emerson, their so-called onsite mechanic got done yanking his pud and fixed the dozer. It had been no skin of Grant's nose, as long as there were doughnuts to eat, coffee to drink and butts to smoke. He got paid by the hour whether he broke a fucking sweat or not. So, fuck them if they can't take a joke. The crew kept talking about that Idol opera singing chick. If she was a day over twenty-two Grant would eat his hard hat. And he said to the guys if Steve Tyler wasn't knocking her boots yet, Grant would eat his goddamn BVD'S too, after a drinking binge during hot wing night at Applebees. He was glad they didn't hold him to that bet.
All day long Grant leaned on his shovel and bullshitted with the guys just about until quitting time and the fat ass foreman showed and said that Sid had fixed the Dozer and then asked who wanted overtime. Grant bowed out claiming he had the trots and that he'd been "shitting his Goddamn brains out all day long on that fucking Ameri-Can that everybody said pinched their ass.
There was no way in hell he would miss his girl on Idol. But wouldn't ya know it, as soon as he got home his stomach acted up and he ended up being on the can shitting his brains out for six hours. Every time he thought it was out of his system and he went into his living room to relax a little, maybe smoke a stogie and drink a cold one, all these fucking fists clenched in his stomach and he'd barely make it back to the shitter, throw the seat up, drop trou and shorts and piss liquid shit from his ass. It burned like fuck. He be damned that he would miss American Idol. During a less painful bowel moment that wasn't a movement. Although he thought that would be funny, somebody shitting their pants during American idol. Grant squeezed his checks together, ran into the living room and set the television up in the bathroom doorway on a kitchen dinette chair. He stretched the electrical cord and plugged it into the outlet used for blow dryers, curling irons and other female crap. Luckily he had excess cable wire coiled up behind the tv. Fox was showing the last five minutes of a Simpson's episode. Grant liked the Simpsons but for the moment didn't give a shit about them now. Idol would be on soon and his stomach seized him again, like someone cinching his tummy tight like a lady's girdle. Another wave of cramps washed over him and for a minute he thought he was having a hear attack. Gas filled him up to the point where even his balls hurt. Each wave hurt more than the last. The next one hurt so bad he stood up while still on the bowl and screamed. that was when he dropped the remote control in the dirty toilet and the channel changed to QVC, no way was he going to fish that out and he couldn't reach the manual control on the television. His bowels clenched so hard that he thought his heart might stop from the agony. Idol was on right now and he wanted to see the chick. Instead he was stuck with the goddamn hag from the Quacker Factory or something and her tacky old lady clothes. He
reached out with his foot to try to turn the channel and his ass slid off the porcelain and he had almost shat on the seat bowl and himself. Oh damn it, damn it, damn it. He guessed he would have to wait until everything took its course. "Shit," he said out loud and did just that.
All day long Grant leaned on his shovel and bullshitted with the guys just about until quitting time and the fat ass foreman showed and said that Sid had fixed the Dozer and then asked who wanted overtime. Grant bowed out claiming he had the trots and that he'd been "shitting his Goddamn brains out all day long on that fucking Ameri-Can that everybody said pinched their ass.
There was no way in hell he would miss his girl on Idol. But wouldn't ya know it, as soon as he got home his stomach acted up and he ended up being on the can shitting his brains out for six hours. Every time he thought it was out of his system and he went into his living room to relax a little, maybe smoke a stogie and drink a cold one, all these fucking fists clenched in his stomach and he'd barely make it back to the shitter, throw the seat up, drop trou and shorts and piss liquid shit from his ass. It burned like fuck. He be damned that he would miss American Idol. During a less painful bowel moment that wasn't a movement. Although he thought that would be funny, somebody shitting their pants during American idol. Grant squeezed his checks together, ran into the living room and set the television up in the bathroom doorway on a kitchen dinette chair. He stretched the electrical cord and plugged it into the outlet used for blow dryers, curling irons and other female crap. Luckily he had excess cable wire coiled up behind the tv. Fox was showing the last five minutes of a Simpson's episode. Grant liked the Simpsons but for the moment didn't give a shit about them now. Idol would be on soon and his stomach seized him again, like someone cinching his tummy tight like a lady's girdle. Another wave of cramps washed over him and for a minute he thought he was having a hear attack. Gas filled him up to the point where even his balls hurt. Each wave hurt more than the last. The next one hurt so bad he stood up while still on the bowl and screamed. that was when he dropped the remote control in the dirty toilet and the channel changed to QVC, no way was he going to fish that out and he couldn't reach the manual control on the television. His bowels clenched so hard that he thought his heart might stop from the agony. Idol was on right now and he wanted to see the chick. Instead he was stuck with the goddamn hag from the Quacker Factory or something and her tacky old lady clothes. He
reached out with his foot to try to turn the channel and his ass slid off the porcelain and he had almost shat on the seat bowl and himself. Oh damn it, damn it, damn it. He guessed he would have to wait until everything took its course. "Shit," he said out loud and did just that.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
AN EXCERPT FROM VISCOSITY, MY NEW NOVEL IN PROGRESS
"...If I held a certain pair of pants or shirt up close to my face and really press my nose to them, I could still smell the smoking remains of yesterday. All night, I'd be afraid that I would wake up to a world crackling with flames and thick muscled smoke choking me, my house burning, guinea pig screaming like a woman. The insistent incessant voice of fire asserts itself, roars of its authority; an unstoppable willful engine of destruction. Everything changed during a fire and in the aftermath, fire changed everything and kept on changing things...things out of your control, things you wouldn't think that a fire could touch even as your home is a wet rubble mess, the last flame extinguished a long time ago still burns somewhere in the back of your mind. It smolders like a temper and is fanned by fear.
Always, always there...
...Always."
Always, always there...
...Always."
THE DAILY IMPROV #4
Carry That Weight 20 minutes to 11 and I've got nothing to say.
I edited some blog posts, brought bins of breakables
down to the cellar for my wife and I cleaned out
the trunk of an old car that is sitting in the
backyard. It was full of books. Had to oil the key to get the lock to turn
just like my wife oiled me with the promise
of kettle corn and other things,
incentive for me to lift and lug
more stuff and re-injure my right arm. I tried to lift a chest freezer by myself
and something let go in my arm,
something popped where the forearm meets the bicep.
Hurts like a son of a gun when I try to
do complicated things like make a sharp
left turn in the car, reach into a coat pocket
or carry a loaded dresser on on my back
without being loaded myself. I hate physical limitations.
I hate that I can't dunk a basketball.
I hate that I can't keep up with Lance
Armstrong or is that Lance Bass I can't keep
up with? I don't know.
I hate that I can't drink like I use to.
A couple of beers these days and I feel
dehydrated.
I hate that I can't eat like I use to.
I could scarf a fully loaded pizza
all by myself and not gain a freaking
pound. Now I think about pizza and the pants
get tight
and no, I don't have some sick pizza fetish
sexual fantasy,
or maybe I do. I'm not telling But anyway, for not having anything to say
and being injured, limited restriction on
my lifting, I still carry a lot of weight but not as much at my waist or gut because in all fairness to myself
I've reduced.
Isn't reducing a cooking term?
Cooking terms make me drool. Weight limits or not,
I lift things by compensating
with my left arm and think things through before bulling my way in. I'm good at bulling
and not so good at bullshitting. Although, I just bullshitted my way through this
poem.
I edited some blog posts, brought bins of breakables
down to the cellar for my wife and I cleaned out
the trunk of an old car that is sitting in the
backyard. It was full of books. Had to oil the key to get the lock to turn
just like my wife oiled me with the promise
of kettle corn and other things,
incentive for me to lift and lug
more stuff and re-injure my right arm. I tried to lift a chest freezer by myself
and something let go in my arm,
something popped where the forearm meets the bicep.
Hurts like a son of a gun when I try to
do complicated things like make a sharp
left turn in the car, reach into a coat pocket
or carry a loaded dresser on on my back
without being loaded myself. I hate physical limitations.
I hate that I can't dunk a basketball.
I hate that I can't keep up with Lance
Armstrong or is that Lance Bass I can't keep
up with? I don't know.
I hate that I can't drink like I use to.
A couple of beers these days and I feel
dehydrated.
I hate that I can't eat like I use to.
I could scarf a fully loaded pizza
all by myself and not gain a freaking
pound. Now I think about pizza and the pants
get tight
and no, I don't have some sick pizza fetish
sexual fantasy,
or maybe I do. I'm not telling But anyway, for not having anything to say
and being injured, limited restriction on
my lifting, I still carry a lot of weight but not as much at my waist or gut because in all fairness to myself
I've reduced.
Isn't reducing a cooking term?
Cooking terms make me drool. Weight limits or not,
I lift things by compensating
with my left arm and think things through before bulling my way in. I'm good at bulling
and not so good at bullshitting. Although, I just bullshitted my way through this
poem.
BOOKS I WANT AND MORE TUNAGE
Found all this awesome stuff at Warren Ellis.com. Someday I'm gonna have to meet this dude, thank him, get him drunk and listen closely to whatever he wants to talk about. I want to pick your brain Warren Ellis.
L
Penny Red
Notes from the New Age of Dissent Laurie Penny. Foreword by Warren Ellis Selected writings from a prominent voice of the new activist left. Reflections on being young, broke and angry in the twenty-first century. “Cuts, sexism and riots, Laurie Penny’s fresh and angry voice captures the moment and the important issues – highly recommended.” – Polly Toynbee “Penny is reinventing the language of dissent, delivering verbal taser-barbs to the left and right, and causing apoplexy among the old men in cardigans who run the British blogosphere.” – Paul Mason, economics editor of BBC’s Newsnight RRP £12.99Pre-order now for only £10 inc. UK P&P!
Ships not Shelters
By Shopwork
View this Author's Spotlight
Paperback, 170 pages This item has not been rated yet Price: $12.02
Ships in 3–5 business days
A primary objective for POI (Peckham Outer-Space Initiative) is to develop and establish in-transit non-Earth living situations. These situations are proposed as solutions to current forms of planetary based society and living, and as such POI employs the manifesto/slogan: Ships not Shelters. This book is an introduction to POI, a record of their ideas, thoughts and activities.
L
Penny Red
Notes from the New Age of Dissent Laurie Penny. Foreword by Warren Ellis Selected writings from a prominent voice of the new activist left. Reflections on being young, broke and angry in the twenty-first century. “Cuts, sexism and riots, Laurie Penny’s fresh and angry voice captures the moment and the important issues – highly recommended.” – Polly Toynbee “Penny is reinventing the language of dissent, delivering verbal taser-barbs to the left and right, and causing apoplexy among the old men in cardigans who run the British blogosphere.” – Paul Mason, economics editor of BBC’s Newsnight RRP £12.99Pre-order now for only £10 inc. UK P&P!
Ships not Shelters
By Shopwork
View this Author's Spotlight
Paperback, 170 pages This item has not been rated yet Price: $12.02
Ships in 3–5 business days
A primary objective for POI (Peckham Outer-Space Initiative) is to develop and establish in-transit non-Earth living situations. These situations are proposed as solutions to current forms of planetary based society and living, and as such POI employs the manifesto/slogan: Ships not Shelters. This book is an introduction to POI, a record of their ideas, thoughts and activities.
New Tunes: Saturday I Died Pets With Pets
I really dig this. I found it at Warren Ellis.com and then clicked on it to get the embed code. Enjoy.
L
L
Issue 42 Forgetting Summer 2011 The Behavioral Sink Will Wiles
I found this at Warren Ellis' website. It talks about the experiments that were performed on mice and other rodents that involved over-population and led to fear of food shortages and vigilantism, etc, and inspired SF like the 1970's Soylent Green. "It's people Soylent Green is made of People!" Sorry for the spoilers. The movie came out in 73 that means I was five when my dad took me to see it. Thanks dad for the memories. I loved the movie then and I love every cheesy bit of it now.
L
L
"How do you design a utopia? In 1972, John B. Calhoun detailed the specifications of his Mortality-Inhibiting Environment for Mice: a practical utopia built in the laboratory. Every aspect of Universe 25—as this particular model was called—was pitched to cater for the well-being of its rodent residents and increase their lifespan. The Universe took the form of a tank, 101 inches square, enclosed by walls 54 inches high. The first 37 inches of wall was structured so the mice could climb up, but they were prevented from escaping by 17 inches of bare wall above. Each wall had sixteen vertical mesh tunnels—call them stairwells—soldered to it. Four horizontal corridors opened off each stairwell, each leading to four nesting boxes. That means 256 boxes in total, each capable of housing fifteen mice. There was abundant clean food, water, and nesting material. The Universe was cleaned every four to eight weeks. There were no predators, the temperature
was kept at a steady 68°F, and the mice were a disease-free elite selected from the National Institutes of Health’s breeding colony. Heaven..." "Four breeding pairs of mice were moved in on day one. After 104 days..." Yeah, but read the rest of the essay at the link below and see what happens when the mice become overpopulated. All hell breaks loose.
L http://www.cabinetmagazine.org/issues/42/wiles.php
was kept at a steady 68°F, and the mice were a disease-free elite selected from the National Institutes of Health’s breeding colony. Heaven..." "Four breeding pairs of mice were moved in on day one. After 104 days..." Yeah, but read the rest of the essay at the link below and see what happens when the mice become overpopulated. All hell breaks loose.
L http://www.cabinetmagazine.org/issues/42/wiles.php
Manticore
More links to research for my 2000 AD Future Shock submission. I need to tell the story that I have in mind in 5 comic book script pages.
L http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manticore
Sent from my iPhone
L http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manticore
Sent from my iPhone
Manticore - Monstropedia - the largest encyclopedia about monsters
I am going to use a Manticore like creature in my Future Shock submission to 2000 AD.
L http://www.monstropedia.org/index.php?title=Manticore
Sent from my iPhone
L http://www.monstropedia.org/index.php?title=Manticore
Sent from my iPhone
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
THE DAILY IMPROV #3
Some Kind of Wonderment
And I wonder...
...how many poems have I written
begin like that?
or begin with...
And I wonder...
or,
And then she said...
or,
And then I got to thinking...
First thing though, that
I have to remember is that
sentences that start with the words
'and', or
'but', or
'or'
are supposed to be weak
and signs of poor grammar.
But then I got to thinking...
...that while 'And' and 'But' are
conjunctions in prose,
they are leaping on or leaping off
points for poems
that can help you stick the landing
to show permanence or
they can provide you with an
exit,
an excuse to start new thoughts
and be flighty all the way across
the page.
But then I thought...
what if none of this shit matters
and I'm writing down words for
the sake of writing down
words.
And then I thought,
maybe the analysis is
just as dumb
if not dumber than
the subject matter
And it will only be
a small amount of
time that when we contemplate
our navels
we will write odes to
the contemplation
and eventually
we will compose careful reviews
of each contemplation
and then we will review the review
of the review that reviews each
contemplation
But then I get to wondering...
...why don't we go straight
to the source,
the origin of all this
cough-cough
literature
and
just
review
the
navel and only the navel.
And I wonder...
...how many poems have I written
begin like that?
or begin with...
And I wonder...
or,
And then she said...
or,
And then I got to thinking...
First thing though, that
I have to remember is that
sentences that start with the words
'and', or
'but', or
'or'
are supposed to be weak
and signs of poor grammar.
But then I got to thinking...
...that while 'And' and 'But' are
conjunctions in prose,
they are leaping on or leaping off
points for poems
that can help you stick the landing
to show permanence or
they can provide you with an
exit,
an excuse to start new thoughts
and be flighty all the way across
the page.
But then I thought...
what if none of this shit matters
and I'm writing down words for
the sake of writing down
words.
And then I thought,
maybe the analysis is
just as dumb
if not dumber than
the subject matter
And it will only be
a small amount of
time that when we contemplate
our navels
we will write odes to
the contemplation
and eventually
we will compose careful reviews
of each contemplation
and then we will review the review
of the review that reviews each
contemplation
But then I get to wondering...
...why don't we go straight
to the source,
the origin of all this
cough-cough
literature
and
just
review
the
navel and only the navel.
Monday, August 15, 2011
WINDOWS TO THE SOUL
If the eyes are truly the windows to the soul, then this picture shows that humanity has got some serious problems. 
Or my laptop screen has burned its image into my retinas.
Sent from my iPhone
DAILY IMPROV #2
"THE TOOLS OF THE TRADE"
Joe had the van fully loaded with everything he needed. He started the van and drove north this time away from his base of operations. He had remembered to pack three or four rolls of Duct Tape. That shit came in handy, especially when the marks were a lot stronger than they looked. He had his tape, handcuffs, rope, ball-peen hammer, heavy gloves, leather apron, utility knife and taser. The handcuffs and rope were unreliable. The other night he picked one up in the park and she was so small, greasy and wiry that it didn't matter how tight he made the knots or the cuffs, she was still able to get her hands and legs free, luckily, he had the ballpeen hammer nearby and was able to knock her senseless before she could get away.
Joe signaled and turned right. He obeyed traffic laws religiously because he didn't want to call attention to himself. He cruised past a senior citizen home. Harmony Gardens they called it. Joe thought that was a silly name but he knew that a name like Harmony Gardens would attract a richer clientele, usually those places held droves of those he hunted. He trolled places like senior citizen homes, schools and playgrounds. He didn't want to limit his options and over the years he started to develop a kind of feeling of where they could be found. A hunter's sense. The older marks, they were shrewd and knew what they were and what they were capable of doing. They couldn't move as fast as the younger ones though. The youngsters operated on sheer panic and adrenaline, not knowing yet what they were or what they could do. When he jumps out of his van with the windows tinted and he wears his hard hat with a welder's mask pulled over his face, leather apron, heavy gloves and taser-- he makes a terrible sight, invoking fear, but hey, it was a job to do.
He had only lost one of each, elder and youth. The elderly one had some how disappeared into some hedges and he could not find her, even after poking through the hedges with his utility knife. The branches tore into his hands and he left a lot of DNA evidence. That was when he started to wear the heavy gloves. Oh, and that young one, she was a handful. Most of the youngsters are pretty much powerless, but there was always an exception to the rule. Recognizing this fact, his experience and his ability to adapt quickly usually gave him an edge. This exception of the rule was youngest by far that he had ever taken up to that point. She was playing with her doll in an empty playground. He recognized her type, very imaginative, red-head, haughty, a woman's pouty lips and a beauty mark on her cheek. The beauty mark was a dead give away. When Joe cornered her and cut her clothes off he looked for other discerning marks, a quick glance really. When he got her back to base and had her all trussed up, well, then, he figured he would be able to take a good long look. But, this one, she didn't cower. She spat at him. Right away, he realized she was a lot more powerful than he anticipated. She was like a corned rat, all teeth and claws going for his eyes, balls and face. With her nails, she had managed to gouge deep scratches in his chest through his t-shirt almost puncturing his rib cage. He had backhanded her a good one too, this was before he started using a taser and just tried to dominate them physically with his size. He liked that way better. But, Cardinal Sanchez had warned him during his training not to underestimate the target. And Sanchez had been right because Joe could not overpower this little redhead. She hit him with everything, beating him up the way a man twice his size might. She must have learned to tap her powers at an earlier age than usual. Sanchez warned him that even the purifying ritual where he stripped naked and cleansed himself with fire, water, scripture and flagellation might not be a deterrent to their powers to tempt, seduce and damn. He tried to smother her with his body, her gyrations were worms of intoxication that ate into his brain. As she moved beneath him he held tightly to his cross and rosary and prayed so hard that his palms and ankles bled. The red headed girl humbled him and broke through his defenses against temptation. He had been so young then too. His flesh had been weak. Afterwards, as he lay broken and bloody, police sirens sounded and echoed around the city, the red head girl, like a naked demon monkey leaped into the tops and rigging of the playground equipment, made an impossible jump and vanished into a tenth floor window of a condemned building across the street. The doll, seemingly left behind as if accidental became animated, climbed his leg, open it's mouth, teeth all filed down to a point and took a small bite out of Joe's cheek. It then vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled like rotten eggs.
Eight years later, Joe rubbed the scar on his cheek. He resisted temptation, well, most of the time. He was a smarter and more careful and with his experience he found that a successful hunt depended upon the proper tools of the trade, not underestimating the hunted and prayer.
Outside of Harmony Gardens he spotted his quarry, she was alone, outdoors in one of those smoking pavilions. He approached her from her blind side and out of the line of sight of the main building. He took her down with no problem or fuss and best yet, with no witnesses. He picked her up from the ground and slung her over his shoulder and carried her to his van. He checked her for a pulse. His mentors would be pissed if he brought in a dead one. Joe opened the van and pulled her inside. It was dark because he had removed the tiny light bulb from the dome light a long time ago. With practiced ease he could pull the van door shut with his feet and grab a roll of duct tape and wrap his mark from head to toe with the duct tape without needing to see. Leaving the nose and eyes uncovered he deposited the elder mark next to the four smaller and younger ones he capture earlier in the evening at the mall.
Joe started the van and got back out to switch the license plates to the official plates of the Millennium-Catholic Church. He only hunted witches, he didn't torture them, although, Cardinal Sanchez said eventually his training as inquisitor might involve the art of torture too. Cardinal Sanchez also said that the NEO-Vatican had started to acquire so much information and evidence that proves existence of Satan And, Cardinal Sanchez explained how Satan chooses certain women the day they're born to be his brides. A tradition that goes all the way back to the beginning of man with Lilith and Eve. An order of brides, Cardinal Sanchez said, that are true witches, supernatural beings that are human and demon.
More human than demon, Joe thought. But the evidence was overwhelming, witches were everywhere again and evil is real. Cardinal Sanchez said the Spanish Inquisition and its inquisitors were going public again, soon.
Until, then, Joe thought, I'll just keep on hunting witches, quietly in the shadows, bring them back to base and let God sort them out.
Sent from my iPhone
Joe had the van fully loaded with everything he needed. He started the van and drove north this time away from his base of operations. He had remembered to pack three or four rolls of Duct Tape. That shit came in handy, especially when the marks were a lot stronger than they looked. He had his tape, handcuffs, rope, ball-peen hammer, heavy gloves, leather apron, utility knife and taser. The handcuffs and rope were unreliable. The other night he picked one up in the park and she was so small, greasy and wiry that it didn't matter how tight he made the knots or the cuffs, she was still able to get her hands and legs free, luckily, he had the ballpeen hammer nearby and was able to knock her senseless before she could get away.
Joe signaled and turned right. He obeyed traffic laws religiously because he didn't want to call attention to himself. He cruised past a senior citizen home. Harmony Gardens they called it. Joe thought that was a silly name but he knew that a name like Harmony Gardens would attract a richer clientele, usually those places held droves of those he hunted. He trolled places like senior citizen homes, schools and playgrounds. He didn't want to limit his options and over the years he started to develop a kind of feeling of where they could be found. A hunter's sense. The older marks, they were shrewd and knew what they were and what they were capable of doing. They couldn't move as fast as the younger ones though. The youngsters operated on sheer panic and adrenaline, not knowing yet what they were or what they could do. When he jumps out of his van with the windows tinted and he wears his hard hat with a welder's mask pulled over his face, leather apron, heavy gloves and taser-- he makes a terrible sight, invoking fear, but hey, it was a job to do.
He had only lost one of each, elder and youth. The elderly one had some how disappeared into some hedges and he could not find her, even after poking through the hedges with his utility knife. The branches tore into his hands and he left a lot of DNA evidence. That was when he started to wear the heavy gloves. Oh, and that young one, she was a handful. Most of the youngsters are pretty much powerless, but there was always an exception to the rule. Recognizing this fact, his experience and his ability to adapt quickly usually gave him an edge. This exception of the rule was youngest by far that he had ever taken up to that point. She was playing with her doll in an empty playground. He recognized her type, very imaginative, red-head, haughty, a woman's pouty lips and a beauty mark on her cheek. The beauty mark was a dead give away. When Joe cornered her and cut her clothes off he looked for other discerning marks, a quick glance really. When he got her back to base and had her all trussed up, well, then, he figured he would be able to take a good long look. But, this one, she didn't cower. She spat at him. Right away, he realized she was a lot more powerful than he anticipated. She was like a corned rat, all teeth and claws going for his eyes, balls and face. With her nails, she had managed to gouge deep scratches in his chest through his t-shirt almost puncturing his rib cage. He had backhanded her a good one too, this was before he started using a taser and just tried to dominate them physically with his size. He liked that way better. But, Cardinal Sanchez had warned him during his training not to underestimate the target. And Sanchez had been right because Joe could not overpower this little redhead. She hit him with everything, beating him up the way a man twice his size might. She must have learned to tap her powers at an earlier age than usual. Sanchez warned him that even the purifying ritual where he stripped naked and cleansed himself with fire, water, scripture and flagellation might not be a deterrent to their powers to tempt, seduce and damn. He tried to smother her with his body, her gyrations were worms of intoxication that ate into his brain. As she moved beneath him he held tightly to his cross and rosary and prayed so hard that his palms and ankles bled. The red headed girl humbled him and broke through his defenses against temptation. He had been so young then too. His flesh had been weak. Afterwards, as he lay broken and bloody, police sirens sounded and echoed around the city, the red head girl, like a naked demon monkey leaped into the tops and rigging of the playground equipment, made an impossible jump and vanished into a tenth floor window of a condemned building across the street. The doll, seemingly left behind as if accidental became animated, climbed his leg, open it's mouth, teeth all filed down to a point and took a small bite out of Joe's cheek. It then vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled like rotten eggs.
Eight years later, Joe rubbed the scar on his cheek. He resisted temptation, well, most of the time. He was a smarter and more careful and with his experience he found that a successful hunt depended upon the proper tools of the trade, not underestimating the hunted and prayer.
Outside of Harmony Gardens he spotted his quarry, she was alone, outdoors in one of those smoking pavilions. He approached her from her blind side and out of the line of sight of the main building. He took her down with no problem or fuss and best yet, with no witnesses. He picked her up from the ground and slung her over his shoulder and carried her to his van. He checked her for a pulse. His mentors would be pissed if he brought in a dead one. Joe opened the van and pulled her inside. It was dark because he had removed the tiny light bulb from the dome light a long time ago. With practiced ease he could pull the van door shut with his feet and grab a roll of duct tape and wrap his mark from head to toe with the duct tape without needing to see. Leaving the nose and eyes uncovered he deposited the elder mark next to the four smaller and younger ones he capture earlier in the evening at the mall.
Joe started the van and got back out to switch the license plates to the official plates of the Millennium-Catholic Church. He only hunted witches, he didn't torture them, although, Cardinal Sanchez said eventually his training as inquisitor might involve the art of torture too. Cardinal Sanchez also said that the NEO-Vatican had started to acquire so much information and evidence that proves existence of Satan And, Cardinal Sanchez explained how Satan chooses certain women the day they're born to be his brides. A tradition that goes all the way back to the beginning of man with Lilith and Eve. An order of brides, Cardinal Sanchez said, that are true witches, supernatural beings that are human and demon.
More human than demon, Joe thought. But the evidence was overwhelming, witches were everywhere again and evil is real. Cardinal Sanchez said the Spanish Inquisition and its inquisitors were going public again, soon.
Until, then, Joe thought, I'll just keep on hunting witches, quietly in the shadows, bring them back to base and let God sort them out.
Sent from my iPhone
Saturday, August 13, 2011
THE DAILY IMPROV 1
"TIL DEATH..."
"I don't like it this way," Mary said to her husband Peter as he bent her over the couch and hiked her skirt up.
"You never had a problem with it before. You asked me to do this way all the time. You said it was easier because you didn't have to see my face." He pulled her skirt down and moved away from her. Dejected, Peter sighed a great sigh and poured himself a glass of Bourbon from a decanter on the bar.
"Can I have one," Mary asked and sat on the arm of the couch, "I'll take ice in mine if you don't mind."
"Yeah, alright," Peter murmured and removed some ice from the ice bucket with a tiny set of tongs that he could barely manipulate with his large fingers, "Fuck it." he said and tossed the tongs across the room. His thick fingers grabbed a fist full of ice and tossed into a glass. He poured a healthy amount of bourbon over the ice and handed the glass to Mary. The ice in the glass tinkled and chirped like music from a jewelry box.
"I'm sorry Peter. After we have our drinks, let's try it again. Maybe, I'll be loosened up a little bit...more relaxed."
"Nah, I don't want to anymore. Shit, Mary, you won't even let me kiss you. A man can only stand so much you know?
"I know," she said, "Are you going to leave me?"
"Where the hell would I go? We've been together for so long. I don't know anything but you. I don't know how to do anything but you. When we're in bed, your body is mine, an extension of mine. I feel all of you movements in my nerve endings, all of your inhalations and exhalations are mind, all of your blood my blood. Even the rumblings in your intestines are like extensions of my own. Our small intestines joined like an equator around our hearts."
"What are you talking about," she said, "I think we both need another drink."
"I think, you're right." he said and refreshed their glasses. From the corner of his eye he saw Mary stretch out her leg and rub her hands up and down her white stocking. She adjusted a garter to smooth out a wrinkle in the silk.
He loved it when she wore garters.
"Why don't you want me Mary?"
"That's just it, I do want you. Sometimes I want you so bad that I scare myself."
"I wish you told me this before."
"Before what?"
"Before I put roofie in your drink."
"What is a rupee?"
"Not rupee, roofie,you know, the date rape drug."
"So, you're going to fuck me while I'm drugged, is that your plan?"
"No, no. I told you, I don't want to anymore."
"Then, why did you drug me?"
"You sound like you want me to do you when your drugged." Peter said. He made himself another drink. "You're glass is empty, do you want another one?"
"With or without the drug? Ha. It might be interesting though."
"What's that," Peter said as he made two more drinks. Mary rocked back and forth on the arm of the couch, her balance off, she staggered while sitting down, her stiletto feet shuffled along the carpeted floor, but she went nowhere.
"Fucking me, here and now, while I'm all spaced the fuck out, taking me from behind on the arm of this couch the way you really want to, doing me ana...an...sodom...ana...in my butttttttt," Marry said. Her words slurred and she laughed, "Damn, this shit is good. Freaking animal tranquilizer isn't it?"
"Yeah," there's some kind of funny irony there isn't there." Peter said. "I mean, human beings using animal tranquilizers to get laid. It's funny isn't it?"
"I guess, soooooo," Mary said. Her mouth numb. Now instead of just slurring her words, she slurred everything. "How's that lyric by chevy chasesimon and garfunkelgo "how the camera follows us in slow mo. Steve Austin the six billionaire dollar man, that doesn't seem like a lot of money anymore. Did you put that shit in your drink too?"
"Boy in the fucking Bubble Paul mutha-fucka Simon Graceland. Now there was a way to die, Elvis on the can." Peter said. "No, I put the roofie in the ice bucket, I'm just getting drunk...very drunk."
"So, what was your plan Elvis the Pelvis, get me all liquored up and watch me fall?" You really weren't going to have sex with me," Mary said, "Aw shit, the house is spinning wheeeeeee." She fell onto the couch, her legs in the air, skirt up to her waist, Peter saw that she had shaved herself, a tiny razor nick on the inside of her left thigh bled a tear. He had never been this unhorney in his entire life. Her exposed shaved crotch made his head ache. The fact that he still loved her though caused his stomach to churn.
"I contacted a porn website called Back-to-the-Cave, been emailing back and forth with this guy Rex."
"Rex?" She said, "Really, really, back to the cave...who thinks this shit up?" With her legs still spread wide, Mary touched herself and without being at all self-conscious she began to pleasure herself while looking into her husband's eyes. "You like this Peter? You like it when I do this?"She said. She whispered his name over and over,"Peter, you like it when I do this, don't you Peter, when I get myself all...you like it, don't you?"
"Not anymore Mary," Peter said. He opened up a new bottle of bourbon, made himself another drink, this time with ice. "Anyway, not to interrupt you self-love there but as I was saying, I made contact with Rex and arranged it for him to send as many of his well endowed young men as possible to our house tonight, film crew and all and their going to gang bang the shit out of you."
Mary laughed, "When are they coming," she said.
"Their not," Peter said. I called Rex and cancelled.
"You did, juuuuuuust like you Peter cotton tail...chicken shit. D you want to see me come Peter? I'm gonna cum baby, just for yooooooou."
"No...I don't and you won't. At first, I thought I get drunk and let the men have their way with you, stream on it on the Internet...get you all doped up, but, no."
"Nooooooooo, baby?" Mary said. She stopped touching herself and laid back on the couch, and laughed. She could not stop laughing.
"No, baby. I thought drunk would be good enough, but I put some ice in my drink, the ice with the rupee, just enough to take the edge off, one ice cube or two, it doesn't really matter. Instead of having you gang raped. I came up with something better."
"What's that oooooooooooh, God everything is so weird....ssoslow...aand then aww wow. Why don't you come over here and make love to me. Kiss me Peter, Kiss me, right on my face, on my lips, put your tongue in my mouth. I loooooooooove you Pettttttter, IIiiiiiii Lovvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu."
"I love you too Mary, but I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this, in a passionless, sexless marriage."
"OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH baaaaaaaaby, just makke loooooooooooove tooooooo meeeeeeeeeeee. Plllleeeeeaaaassssseeeeee?"
"No Marry, I'm going to kill you and then, I'm going to kill myself."
"KIIIIIIIllllllll me, hahahahahahh, howwwww baby hoooowwwwwwwwww?"
"With a Seppku knife I bought over the Internet."
Peter took a knife in a sheath from behind the bar. He pulled the knife out and held up to the light coming from the living room lamp. Marry still on her back, couldn't move, except to squirm on the couch and laugh and laugh, even as the blade of the Seppuku knife sliced open her chest. she laughed.
"I love you Marry."
"I love you toooooooo Peter." Mary said as he plunged the seppuku knife into her again and then again and then again, and once more.
"I don't like it this way," Mary said to her husband Peter as he bent her over the couch and hiked her skirt up.
"You never had a problem with it before. You asked me to do this way all the time. You said it was easier because you didn't have to see my face." He pulled her skirt down and moved away from her. Dejected, Peter sighed a great sigh and poured himself a glass of Bourbon from a decanter on the bar.
"Can I have one," Mary asked and sat on the arm of the couch, "I'll take ice in mine if you don't mind."
"Yeah, alright," Peter murmured and removed some ice from the ice bucket with a tiny set of tongs that he could barely manipulate with his large fingers, "Fuck it." he said and tossed the tongs across the room. His thick fingers grabbed a fist full of ice and tossed into a glass. He poured a healthy amount of bourbon over the ice and handed the glass to Mary. The ice in the glass tinkled and chirped like music from a jewelry box.
"I'm sorry Peter. After we have our drinks, let's try it again. Maybe, I'll be loosened up a little bit...more relaxed."
"Nah, I don't want to anymore. Shit, Mary, you won't even let me kiss you. A man can only stand so much you know?
"I know," she said, "Are you going to leave me?"
"Where the hell would I go? We've been together for so long. I don't know anything but you. I don't know how to do anything but you. When we're in bed, your body is mine, an extension of mine. I feel all of you movements in my nerve endings, all of your inhalations and exhalations are mind, all of your blood my blood. Even the rumblings in your intestines are like extensions of my own. Our small intestines joined like an equator around our hearts."
"What are you talking about," she said, "I think we both need another drink."
"I think, you're right." he said and refreshed their glasses. From the corner of his eye he saw Mary stretch out her leg and rub her hands up and down her white stocking. She adjusted a garter to smooth out a wrinkle in the silk.
He loved it when she wore garters.
"Why don't you want me Mary?"
"That's just it, I do want you. Sometimes I want you so bad that I scare myself."
"I wish you told me this before."
"Before what?"
"Before I put roofie in your drink."
"What is a rupee?"
"Not rupee, roofie,you know, the date rape drug."
"So, you're going to fuck me while I'm drugged, is that your plan?"
"No, no. I told you, I don't want to anymore."
"Then, why did you drug me?"
"You sound like you want me to do you when your drugged." Peter said. He made himself another drink. "You're glass is empty, do you want another one?"
"With or without the drug? Ha. It might be interesting though."
"What's that," Peter said as he made two more drinks. Mary rocked back and forth on the arm of the couch, her balance off, she staggered while sitting down, her stiletto feet shuffled along the carpeted floor, but she went nowhere.
"Fucking me, here and now, while I'm all spaced the fuck out, taking me from behind on the arm of this couch the way you really want to, doing me ana...an...sodom...ana...in my butttttttt," Marry said. Her words slurred and she laughed, "Damn, this shit is good. Freaking animal tranquilizer isn't it?"
"Yeah," there's some kind of funny irony there isn't there." Peter said. "I mean, human beings using animal tranquilizers to get laid. It's funny isn't it?"
"I guess, soooooo," Mary said. Her mouth numb. Now instead of just slurring her words, she slurred everything. "How's that lyric by chevy chasesimon and garfunkelgo "how the camera follows us in slow mo. Steve Austin the six billionaire dollar man, that doesn't seem like a lot of money anymore. Did you put that shit in your drink too?"
"Boy in the fucking Bubble Paul mutha-fucka Simon Graceland. Now there was a way to die, Elvis on the can." Peter said. "No, I put the roofie in the ice bucket, I'm just getting drunk...very drunk."
"So, what was your plan Elvis the Pelvis, get me all liquored up and watch me fall?" You really weren't going to have sex with me," Mary said, "Aw shit, the house is spinning wheeeeeee." She fell onto the couch, her legs in the air, skirt up to her waist, Peter saw that she had shaved herself, a tiny razor nick on the inside of her left thigh bled a tear. He had never been this unhorney in his entire life. Her exposed shaved crotch made his head ache. The fact that he still loved her though caused his stomach to churn.
"I contacted a porn website called Back-to-the-Cave, been emailing back and forth with this guy Rex."
"Rex?" She said, "Really, really, back to the cave...who thinks this shit up?" With her legs still spread wide, Mary touched herself and without being at all self-conscious she began to pleasure herself while looking into her husband's eyes. "You like this Peter? You like it when I do this?"She said. She whispered his name over and over,"Peter, you like it when I do this, don't you Peter, when I get myself all...you like it, don't you?"
"Not anymore Mary," Peter said. He opened up a new bottle of bourbon, made himself another drink, this time with ice. "Anyway, not to interrupt you self-love there but as I was saying, I made contact with Rex and arranged it for him to send as many of his well endowed young men as possible to our house tonight, film crew and all and their going to gang bang the shit out of you."
Mary laughed, "When are they coming," she said.
"Their not," Peter said. I called Rex and cancelled.
"You did, juuuuuuust like you Peter cotton tail...chicken shit. D you want to see me come Peter? I'm gonna cum baby, just for yooooooou."
"No...I don't and you won't. At first, I thought I get drunk and let the men have their way with you, stream on it on the Internet...get you all doped up, but, no."
"Nooooooooo, baby?" Mary said. She stopped touching herself and laid back on the couch, and laughed. She could not stop laughing.
"No, baby. I thought drunk would be good enough, but I put some ice in my drink, the ice with the rupee, just enough to take the edge off, one ice cube or two, it doesn't really matter. Instead of having you gang raped. I came up with something better."
"What's that oooooooooooh, God everything is so weird....ssoslow...aand then aww wow. Why don't you come over here and make love to me. Kiss me Peter, Kiss me, right on my face, on my lips, put your tongue in my mouth. I loooooooooove you Pettttttter, IIiiiiiii Lovvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu."
"I love you too Mary, but I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this, in a passionless, sexless marriage."
"OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH baaaaaaaaby, just makke loooooooooooove tooooooo meeeeeeeeeeee. Plllleeeeeaaaassssseeeeee?"
"No Marry, I'm going to kill you and then, I'm going to kill myself."
"KIIIIIIIllllllll me, hahahahahahh, howwwww baby hoooowwwwwwwwww?"
"With a Seppku knife I bought over the Internet."
Peter took a knife in a sheath from behind the bar. He pulled the knife out and held up to the light coming from the living room lamp. Marry still on her back, couldn't move, except to squirm on the couch and laugh and laugh, even as the blade of the Seppuku knife sliced open her chest. she laughed.
"I love you Marry."
"I love you toooooooo Peter." Mary said as he plunged the seppuku knife into her again and then again and then again, and once more.
THOUGHTS ABOUT WRITING: STRETCHING THE MIND
We're always told that before exercising that we should stretch. Which makes perfect sense, especially if you plan on going for a long run or lifting weights, etc. Really, it applies to any form of exercise. I remember when I took Karate as a teenager (I should get back into Karate, it is something that I enjoyed and did well.)how our Sensei made great emphasis on the need to stretch. The first thirty minutes of class consisted of nothing but stretching of one sort or another. Let's face it, whether we like it or not, stretching is an important part of exercise.
Is stretching any less important for the mind? Of course not, puzzles are great exercise for the brain, reading is an excellent mental calisthenic too. But what about exercises for writers. Me, personally, I like to listen to audio books in the car or on a Walkman when I'm doing my custodial gig. The only time I do not listen to an audio book is when I am driving somewhere to do my own creative writing. I do not want to be influenced by the author's style of the book I am listening to when I am about to work on my own stuff. It is easy for me to emulate an author's voice and not even be aware that I am doing it. When I'm writing book reviews or some journalism or essay piece that rule doesn't seem to apply. Besides listening to audio books, I read something every day, not just review books, but poetry, drama, fiction, philosophy...anything, even if I just dip into something for a few minutes, a piece here a piece there. I try very hard to to read something for me between book reviews, for example, I am now reading for me, Kraken by China Mieville, Piers Anthony's autobiographies, Bio of and Ogre and How Precious Was That While and few other things.
So where am I going with this?
My buddy the excellent and prolific writer Jake Sullivan told me that he is now doing a type of fiction exercise he calls Words from a Fool on his weebly website Jake Sullivan's Pen http://jakesullivanspen.weebly.com/the-lowdown.html Which if you think about it, the whole premise is nothing but stretching. Jake has provided a little disclaimer apologizing for the mistakes, whether they are spelling, grammar or otherwise because the idea is just to write to get the engines going. I dig that idea and asked him if he would mind if I created my own version. He told me to go for it.
Starting today, I am going to try to do what I'm going to call the Daily Improv
stretching man, total stretching. Where Jake is doing mostly fiction, I going to write whatever the hell comes to my stretching mind, be it poetry, fiction, drama, ideas or just a bunch of mumbo jumbo.
Stay tuned for my first Daily Improv
Is stretching any less important for the mind? Of course not, puzzles are great exercise for the brain, reading is an excellent mental calisthenic too. But what about exercises for writers. Me, personally, I like to listen to audio books in the car or on a Walkman when I'm doing my custodial gig. The only time I do not listen to an audio book is when I am driving somewhere to do my own creative writing. I do not want to be influenced by the author's style of the book I am listening to when I am about to work on my own stuff. It is easy for me to emulate an author's voice and not even be aware that I am doing it. When I'm writing book reviews or some journalism or essay piece that rule doesn't seem to apply. Besides listening to audio books, I read something every day, not just review books, but poetry, drama, fiction, philosophy...anything, even if I just dip into something for a few minutes, a piece here a piece there. I try very hard to to read something for me between book reviews, for example, I am now reading for me, Kraken by China Mieville, Piers Anthony's autobiographies, Bio of and Ogre and How Precious Was That While and few other things.
So where am I going with this?
My buddy the excellent and prolific writer Jake Sullivan told me that he is now doing a type of fiction exercise he calls Words from a Fool on his weebly website Jake Sullivan's Pen http://jakesullivanspen.weebly.com/the-lowdown.html Which if you think about it, the whole premise is nothing but stretching. Jake has provided a little disclaimer apologizing for the mistakes, whether they are spelling, grammar or otherwise because the idea is just to write to get the engines going. I dig that idea and asked him if he would mind if I created my own version. He told me to go for it.
Starting today, I am going to try to do what I'm going to call the Daily Improv
stretching man, total stretching. Where Jake is doing mostly fiction, I going to write whatever the hell comes to my stretching mind, be it poetry, fiction, drama, ideas or just a bunch of mumbo jumbo.
Stay tuned for my first Daily Improv
research songs with the devil in them
In music"Dance with the Devil" by Immortal Technique
"The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by The Charlie Daniels Band, a song about a fiddle contest between the Devil and boy named Johnny from Georgia
"Titties and Beer" by Frank Zappa
"Friend of the Devil" by The Grateful Dead
"Brother Jacob" by Head East
"Shout at the Devil" by Mötley Crüe
"In the Presence of Enemies" by Dream Theater
"Cross Road Blues" by Robert Johnson
"Deal with the Devil" by Judas Priest
"Tribute" and "Beelzeboss" by Tenacious D have the band challenge the devil to a rock off
"Pact with Lucifer" by Coven
"Witch of Berkeley" by Inkubus Sukkubus based on an older legend
"The Small Print" by Muse, previously called "Action Faust"
"Spanish Train" by Chris de Burgh
"Epica" and "The Black Halo" by Kamelot based on the Faust legend
"Murder Was the Case" by Snoop Dogg
"Hell Sent" by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony
"The Width of a Circle" by David Bowie
"Good Fashion" by Sage Francis
The Black Rider by Tom Waits
"The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by The Charlie Daniels Band, a song about a fiddle contest between the Devil and boy named Johnny from Georgia
"Titties and Beer" by Frank Zappa
"Friend of the Devil" by The Grateful Dead
"Brother Jacob" by Head East
"Shout at the Devil" by Mötley Crüe
"In the Presence of Enemies" by Dream Theater
"Cross Road Blues" by Robert Johnson
"Deal with the Devil" by Judas Priest
"Tribute" and "Beelzeboss" by Tenacious D have the band challenge the devil to a rock off
"Pact with Lucifer" by Coven
"Witch of Berkeley" by Inkubus Sukkubus based on an older legend
"The Small Print" by Muse, previously called "Action Faust"
"Spanish Train" by Chris de Burgh
"Epica" and "The Black Halo" by Kamelot based on the Faust legend
"Murder Was the Case" by Snoop Dogg
"Hell Sent" by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony
"The Width of a Circle" by David Bowie
"Good Fashion" by Sage Francis
The Black Rider by Tom Waits
Friday, August 12, 2011
@writingislife, 8/12/11 1:21 PM
 Writing Is Life (@writingislife)8/12/11 1:21 PM The real Bukowski #writing http://t.co/g68s1Rz |
Sent from my iPhone
Thursday, August 11, 2011
@LawrenceBlock, 8/11/11 3:02 PM
 Lawrence Block (@LawrenceBlock)8/11/11 3:02 PM 8.11.11 Today's #AffirmationforWriters: It's always the right time and place for my writing. |
Sent from my iPhone
Sunday, August 7, 2011
THE WORD BEAST
mollycrabapple:
For Warren Ellis, and every other writer battling a word count. Kill your Wordbeast, comrades
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Lee Gooden has shared '2000AD_subsmissons_examples.zip' with you using Dropbox
Hi,
Here's a link to "2000AD_subsmissons_examples.zip" in my Dropbox:
Sent from my iPhone
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
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