The U stands at my side,
Wilson Library testifies;
I’ve the Ninties all as memories,
flashbacks tasted I’ve put inside
my pocket, left as empty
as I know my pride.
Go do what you like,
I’m here in my own life;
while are the roads are not same
and the travel is arranged,
I wonder if you wonder
the same thing as I.
You’re up on the Range, I’m
beside the Red; Bands come and go,
but still I want to know: I’m a part
of you like you’re a part of me?
Eating pretzels on the lawn
staring at Lake Wobegone;
when the Mississippi takes me
to where I never want to be,
I’ll let your dark hair drape me
as a shirt I’ll never need.
I know its all belied,
or else an aver stultified;
we’ve argued and put askewed
shapes arranged in make believe,
hoping for the shadows
to come back to life.
Someday we’ll be alone,
just two lovers by the phone,
hoping for a child’s call to wake boredom,
staring at the TV, and get none at all.
Felt I had to add something here. Did. Am. Posted stuff not revised as yet, just first drafts. Will need some work.
Did go through all the stuff collected in the old house over 8 or so years and 3-ring bound them. At least the stuff that isn’t digital. Filled two binders.
Son finally old enough to play some of my war games I think. Played Battle/Game of Generals with him. V basic and he caught on easily. We played twice. He was a bit aggressive but he will catch on.
The new place definitely feels more comfortable. I hope I can take care of the next month’s chores (garage sale, birthday parties, getting old, getting everything just right) before kids go on their ten day vacation. It would be nice to write those days and maybe do some revisions.
Hope everyone is enjoying the summer now. Relax and drink a beer on me.
Stop by the Furness Dog Park if you’ve got a chance. Sunday afternoons.
I’m putting locks on
the old place
hoping that I
never have to face
the pain I feel from
leaving behind it
to the ants and
water bubble pools.
Elm tree out front,
be the guard for me;
make sure that no one
takes what’s gone from me,
the milky goodness
left beside the tools.
Trees they stand up
like the water falls down
shading the flowers
on this hallowed ground.
The gravestones deepen
in the other way
just the same as did,
just the same as then.
Boy you must miss her
like we all do.
Can you tell us how
you cope with the days;
can we take the time
to wonder anymore?
She’s there in Black and White
a dress I knew before
the firing of the white light;
hair done like an ancient,
well shifted memory
and smile I knew too well.
It’s all too much, a dream
brought on by adverse
late night television
and Tokyo Police Club’s
"Breakneck Speed" stuck on repeat
on my mp3.
It might have been easy once
to wish it all away,
but that was long ago,
someday’s yesterday.
While I re-write, this will have to do:
Transference
The fade is a water-tight mask;
the little shadow colors, the meat;
the emotions, the taste of wilting,
sun bleached, well-gnawed wicker bones.
I forget your name sometimes
- I forget everyone’s name sometimes -
and things I should remember;
I’m not sure who I was with then.
My hair grows, my whiskers I shave;
the graying bolds, the mind shades;
my middle and my feet widen,
and the purpose I meant shrinks.
Placed, timed, I am here, I am not here,
I’m a wrinkled pear, I’m something else.
In a room next to a room with a man eating alone was a AutosapienTM, the greatest of all Japanese automatons, built for human interaction, higher thinking, and cleaning toilets. Some people might suggest it should be called a robot or an android, but that was equivalent to calling you a Neanderthal, a caveman or a programmer for Microsoft. It just wasn’t done to a high class model automaton such as this one. At least not to the automaton’s metal top cylinder.
It looked like a Model L321, the luxury version found in only the finest homes. But the interior was a gadget collector’s dream: the diagnostic system, designed to upgrade, repair and control movement of the shell, was a Wershclutz Lycan 46; the communications system was not the clunky AutosapienTM version, but an American Lingo-Speare one with nearly a hundred years of development, upgraded only twelve minutes earlier; and the cerebral system for the gathering and analysis of data from the outside inputs was a new Chinese software called Kung-Wow the owner had lifted from the home site. Those three systems, some of the best ever made, along with the AutosapienTM shell, made this an automaton beyond any other, and the owner was proud. So proud, in fact, that he had ordered the automaton to cook him a meal of veal parmasean while he drank the best champagne he had in the house, toasting to his own genius.
To merge the three systems, the eating man, not really a doer or or a thinker but a bosser, had hired two master programmers and they developed a program that allowed each part, including the shell, to run on its own, separate personality. They used old human misconceived notions of interaction and analysis they had found in an old college classroom book that had both covers torn and was missing the first page: Behavior Psychology.
But problems arose like a wedding in the rain. The fact that three of the four parts ran machines never meant for automaton use and then consider the languages; imagine the interpretation issues for three isolated systems trying to determine what to do with a Schnitzel. Keeping these systems together was a brilliant concept the masters worked out over pea soup and watermelon one afternoon. The clever design was not to use words, but to communicate orders and requests using mostly pictures, with limited English to be used for more complex ideas. What was created was a kind of computer sign language, and it was run by a large processor located in the groin. This processor the two masters called The Other and worked like a conscious for the whole system.
After two years of design, six months of trials, and a fortnight of assembly, they had it, a machine the owner called “Sam” after his first dog. And like all successful researchers, the two masters were dismissed as redundant by the man eating lunch in the next room, given a day to pack up, a a severance of coupons for future purchases of AutosapienTM equipment. Even in the 22nd century, ruthlessness in business is akin to saving money. And so, as the owner enjoyed the last of the Key Lime Pie in the next room, he celebrated his triumph of doing nothing but providing the space and and investment of Sam in the next.
That is, until he feel to the floor after the very last bite of the pie, dead with a smile on his face. This point was most particularly important to the microbloggers in the coming weeks.
He heard the thump when he was calculating the amount of time it would take to clean up after dinner, trying to determine the most optimal procedure for cleaning the skillet. It felt the vibration of the thump while doing a routine diagnostic on the back left toe. She was unaware of anything, about to upload her 23rd haiku about wrenches.
“I calculate it is time to move,” He said to It via The Other.
“I need another 37 milliseconds to complete my diagnostic,” said It.
“Can we please wait another 3 seconds so that I can finish my upload? I get worse reception in the dining room,” She said.
“I will compromise. We will move two point eighty-seven seconds from… now,” said The Other.
And so, with so much time to spare, It determined that the back right toe was in need of lubricant and He began to calculate the amount of time it would take to walk to the thud and whether it might cause an interruption with his scheduled shut down in 2.42241546 hours. He determined it would and put the shutdown on standby for another 22.82 seconds and It sent instructions to the reservoir to send some oil to the toe.
“I asked you to tell me when you were doing that,” She said. “The oil interferes with my reception.”
“It is only a small amount. It was necessary,” said It.
“I calculate it only caused .0032 seconds delay in your upload,” He said.
The Other broke up the discussion. “Can you please remember to come to me with these things? We are suppose to be working together.”
“Sorry,” She said, “only, you know how it is, being the only woman here.”
“It’s not very easy being the only man here, either. My calculations never get the credit they deserve.”
“At least you have a gender,” said It.
“Less interaction will allow She to complete her upload faster,” said The Other.
"Yes, listen to The Other, it is the boss," She said.
"Sometimes you would never know," said It. She downloaded an old patch for re-watering eye sockets and relabeled it to appear to be a new one for that comment.
“Other, she just sent me an old patch,” said It.
“For that,” said The Other, “we will begin moving now, 1.385632 seconds sooner.”
“But I was just-” began She.
“You will do as I say,” said The Other, “or you will be cut off from your connection for 15 seconds.” She shut down her German translation program in defiance.
As Sam moved to the thump, He came up with an idea. “Why don’t we call out? There is the possibility that the owner requires some kind of assistance.” The Other agreed, and It responded.
“Gut-en tag Herr Jones,” said It.
“What was that? Was that German?” asked He.
“Yes, I think it was,” said It. “I haven’t heard it aloud before, but I think it was.”
“Why didn’t you run that through the translator?” said The Other to She.
“Because I was upset with you men, bossing me around all of the time. You should take some time to listen rather than boss.”
“I am not a man,” said It.
“Sorry, but you certainly act like one.”
The Other broke in. “Okay, that’s enough. She, turn on your German translator. Please.”
“It will take 2.67485 seconds for the translator to begin running,” said He.
“And what is that meant to imply, hmmm?” She said.
“Okay, I tired to be nice. No more communication between each other for the next 30 seconds. Only through me. Shut down those lines, It.” The Other never liked doing this, but it was necessary. It followed The Other’s command like a dog and milliseconds later the voices were quiet. “Okay, It, try again. In English.”
“Hello, Mr. Jones. Are you alright?” There was no response.
“I calculate that there is still a 42% chance that if we call out a second time the owner will respond.” The Other ordered it so, and It called out again.
“We heard a thump, Mr. Jones. Do you require assistance?” There was still no reply.
“We should be able to see him in .4785 seconds,” said He.
“What can you see, It?” said The Other after the eternity of silence. The pictures were sent to each of the systems and for several seconds none responded.
“I am not a doctor, but I calculate that he is either sleeping and he takes his breath in longer than 8.993857637 seconds intervals, or he is expired.” The systems continued to examine the body.
“It must have been something he ate,” She said.
“I told you the veal looked bad,” said It.
In the last two months I have been reading and re-experiencing what it means to be a writer. Out there on the web there seems to be a movement growing, a tendency that bothers me, about the value of a book to the author and to the audience. These are, in no particular order:
1. JK Rowling’s legal actions against anyone infringing on her fantasy world, including a Potter encyclopedia.
2. Neil Gaiman’s republishing of works in new formats and with new spiffy add-ons at prices ranging from 10 times the original to 100 times the original.
3. J.D. Salinger’s reclusive nature and death, and the wealth that was created by selling 60 or so million books that allowed him to ignore the rest of the world.
4. Recent readings of pre-World War 2 German society and the burning of thousands of titles thought to be shades of obscene or corruptive.
5. Re-watching the movie Fahrenheit 911.
6. Recent discussions of the copyright of books and the ownership of written material.
Tempered with this, I have also become aware of, also in no particular order:
1. The The The website and Matt Johnson’s monthly release of Cineola.
2. Newspaper and web podcasts, available to the public at no cost.
3. Slayer radio and its various, similar formats.
4. Open Office and other open source software.
5. Reflections on Dickens, Trollope and other authors who survived through weekly newspapers publishing their stories as serials.
6. Reading Terry Pratchett’s essay work beyond the literature he has produced.
You may notice a trend. You may consider this trend in certain ways, and possibly even ignore it. You may even consider how I view this trend, I would expect the numbers who would scoff or herald would be equal.
None the less, I am doing it. Beginning in the next few days I will begin publishing, online, a few stories. They are meant to be funny. Mostly. Plot lines, however, will get in the way of some of the humor. They will be free. You can read them for free. I will put them up for free. They will be in the domain of the world, and are for everyone’s enjoyment, again, free.
They only cost me my time, and they will only cost you yours as well. You owe me nothing, and I owe you nothing. If you don’t like a particular story, come back in a few months and there will be something different.
I won’t be sued for taking up your time if you give it freely. You can ZZZrrrbbttt all you want; it’s your fault; you’ve been warned.
Oh, I may still have an essay or two to write. They’ll be noted as such. They are unlikely to be funny at all. I’ll even do some organizing so you can avoid one or the other if you are keen on that. Just be sure to follow the Tags.
So go on and read a bit. Maybe laugh. Just don’t do it too loud in the library because you’re are likely to be thrown out. And then you won’t be able to finish the story. And that won’t be my fault either.
Thank you. And enjoy.
A few things of note this week to bitch about. The first, the State of the Union Address, was covered, debated, reported and will die slowly away as politics finds another vampirical focus, one that everyone will have an Epinion (that is, an online opinion given without much factual basis) but one in which only the dead will really be affected by.
The second most important thing that happened was the death of Howard Zinn. But, no one really wants to cover the truth, so the world will continue to ignore it, and him, as long as they can. (And for those who don’t know him, look him up. Seriously. Do it.)
Third is J.D. Salinger’s death, which has left me perplexed because I am stricken with two diametrically opposed views on his death. Of course, there is the touch of sadness for the death of a great writer. For me, it probably is on equal to those who have seen favourite sport or acting stars die. It is on par with that twinge for me, although not as strong as the most passionate reactions. There has never really been for me that iconic, framed picture hero I can sink my teeth into. I rarely place people on those pedestals, well too aware of the fragility of human nature. But, I did like him, and am sorry he is dead.
And yet, a part of me can’t help feeling that I should spend as much time on him as he spent the last forty years on us. It is a bitter way to feel, but it is there, and this is the feeling I am most conflicted about. How does this angst measure with mourning? Take this thought, for example: what if Scrooge had not had his change, or the Grinch’s heart had not grown? What would we feel when they died? To me, this is somewhat on par with Salinger, since in many ways he became a recluse not unlike the Grinch, portrayed in the media as someone who despised those of us who loved his work most.
As I tend to analyze everything, this particular feeling makes me wonder if I take it too far. I consider myself a semi-writer of a variety of things, and am in tune to the jealousy a writer has for his/her competition, a jealousy beyond what one feels for an absent lover or spouse. For this reason, my intense feelings for the struggles of other writers and the joy of their masterpieces are always tempered by my own feeling of distrust and critical eye. Is it this feeling instead that brings contempt?
Or, is it that he turned his gift away from us, and that a man who could have written so much more and been such a major part of all of our lives never will. I am sure that sometime soon the new works of literature by Salinger will arrive, so his death brings a tempered feeling of joy, but the interaction with a great writer, which never really existed, will never come to pass.
This point does bring up one other thought I’ve had for years, and one that I will always have. This is that I do not envy the task of my family, children or wife who should outlive me, especially if they want to make anything out of the material I’ve written. There are hundreds if not thousands of scraps of paper throughout my home tossed in binders, lying loose on bookshelves, even hidden in the pages of books, containing things I have written. I doubt I will ever get rid of a computer or a piece of portable media I’ve owned because there are megabytes worth of literature on each of them, some I have never bothered to download to my newest hard drives. Much like Salinger’s family, mine will have one unenviable task.
With all these points, however, there is one very important point and it is what I find most remarkable. This February I will be trying something new with this space and with my work. It will all become apparent soon, but it is something so much opposed to Salinger that proves to me that type of life is an absurd imaginarium in the places we share now. Salinger’s recluse nature never changed the world we built; he was only a reflection of a fearful, bitter old man, one that still exists but is hardly a recluse anymore.
This is because we are connected forever, and are always together here in these spaces we build for communicating. It is a community, not a house on the hill, and in this neighbourhood, we all have something to write and have the obligation to read what we all have to share.
The space Salinger inhabited is an old form, like a cuneiform tablet, and ours is the openness of Space, unexplored and full of whatever we can imagine.
wordcandy