Sunday, August 02, 2009 07:20 PM
August and everything after..
August is that last puff on the cigarette of your 10am smoke break, before go back to work; the final few gulps of your drink after the bouncer yells says “closing time!”; the turning down of the car stereo as you pull into work, the sigh as you turn the hot water off on a cold morning. It’s not the end, but the realization that an end is coming, whether you want it to or not.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007 10:50 PM
Zombie Apocalypse
Oh no, it’s the Zombie Apocalypse!
Sunday, August 27, 2006 01:46 PM
Cotton
I dream of cotton fields, white balls and black dirt. The sun hides behind clouds, the world is gray and cotton rustles in a dry, stale breeze.
Sunday, August 27, 2006 01:43 PM
Thin edges
Brenda liked knives and I liked Brenda, so her knives loved me.
They were delicate things, small and discreet, ornate with designs from around the world and hidden under her clothing. They were the only thing soft about her. Everything else was sharp and unyielding and she dared you to see that with her eyes. To see how long you swallow that piece of info, that knowledge that she could and would severly hurt you, except that there were laws against it.
But I always let her know that my friends knew where I was and knew when to expect me back. She didn’t expect that and it intriuged her, pulled her closer, the better to examine this strange new toy.
Brenda, I think, had never been this far before. Everyone else had left either right before or right after the first knub on the pinky disappeared. Not me, I was indestructible, though I never knew my body could lose so much blood and still function. She peeled away layers and let me find the self I had suppressed and hidden.
I liked the hurt and I liked the pain, so Brenda loved me.
They were delicate things, small and discreet, ornate with designs from around the world and hidden under her clothing. They were the only thing soft about her. Everything else was sharp and unyielding and she dared you to see that with her eyes. To see how long you swallow that piece of info, that knowledge that she could and would severly hurt you, except that there were laws against it.
But I always let her know that my friends knew where I was and knew when to expect me back. She didn’t expect that and it intriuged her, pulled her closer, the better to examine this strange new toy.
Brenda, I think, had never been this far before. Everyone else had left either right before or right after the first knub on the pinky disappeared. Not me, I was indestructible, though I never knew my body could lose so much blood and still function. She peeled away layers and let me find the self I had suppressed and hidden.
I liked the hurt and I liked the pain, so Brenda loved me.
Sunday, August 27, 2006 01:39 PM
Twilight
I stole Twilia’s fingernail rig and become schizo for a day. It was timed coded, set to expire right after my last day at work. It was alternating blender of thought; chop, then puree, then chop with a long puree once security had been called. Didn’t care. The job was cherry, but it didn’t matter. Twilia was leaving me, though she didn’t know it yet, but I knew it and it was killing me. Nothing mattered, so why not fuck the world with the lights on and shades up.
Twilia sought me me out, for reasons I don’t know or don’t want to think about. I had been at Club One, trying to rig this sweet piece of tail, taking the rig off my index finger for her to try, leaving it bare for her to give, when Twilia slid in. The tail was pissed, we had been connecting, but I was all groupie and panting for Twilia. She took my hand, held it up to my face, palm out, fingers spread, while she pulled the orange and blue stripped rig off the tip of her index finger and gently placed it in mine. My head exploded as I switched sexes and then species while she lighted a cigarette. She was dreadlocks, coffee skin and red lips painted blue.
Later, she took it back and gave me others, the dangerous ones. I swapped and switched, tried on different personalities, phobias and psychosis. It got so bad that I started to remember too much and had some memories repressed, wiped by a tiny asian women with nubs where her fingernails use to be.
Twilia never took my rig. No point, her shit was outta this world better. She gave me hers, an orgy of colored and carefully designed fingernails, watching as I plugged them in, one at a time and slowly blew out the back of my skull.
She just watched.
Twilia sought me me out, for reasons I don’t know or don’t want to think about. I had been at Club One, trying to rig this sweet piece of tail, taking the rig off my index finger for her to try, leaving it bare for her to give, when Twilia slid in. The tail was pissed, we had been connecting, but I was all groupie and panting for Twilia. She took my hand, held it up to my face, palm out, fingers spread, while she pulled the orange and blue stripped rig off the tip of her index finger and gently placed it in mine. My head exploded as I switched sexes and then species while she lighted a cigarette. She was dreadlocks, coffee skin and red lips painted blue.
Later, she took it back and gave me others, the dangerous ones. I swapped and switched, tried on different personalities, phobias and psychosis. It got so bad that I started to remember too much and had some memories repressed, wiped by a tiny asian women with nubs where her fingernails use to be.
Twilia never took my rig. No point, her shit was outta this world better. She gave me hers, an orgy of colored and carefully designed fingernails, watching as I plugged them in, one at a time and slowly blew out the back of my skull.
She just watched.
Sunday, August 27, 2006 01:37 PM
Finding Jesus
On Thursday night, around 7 o’clock, I finally got Jesus.
It had been a long hunt, but the we finally ran the fucker down and Chris managed to get him with the net.
We had heard reports of him being up in Canada, trying to lose himself in the tundra. We didn’t go looking, just hung out on the border, knowing the bastard liked hanging out ‘frisco, ‘cause he though it was funny. I didn’t laugh, there were too many damn fine queers in that town, many of them needing Jesus in a way that didn’t involve him, a ball gag, a bottle of oil and a billy goat.
Anyway, he skimped down over on the East Coast, tricky dick. Who’d though Jesus would go to New York?
It had been a long hunt, but the we finally ran the fucker down and Chris managed to get him with the net.
We had heard reports of him being up in Canada, trying to lose himself in the tundra. We didn’t go looking, just hung out on the border, knowing the bastard liked hanging out ‘frisco, ‘cause he though it was funny. I didn’t laugh, there were too many damn fine queers in that town, many of them needing Jesus in a way that didn’t involve him, a ball gag, a bottle of oil and a billy goat.
Anyway, he skimped down over on the East Coast, tricky dick. Who’d though Jesus would go to New York?
Thursday, July 27, 2006 12:01 AM
The 5th draft is just the beginning
Great, Great, GREAT post over at Signal Vs Noise on writing. Nothing is ever written, everything, EVERYTHING is rewritten. It doesn’t work the first time, so you keep writing to sharpen the idea to a point.
Friday, March 24, 2006 01:29 AM
Why write
That’s the question bouncing around my head this evening: Why write? The short answer is “Why not?”. Maybe that and “Because” are the only real answers to that question. I’ve seen lots of various answers, such as to entertain, or to tell the truth or a story or somesuch. But why do biochemists do whatever the hell it is they do? Why do runners run? There’s no real definite answer, no mystery or secret. People do what they do because that’s who they are. I’m tempted to say write for fun, but it isn’t always fun. Sometimes it’s pulling teeth, sometimes it’s work, sometimes it’s the last damn thing you want to do.
But there is a compulsion, almost a physiological need to write, at least for me. If I don’t do it, the world doesn’t seem right, I don’t feel right, an anchor takes root in my head and starts weighing me down. I do it because I can’t NOT do it, that’s all.
Sometimes the problem isn’t writing, but keeping up with all the things in my head. You see, typing, speech, all that is poor excuse for relaying the original thoughts. As I write this sentence I’m several sentences ahead, at least in my brain, while I’m pondering a few other things in the back of mind. No big deal, lots of people, probably everyone, does that to some extent.
I read somewhere that nothing is actually written, it’s only rewritten, even if it’s the first and only draft. Event he act of writing thoughts is just another draft and of course the act of writing them down changes them, like schrodinger’s cat.
I don’t fully understand it. Sometimes it seems like magic.
Googling the phrase “Why write?”, I come up with a few gems from Daniel Boorstin & Thomas Berger
But there is a compulsion, almost a physiological need to write, at least for me. If I don’t do it, the world doesn’t seem right, I don’t feel right, an anchor takes root in my head and starts weighing me down. I do it because I can’t NOT do it, that’s all.
Sometimes the problem isn’t writing, but keeping up with all the things in my head. You see, typing, speech, all that is poor excuse for relaying the original thoughts. As I write this sentence I’m several sentences ahead, at least in my brain, while I’m pondering a few other things in the back of mind. No big deal, lots of people, probably everyone, does that to some extent.
I read somewhere that nothing is actually written, it’s only rewritten, even if it’s the first and only draft. Event he act of writing thoughts is just another draft and of course the act of writing them down changes them, like schrodinger’s cat.
I don’t fully understand it. Sometimes it seems like magic.
Googling the phrase “Why write?”, I come up with a few gems from Daniel Boorstin & Thomas Berger
Sunday, February 26, 2006 09:48 PM
Octavia Butler
Octavia Butler died yesterday. She was a science fiction writer, one of the few black ones. She was a damn good, check out the title story from Blood Child and other stories, which is great not only for the stories, but the included essays on writing and becoming a writer. Before I read her, I hadn’t known of any black scifi writers, so she always meant a lot to me. She was bit young when she passed, all of 58, with the full intent to keep writing. You could say she’ll be missed, but she leavea behind a wealth of excellent work for everyone.
Sleep well beautiful lady, you earned it.
Sleep well beautiful lady, you earned it.
Saturday, July 30, 2005 10:11 PM
Corner of Light & Pratt and I’m in Love
I miss being in love with a city. Walking its streets, surrounded by its people, falling in love with its sounds, knowing there’s a potential pal on the street with me and we could pop into one of those bars that are on every street, holes in the wall really, thats been owned for years by the same guy or the same couple, with the usual bar staff that don’t water down the drinks. It’s usually dark in there, with all sorts of stuff on the walls, a little dirty, a little grimey, but with character, you know.
Cities smell, both good and bad. The good smells are made by the cousins or brothers of the bar owners, cooking up the food of their people, gryos or fried rice, or Mexican or the hot dog vendor or bread and cookies, all of cooked daily, though maybe not sold daily. Sometimes it’s fresh flowers or fruits, ripening under a spring sun, served by a lazy breeze.
The bad smells are dirt and pollution, concrete burned with the smell of piss from bums and drunk partiers, dank sweat and exhaustion from those who were born there and never left. But it’s ok, ‘cause the bad smells make it all seem real, make the city seem alive, ‘cause you can’t love it all the time, not 24/7. It gets on your nerves sometimes, when it gets too cold or too hot, too wet or too dry, too noisy or too quiet. It’s ok. You love it because the city doesn’t belong to you, it does its own thing. But when you need it, when the bones ache for home, its there, changed perhaps, new buildings here, new owners there, but its heart still is there. If you listen closely, you’ll hear it beneath chatter of cars and the blaring people.
Cities smell, both good and bad. The good smells are made by the cousins or brothers of the bar owners, cooking up the food of their people, gryos or fried rice, or Mexican or the hot dog vendor or bread and cookies, all of cooked daily, though maybe not sold daily. Sometimes it’s fresh flowers or fruits, ripening under a spring sun, served by a lazy breeze.
The bad smells are dirt and pollution, concrete burned with the smell of piss from bums and drunk partiers, dank sweat and exhaustion from those who were born there and never left. But it’s ok, ‘cause the bad smells make it all seem real, make the city seem alive, ‘cause you can’t love it all the time, not 24/7. It gets on your nerves sometimes, when it gets too cold or too hot, too wet or too dry, too noisy or too quiet. It’s ok. You love it because the city doesn’t belong to you, it does its own thing. But when you need it, when the bones ache for home, its there, changed perhaps, new buildings here, new owners there, but its heart still is there. If you listen closely, you’ll hear it beneath chatter of cars and the blaring people.
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