"This is bullshit," Jake said, holding the plate up so that Ernie the busboy. Ernie was sitting at the far end of the kitchen, his necktie untied, texting something or other to someone or other. Ernie was Jake's ride home, but he wasn't about to just jump in and help wash dishes. "I've already washed this stupid dish three times tonight. I can tell, because it's got this chip on the back."
"Uh-huh," Ernie nodded.
"It doesn't end. I'm like that guy with the rock on the hill I read about."
"Who, Sisyphus?"
"That's the one. Every night, I come in here and wash the dishes and just an hour later I have to wash them again. It's like--"
"JACOB COTTER!" a voice bellowed from somewhere below, rattling the pans hanging from the wall. Jake gripped the edge of the sink to steady himself. He looked over at Ernie, who indicated the drain in the center of the floor. "I, SISYPHUS, DO NOT GET PAID SIX DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS AN HOUR TO ROLL THIS BOULDER UP THIS STUPID HILL." And then there was silence.
Dave had been chatting pleasantly with the patrons of the bar amicably. It was his first night in this cozy downtown bar. He'd had some work out near this bar a few weeks ago and his old haunt had at last uncovered his secret.
As the evening wore on, he had gotten into a conversation with a large table, all regulars to the bar. He fit in easily, and he found the topics and tenor of their conversation suited him well. Still, he found his eyes drawn to a stunning redhead sitting at the bar. And her eyes seemed to keep finding their way back to him.
At the urging of a round-faced man whose name Dave hadn't caught, Dave got up to cross the bar and offer the lady a drink. But halfway there, a delicate hand tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around to see a short blonde woman whose face looked vaguely familiar.
"I'm sorry?" Dave inquired.
"You're that guy--that ergonomicist who came by our office a few weeks ago, aren't you?" she grinned. She was obviously drunk, but she was also right. Dave returned her a blank stare. "You are! Hey everyone, we've got an ergonomicist in the house!"
"Oh, shit! Where?" a large man playing pool abandoned his game.
Within seconds, Dave was surrounded by animated hands and eager voices and excited questions. What is the best keyboard to use? If standing's so great for you, why can't I get a standing desk? Have they developed ergonomic toilets yet? Am I sitting on this barstool in proper ergonomic fashion?
He was the evening's celebrity. The stunning redhead asked "Might my sore back have to do with the way I swivel in my chair?" and with that she was dead to him, as was the bar. He was running out of places to go on this city.
"Is it true? Hast Sir Benton returned from beyond?" the boy-king whispered to his advisor.
"Yes, your majesty. But shouldst we not attend to matters of the court first?"
"Court, mine arse!" bellowed the boy-king, leaping to his feet upon his throne. "Begone, ye lords and ladies, ye petitioners and ye ambassadors. I have important personal matters to attend to. Clear the hall!"
Not unaccustomed to this behavior, the nobles of the court dispersed quickly, all murmuring under their breaths.
"Come, then! Bring before me Sir Benton!" the boy-king shouted. His advisor clapped his hands and the sound echoed through the corridors of the castle.
Seconds passed, though they seemed like minutes. Then came a rustling just outside the doors of the hall. Bent and grisled Sir Benton limped into the hall, his armor caked in dry blood, dragging behind him a heavy metal chest. The boy-king, of course, hardly noticed the middle-aged knight. His eyes fixed on the chest, and his body squirmed with delight.
Some three yards from the throne, Sir Benton stopped and coughed. And coughed. Sir Benton coughed with such fury that the advisor thought the old knight might die before his report might be made. The boy-king squirmed still. At last, Sir Benton's coughing fit subsided and he raised his head. "Your majesty," he said, mustering up what dignity had not been beaten out of him, "I believe I hath retrieved for you what you requested. The world thou hast sent me to is alien and dangerous, but I hath persevered in the name of our great country, and present to your majesty these strange relics," Sir Benton knelt to open the chest.
The boy-king could contain himself no longer. He leapt from his throne, plunged his hands into the chest, and drew up its contents.
"Softball?!" the boy-king fumed. "I clearly requested wiffleball! For it is the game of wiffleball that I played with my friends Hammie and Jenny and Jimmy and Susan in the year 1973, when I learned the value of friendship and humility and perseverance and love!
"Yet you damned knights bring me nothing but baseball and softball and tee-ball! Like Sir Abernathy and Sir Carver before you, you have, Sir Benton, hath failed your king. Advisor!"
"Yes, your majesty?" the advisor's voice waivered.
The boy-king's nostrils flared and his red cheeks soaked with sweat. "Kill Sir Benton. Kill him! Kill him, kill him, KILL HIM."
Modern America is missing something, as movies I've watched recently have pointed out to me. In turning to airplanes as our favored form of transit between distant points, we have lost the extended prolonged traveling ritual of riding passenger trains, all full of dining cars and sleeping quarters.
In the last week, I have watched both The Thin Man and After the Thin Man. After solving the murders in each movie, protagonists Nick and Nora Charles hop on a train with the aggrieved, traveling in a fancy schmancy private car, either home or to parts unknown, sipping fine liquors.
Indeed, many of classic cinema's most memorable scenes take place on transcontinental train rides. A producer would have be hard-pressed to find a modern substitute for the train's sleeping compartments in Some Like It Hot. And where else could Preston Sturges have given us The Palm Beach Story's Ale and Quail club? Hotels and airplanes just won't cut it.
You may complain about the stagnation in mainstream American romantic comedy formula, but I can practically guarantee that you wouldn't if these romcoms featured train-based antics in their second acts.
And I'm not even touching the mystery angle.
But I'm no anachronist or xenonostalgic. In truth, the airplane is a better, quicker Spending days just to reach the other coast is impractical for our bicoastal power players, and life's probably too short to watch the plains of the Midwest slowly pass you by over and over again. The time of the national railroad culture is behind us, and with it has gone its contributions to popular entertainment. But that is the way of progress. One cannot forever mourn the passing of the comedic potential presented in, say, Roman aqueducts.
Just 13,648 realities over, my Alison is still alive. From all I can ascertain, that seems to be the only difference from my own reality. That reality's Alison never had cancer, never died while her husband slept, never left her husband all alone for these two years.
I am going to be with Alison. Life without her has been insufferable, and I can bear the quiet of this house no longer. Tonight, I shall use my brother's government credentials to enter the Reality Shifting Facility. I shall bring my gun, and take my side by my wife, even if I have to shoot my self in the face.
Every night when she got home, Aubrey would pull out the sheets of paper--hundreds of pages, connected at their edges by Scotch Tape--on which she calculated her happiness. Thousands of variables multiplied and divided, sqaured and subtracted preceded an equals sign which preced a value of 100,000. 100,000 was the nubmer that signified her optimal happiness, and she was working to solve for all the variables that came before it.
These variables represented all the myriad factors in Aubrey's life. Some were set in stone, like n1, which was her birth name. Aubrey had no intention of changing her name, so n3 carried the same value, as n1, though it might be changed, should it prove necessary.
So every night she sat in front of the coffee table in her bedroom, rearranging numbers and operations and little letters with numbers under them.
The difficulty of this long equation was not only that she didn't know the necessary values of the variables (and a hundred always changed each time she changed one), but she didn't know the proper formula to begin with. She was constantly rewriting sections of the equation, recognizing the flaws.
One night, Aubrey's roommate, Susan, observed Aubrey working on solving for g5 (the number of years of an undefined foreign language she should take in college).
"Oy gevalt," Aubrey moaned (she had until six months ago been a non-practicing Catholic, but had recently converted to Judaism per her conclusions on r16 and was injecting Yiddish vocabulary into her speech to smooth the transition--till the dictates of r19 would make her an atheist in 2014), "g5's in the wrong spot entirely!"
"Hey, Aub," Susan suggested, leaned up against a doorjamb, casually sipping a cup of tea, "what if you just plugged in all of the variables that sound best, and just go with whatever you end up with?"
"I've tried that, Susan!" Aubrey snapped, "and I end up with 79,846.43333 and on! Does that sound like 100,000 to you?!"
"Just a thought," Susan shrugged. "Don't gotta bit my head off about it."
Aubrey sighed. "Sorry I snapped, Susan. I just know I can get it perfect, and I can't stop till I do."
"Alright. I'll leave you to it, then."
"Thanks."
Susan walked away. Aubrey erased g5 from the equation, and began sifting through the pages, tattered from age and revision, and searched for where it belogned.
Love in the Time of Time Travel
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Andrea stayed Erik with an outstretched palm. He stood dumbly in the doorway. Though she was not three yards away, he desired to be by her side, to envelop her in his arms, to feel her warmth against his coldness. He did not know why immediately upon his long-awaited return she had insisted on sneaking into the Palace of Time, but he would have followed her anywhere. And here he found himself, standing at the gate of the Chronological Banishment Chamber.
"I have randomized the time and space coordinates to transport me to some unknown place on Earth between 100 million B.C. and 2300 A.D.," Andrea whispered. "I love you, Erik. With all my heart, I love you. But I must know that we are meant to be. So take two Time Mobility Vests, search, and come find me. I will have no way to return but for you. Then there can be no doubt."
"Wait!" Erik bolted forward, but it was too late.
"Till we meet again," Andrea smiled and slipped into the Chamber. An instant later, she was unknown hundreds, thousands, millions of years in the past and unknown thousands of miles away.
Erik broke into a government facility that night and began his long journey through time and space, looking for his love. He never found any trace of her, but until his dying day (September 14, 1638 AD, Jamestown, Virginia), he never gave up hope.
~Or, more aptly, Limited Liability Company espionage.~
The heat of the mid-morning Sun's rays reflected off the cement sidewalk, doubly warming the skins of six plainclothes, company spies, lined up behind the "Tacos Libertad" taco cart. Pacing in front of them was them was the owner of the taco cart, Alonzo Villareal, studiously turning over pages on a clipboard. At the taco cart was Alonzo's niece, Josie, hurrying to set out the condiments for the professionals that would soon be emerging from their high rises for early lunches.
At long last, Alonzo spoke. "Agent Vasquez scored big when he turned up El Magico Taco's 2008 tax return summaries. Good work, Vasquez. Just as I've suspected, their income-to-expense ratio is three times ours. Now that we've got some information on them, I want to redirect most of our intelligence efforts to them. I'm taking Hamilton and Gonzales off 3rd Street Tacos to join Vasquez on El Magico Taco."
"Yes, sir," Andrea Hamilton and Hector Gonzales responded in unison.
"Good. We'll do the regular monitoring routines. Gonzales, your primary responsibility is to make sure your two fellow agents are not found out, got it?"
"Yes sir," Gonzales nodded.
"Now if we don't turn up anything new today, I want to go deeper. So be prepared to get to their location tomorrow morning before they set up shop. Monitor their opening routine, watch them stock from their suppliers. Hamilton, I may want you to actually track their supplier. Got it?"
"Hey, Uncle Al," Josie shouted from the taco cart, "do you think maybe the reason you're spending so much money is because you're the only one paying for a full-time crew of half a dozen spies?"
This week's coordinated content theme is 'Penguins.' I've been fascinated with/slight fixated on penguins for years (I swear, though, before the advent of March of the Penguins). So I wanted to do something grand for today's post.
Alas, though, nothing specific came to me until Tuesday night, when I envisioned a short, furious action platformer game featuring a badass sword-wielding penguin. These things take more than the eight hours I could've scrapped together to work on it, though. Still, I did some pixel art of what the main character might end up looking like:
Though I'm thinking instead of a wacky pink sword, I might give him a goofy blue battle axe and call the game Penguin AXE Walrus. In the game, you will fight a walrus.
I also drew the following picture, which comes dangerously close to being dreaded Animal Lover Humor. But seriously. There's probably nothing cuter in the animal kingdom than little penguin chicks.
Awwwww.
Anyway, if there's a Coordinated Content canon, then let the post above this one be counted. This week, I had to go through quite the process, though.
The problem with your Greatest Day Ever is that you don't know when it's coming. It could be tomorrow. You won't recognize your Greatest Day Ever on that day. It may, now, have already come and gone. When you finally identify your Greatest Day Ever, you may find that you did not savor its memory or live the day itself to its fullest. You may find your future reminiscing may be incomplete and unsatisfactory, unable to properly conjure up the feelings you will try to recapture because you are missing information.
You may feel inclined to declare the Greatest Day Ever while you are living it. But if you do so, you will wonder if your life will indeed only produce days no better than this, and if so, what that means. You will find the flaws in the Greatest Day Ever and they will be devastating. If you spend this day you call the Greatest Day Ever is with a lover, then when you divorce, you will doubt that you can ever attain such happiness with any new lover.
The problem with knowing when your Greatest Day Ever will come is that when it finally arrives, your expectations will be so high, it can only disappoint. And if your Greatest Day Ever disappoints, how much hope can you have for the rest of the days of your life? That was the high point, the top. It is all downhill from here.
You may be familiar with Paolo Veronese's The Feast in the House of Levi, which began its existence as Lord's Last Supper, before the Inquisition's charges of heresy forced him to rename it. You may have also noticed the dog in the foreground, in front of Christ's table--
Look out! This is now a CONTROVERSIAL ART PROJECT!
The Unfulfilled Promise of Laundromats
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Society has broken a lot of its promises. When we were young, we knew that by the time we reached adulthood we'd all be aircar-driving secret agents who dug up dinosaur fossils on the weekends, wrote children's books on our commutes, and came home to perfect marriages. These big things just didn't pan out. Our society just doesn't have enough room to offer all of its best stuff to everyone.
So where's all my hot casual laundromat sex?
It's not the biggest promise society's broken to me, but nevertheless, I feel the sting every time I sit next to my baskets and end up reading a goddamned Thrifty Nickel. What's going on here? Laundromats and sex go together like peanut butter and jelly, ice cream and cake.
Here's how it's supposed to work: Aside from this anonymous woman and myself, complete strangers to each other, the laundromat is deserted. She spills a little liquid detergent on her blouse and decides she might as well wash it. I realize that, hey!, I actually need to wear the shirt I'm wearing some time next week, so I slip it off and into the washer. Naturally, having just partially disrobed in public, we're both feeling a little rowdy. Our eyes meet, we both sense that we want the same thing, and soon, we're outgyrating the washing machines. The drying cycles end, we put our clothes back on, and we say our good-byes, still giggling about our dirty little secret. Because what happens in the laundromat stays in the damned laundromat.
This has never happened. Nor have any of its dozens of variations.
I can't tell you exactly how or when society led me to expect some steamy, illicit encounter every time I bring in a load of darks, but the promise was made. A few years back, there was a Carl's Jr. commercial that suggested such a scenario, but I remember that building upon and strengthening already existent associations.
Turns out laundromats are kind of shitty places to meet people. They're loud and they have uncomfortable chairs that stand apart from each other. I've never even seen anyone strip off a garment to wash it.
When I exit the laundromat, I leave only with mountain fresh shirts and an unsatisfied desire that reminds me how rarely society comes through in the end.
For today's coordinated content, a collaborative project consisting of blog posts (mostly stories) composed by nearly a dozen personal friends, we are working under the banner of "poverty." The subject of poverty is one that troubles my heart greatly, as I sit in my apartment, sipping my evening tea. There are so many millions of human beings, no more or less valuable than myself, who suffer under conditions so dire and seemingly insurmountable, that I can only barely understand them.
It is in this reverent spirit of solidarity with my fellow man, that I have drawn this picture. It is my wish that those who see it may understand better the plight of their brothers and sisters. And maybe, perhaps, those who struggle through impoverished conditions may find themselves fortunate enough to see it, that they might take inspiration and hope from it.
Indeed, perhaps through such works as this and those by my fellow artists, we the more privileged might take some of their burden upon ourselves and lighten their yokes.
Four walls of tinted glass separate me from the rest of the world. From my leather throne, I can survey the world in all its dingy moral ruin. I can see the eyes of those who would scorn me, would persecute me. Though they may peer in, they may not recognize me, for here in my sanctuary of steel and iron, I am protected and appear to their wretched eyes only a dark shadow.
My hands rest on the wheel. Its mana infuses me with strength, energy, and peace. I look in the rear-view mirror. The eyes that return my steely stare are the only eyes that have ever seen my true self, for this is the only place I truly exist.
"Traffic school's every Wednesday and Friday at seven at City Hall," the police officer standing outside my window tells me. He returns to me my license and my registration, and with them is the citation I have received for the speed at which I live my life.
"Thank you, officer," I tell him and receive these pieces of paper into my sanctuary. As the police officer returns to his vehicle, my left hand rolls up the window and my right turns the volume knob on my car stereo.
You got me shakin', got me runnin' away You get me crawlin' up to you everyday
With a satisfyingly plush noise, the window's frame receives the glass and restores the division between myself and my seven billion antagonists.
Don't bring me down No no no no no
I turn the key in the ignition and I drive. When I arrive at my destination, I will be forced to leave my safe haven. When I return to that cesspit I call an apartment tonight, restlessly trying to sleep, this comfortable space will sit empty and cold beneath my floor.
I'll tell you once more, before I get off the floor Don't bring me down.
And within sixty days, I will attend two hours of goddamned traffic school with twenty strange and filthy zombies. But now, in this moment, the road moves swiftly under my feet; now I drive; now I am secure.
Don't bring me down--grroosss! Don't bring me down--grroosss! Don't bring me down--grroosss!
The world may even be able to stop my sanctuary, but so long as I am within it, I soar.
This week's coordinated content theme is "sanctuary." The story that I'm working on will be posted shortly, and it's about a car. Initially, however, I had wanted to do something involving Pu'uhonua o Honaunau, a site on the Kona side of the island of Hawai'i that I have visited several times and find myself continually fascinated with.
Photograph of the heiau at Pu'uhonua o Honaunau National Park. Summer 2002.
Up until the dissolution of the Hawai'ian religious and social order by Liholiho in the early 19th century, the Pu'uhonua o Honaunau, a sacred site containing the Hale O Keawe heiau, a Hawai'ian temple. The heiau contained the remains of past ali'i, chiefs, and their spiritual energy provided the Pu'uhonua with its special protections. This site provided a place of refuge and absolution for defeated warriors and noncombatants in battle, as well as those who had broken a kapu, an offense otherwise punishable by death.
Today, the site and its surrounding area are part of Pu'uhonua o Honaunau National Park. The sand that was once kapu to all but Hawai'ian royalty is now walked by tourists. Over a century after its destruction, the heiau was reconstructed along with other buildings in the style of ancient Hawai'i. It's a beautiful and curious place.
I'm working on an illustration which will be my "real" contribution to this week's coordinated content; it will be posted later this evening. The theme this week is superstition. However, I thought I would take this opportunity to post just about the most amazing thing that has ever happened on this planet. And it happened on Sesame Street.
(I swear I was planning to do this before Mr. Svensson posted his.)
The room service attendant was unable to mask his disgust at Glinda's twisted face, but he tried. Glinda, of course, had become accustomed to this reaction and had long ago given up hurt and resentment. Besides, she had Cecil now (Cecil was hers and she was Cecil's!), and as long as he accepted her, that was all that mattered in the world. Glinda smiled an invisible smile at the attendant and nodded her gratitude, "Thank you," she said and handed the boy a generous tip,.
"You're welcome," the attendant nodded politely wheeling the breakfast cart into her honeymoon suite. He averted his eyes from her face only to be even more repulsed by its attachment to a thin body wearing a loose-hanging robe.
The attendant exited. The sweet aroma of eggs and bacon began to fill the suite. This would be Glinda's first room service meal during her first stay at her first hotel on her first day as a married woman, and, she smiled, her first day as a woman. A weekend of so many firsts.
And she still basked in the feeling of what it first felt like to feel beautiful.
She examined her reflection in the silver serving dome. The image was distorted, but somehow looked more normal and attractive than she actually was. In reality, her face looked as if it had been pinched and smooshed to her right side, the corners of her mouth very nearly paralyzed. Both her forehead and her left cheek looked like wallpaper behind which was trapped three particularly pesky air bubbles. Still, she adjusted her hair and straightened her robe.
Glinda flung herself against her bed--their bed. Her mind raced with thoughts of pleasure, of passion, of love. Yet amidst the rosy frenzy of her mind, she felt peaceful and contented. What would she and Cecil do today? Perhaps they would feed each other breakfast naked, sensuous and slow. Perhaps they would not leave their bed until the sun set. Perhaps they would become so lost in each other's flesh that they would never return again.
Sounds from the bathroom indicated that Cecil would soon emerge. "My prince returns," she allowed herself to say with a giggle that tightened her face. She jutted out her bosom and assumed a sultry pose.
"Oh, well shit," Cecil said, his palms out at his side, "I can't believe it. I tried everything there is to try, you know. I kissed you--that didn't work. I said I loved you--that didn't work. I tried crying on you and you crying on me. I married you and that didn't even work!"
Glinda clutched her robe in her hands, tightening it against her naked body.
"Hell, last night I screwed you and you're still hideous! I've tried everything I can," he growled, rubbing his forehead. "Fuck this. I'm out." With that, he marched out of the honeymoon suite and out of her life.
The barn seemed as if it might collapse at the mere suggestion of a breeze. Its old wood was dark and rotted. One of the far corners of the structure sunk nearly a foot into the dirt and a tree leaned on its roof. "We can't go in there," said Eleanor, stopping at the mouth of the clearing, "it's barely standing as it is." At twelve years old, Eleanor was more practical than most girls her age.
Evan--or was his name Ivan?--halted in his tracks. He glanced at the barn and then back at Eleanor. His eyes were soft and gray, the pupils large and deep. When he raised his brow and turned up his lips, they conveyed a warmth that Eleanor found almost intoxicating. A small laugh escaped his mouth as he said in a most comforting voice, "Oh, of course. We have no need to go in there. What I have to show you is round back," he reached out his hand and Eleanor took it without thinking.
As they crossed the clearing toward the barn, Eleanor considered this place, this unnamed thing that she was to be shown. Strange that Evan--Ethan, perhaps?--should know of such a place. She had lived her entire life in the valley without hearing of anything of note out in these woods. Yet this boy, who had arrived in town so recently, had found something exciting so quickly. How long had it been since he first stepped into her father's store? A week? Five days? She recounted the events since they had first met.
This morning! Eleanor became acutely aware of the strange power the boy seemed to hold over her. So quick she was to abandon her chores! So hasty to run off into the woods with a boy whose name she could not remember! This boy, whose origins were as unknown as his age. Still, she walked with him, and again became aware of her hand in his.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"What age would you wish me to be?" he smiled, glancing at her. Though cryptic and strange, his answer was sweet music to her ears.
At last they arrived behind the barn. "Stand still," he instructed, his voice betraying a playful eagerness.
"Should I close my eyes?" Eleanor asked.
"No, no. Just you watch," he said, letting loose her hand. This patch of ground behind the barn was damp and covered in the shade of the trees above. The boy stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the area, as if surmising which direction might be North. "Aha," he proclaimed. "Come, come."
Eleanor joined him at the base of a tree. "Put your hands on the tree, Eleanor," he instructed, "help me push."
Their two pairs of hands rested on the live trunk of the tree. Their pinkies touched. They pushed the tree in unison and it came crashing to the ground with a loud thud that silenced all other noise in the woods. Eleanor jumped back, surprised that the tree had been so feeble. "Be not afraid," the boy said. Eleanor looked down.
Where the tree had been standing was a smooth patch of dry dirt. Eleanor began to say something, but lost her words as the dirt began to shift and wave. After a moment of churning, the dirt fell into itself and revealed a hole from which an unfathomably bright light shone.
"Be not afraid," the boy repeated. His hand held her. He led her into the hole.
The light was white, blue, pink, green, white. It surrounded her and enshrouded her. Her arms, her legs--they were the only objects she could see and she could see them clear as day.
"Evan? Ethan? Ivan? Avon?" she cried, "where are you?"
"I am here," he said. He appeared before her as if he had always been, standing unnoticed by Eleanor's frantic eyes.
"What is this place?" she demanded.
"This," he gestured with his wrist, "is Eifen Deifeiffen."
"Eifen Deifeiffen?"
"Eifen Deifeiffen is the world that came before yours and will return after. It is where you are from and where you must go."
The light of Eifen Deifeiffen made a noise that filled Eleanor's ears. "Why have you brought me here?" she asked above the noise.
"Because it is Eifen Deifeiffen. And to it you must be brought."
Eifen Deifeiffen was pressing against Eleanor's skin, was heavy inside her. "Who are you?" she demanded.
"I am Eifen Deifeiffen," he said, his voice no different from before.
"And who am I?"
"You are Eleanor," Eifen Deifeiffen smiled. "But you are also Eifen Deifeiffen."
Eleanor could taste Eifen Deifeiffen on her tongue, down her throat.
Eifen Deifeiffen spoke again. "Eifen Deifeiffen is home."
"Then will I die here in Eifen Deifeiffen?" she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks. Eifen Deifeiffen raged in her nostrils and flowed through her being. Her tears became Eifen Deifeiffen.
"No," he smiled. "You cannot die in Eifen Deifeiffen," he reached out a hand. Without meaning to, Eleanor took the hand of Eifen Deifeiffen.
The sounds of birds came from deep within the woods. The sunlight shone on her hand. Eleanor's shoes sunk discretely into the thick, brown mud. She was alone with the two words on her tongue.
Eleanor slowly walked away from the barn, its sad rotted boards bowed with age. She passed again through the mouth of the clearing, into the woods, toward the village in the valley. She would return home to her father's store.
In the darkness, the assemblage of Hebrews watched the flashing lights with great interest. The strange and jaunty sounds filled their ears and faded into silence. The display over, they shifted in their seats, murmuring amongst themselves. Was the plea they had heard good and just? Or was it as dark and sinister as the heart of Pharaoh? Their eyes all shifted to their leader, whose furrowed brow signaled deep thought and prayer.
Moses whispered something into his brother's ear and stood up, casting his eyes about the throng always with him. Once the prophet was on his feet, Aaron stood up next to him, his stature, as always, purposeful and commanding. The Hebrews hushed in anticipation.
Aaron raised his hands. "Children of Israel, followers of the one true God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, mine brother Moses has spoken, and in accordance with the will of the Lord they God," he paused dramatically. "Let us all go the lobby, where we shall get ourselves some treats!"
And thus the Hebrews departed en masse for the lobby.
King Arthur at a Modern New York Clothier
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Has this scene been in a movie yet? It pretty much has to have. If it hasn't, it's surely inevitable that it will be. King Arthur gets a lot of time traveling visitors; it's about time he did some journeying of his own.
______________ This post is another in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with a post from William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. Starting this week, John Allred of clol Town is participating as well, with more bloggers expected to join us on January 8th. This week's theme: 'King Arthur'.
Jacob's bedroom is always filled with humming and blinking and whirring and noise. Every night, he falls asleep watching the television at low volume, the whine of the screen almost surpassing the dull sound of human voices selling him vacuum parts. The windows are left open, letting in the roars of passing cars and the yelps of cats in heat. His desktop computer stands by the television, running all night, rumbling louder and louder as it gets older. While he sleeps, it downloads music or porn, but most often simply waits for Jacob to check his email first thing in the morning. Sometimes, he even leaves the radio on, tuned to static.
His friends look at him like he's a little crazy when he tells them about his sleeping habits, and his flatmate has demanded that Jacob pay for a full two-thirds of the electricity bill. Jacob can't tell you when he started sleeping this way, but as time and technology and money have given him more gadgets to keep in his quarters, they have filled his nights with an obscene amount of noise.
Lately, Jacob has not been sleeping very well. Perhaps it was the mattress, perhaps it was anxiety about his love life and his grades, perhaps it was his diet. Or, as a coworker suggested earlier in the day, perhaps it was all the damned noise.
Tonight, Jacob will achieve silence. He turns off the television. He shuts down his computer. He unplugs his video game consoles to shut out even the red LEDs on their faces. It's Autumn, so he turns off the central air. He shuts the windows tight, hushing the crickets. At last, the only sounds Jacob can hear are the sound of his own breathing and the humming of the incandescent lamp above his head. He switches that off.
Silence.
Jacob jumps underneath the covers, eager to take in what promises to be the most peaceful, refreshing night of sleep since he was an infant. Pulling the covers tight, he wonders why he didn't make this change years ago.
The darkness speaks to him, "Hello, Jake. It's your demons again. Long time no talk."
Jacob grabs for the remote control and switches the TV on.
______________ This post is another in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with a post from William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'silence'.
______________ This post is another in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with a post from William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'metaphysics'.
___________ This is another entry in a weekly series of posts linked by common theme or image with posts by William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. The form these posts take is at the discretion of the individual blogger. Our common theme this week is 'impending doom'.
What Lies in the Mirror
Thursday, December 4, 2008
___________ This post the third entry in a weekly series of posts linked by motif with posts by William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. Starting this week, this feature will appear on Thursdays. Each week's posts may vary in form, but our posts will share a coordinated theme, image, or object. This week's motif is 'mirrors'.
___________ This post is an entry in a continuing series of coordinated content linked with William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme is 'chain-link fences'. Next week, this feature will move to Thursday evenings.
Sun Wukong and the Peaches
Friday, November 21, 2008
Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, the self-proclaimed Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the Earthbound rabble-rouser born of stone, had at long last been accepted into Heaven, though Jade Emperor had primarily done so to make him easier to maintain. Ultimately, he was given the charge of maintaining the Heavenly Gardens. Still, the gods found him intolerable, and he found most of the gods insufferable. When he found himself excluded from a well-attended heavenly banquet, he rebelled. He devoured Xi Wangmu's Peaches of Immortality which he had been tasked with protecting, became immortal, and returned to Earth where he would defeat the forces of Heaven.
If you're unfamiliar with Sun Wukong, one of the great comic characters of world literature, you owe it to yourself to read Wu Cheng'En's 16th century novel Journey to the West. I recommend Arthur Waley's lively translation, Monkey. For an interesting new twist on the character, read Gene Yang's American Born Chinese. And I can never recommend Jeff Lau and Stephen Chow's loose adaptation A Chinese Odyssey enough.
_____________________ This post is the first in a series of coordinated content posts with William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. Each Friday we will determine a them that will be featured in our updates. The updates may take any form we choose, be it essay, drawing, or scientific experiment. This week's theme is "peaches."
John D. Moore
Filmmaker, writer, cartoonist, and designer living in Salt Lake City, Utah. Whatnot Studios is updated daily with cartoons, musings, stories, and project updates.
