Sunday, December 23, 2012

Mysterious Evaporation of Entire Day

"It is a leap year, Holmes, it is a leap year!" entered Watson, totally kerfuffling the neat arrangement of tools that had been placed in order to properly annotate note-taklng days.

"When did you first realize this? 2008?" said Holmes. "Or are we, my dear Watson, somehow magically in the future?"

Watson had been full of vim and vigor up to that point. He had been heated. He had been almost ready to explode, like a damned blimp -- now suddenly everything had become very, very cold.

"There is no reason to insult my intelligence like that, Holmes," said Watson, sucking in some chilly evening air. "I was only trying to set up what was going to be a very funny and elaborate joke."

A cackle was returned.

"But now that I see you don't genuinely appreciate my camaraderie, you will never know."

Another chilly cackle was returned, and then he, Holmes rose from a corner -- or at least what would be a corner if you were wearing 3D-heroin-glasses. "Someone has gone and lost a whole bloody day, haven't they?" he said.

"You have read it all in the news, then," said Watson. "I -- I had thought I would be the first to tell you."

"The news, Watson, is something written by a gaggle of news coveragists. Anybody can 'write the news'. It is an ambition for a two-year old. This, my good boy, is pure intelligence."

"I am going home, Holmes," said Watson, turning away. But then he stopped, and added, "I have waited years to actually have the foundation to say that, but now I am gratified, that Holmes -- I am going home."

Holmes shuffled some papers with his feet and pulled out the night's edition. "As I suspected all along, a whole day has gone missing. The big question now is where did it go?"

Of course Watson wasn't going home. Where would he go? He was a tertiary character at best, a rotund over-fed product of endless insipid wars at worst. "He is saying he has no memory whatsoever, and now he is making the bold claim that he is uncertain as to whether most people (you or I) are in fact legitimate consciousnesses at all. His case is very persuasive," said Watson.

Holmes peered out of his window at the matte quality of a brick in the wall of a distant building. "His type of cases are always very persuasive, Watson. Do you know what I really want to see, however?"

"There is something to see?"

"Even if you have no eyes through which to see, Watson," said Holmes, "you can see with the ears. Or the nose. Or of course the flesh. You can even see with your tongue, like a snake."

"Why, you venomous swine," rallied Watson. "Come Holmes, come out of it. Come out of all this drudgery and mish-mash of a life, and let us venture forth to discover how exactly an entire day can just ... disappear."

"Evaporate ..." mused Holmes to himself as he was slowly led out into the open world.

+Arthur Conan Doyle

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Design Patterns

The most basic patterns, called Tessellations, are based on repetition and periodicity.

Tessellations are most basic when repeated and periodically exercised.

A large tessellation wounded me, repeatedly inflicting pain over a periodical basis.

Wonderful tessellated *and tessellating* joy shall rain over you, Noah, in due courses.

Happiness is is oft mistaken for a blasé demeanour, just as blasé demeanours are a mean way to criticize methodical enjoyments of happiness.

"Am I slowly going nuts?"

"Very slowly."

On a two-pronged approach, in a flight simulator, avoid the path that is hell. Land, instead, on that small area in the patch of the mountains.

Landing gear down. No not up! Down.

Just lower it. Let any self-smugglers drop off like crispy critters. Now, align with the runway.


You have a few hundred people riding on your back, no pressure.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Ideal Coolants

In the space between the penguin and tundra-- 
a passive, convective type of cool-- 
much fun was absorbed by attempting to overheat. 

No fans necessary (hence 'passive'), 
no distractions from the ultimate goal(s). 
Just pure fun with the sun.

A type of...migration began to occur. 
A holy migration, because that's what people kept saying 
"Holy 7#i$ holy 7#47".

During a particularly complicated launching procedure 
brought about by fruits and fruition, thoughts+thinkation, 
one person felt what it must be like to be truly alone

as she drove her blazing car into a ripe zone.

Conversely, imagine what it must be like to have to actually
change the way your own cells work, how they're organized,
how data flows through them, and in what topography.

So much so that the more sophisticated 
or higher yielding coolants could be used directly 
instead of through some sorts of electrical device. 

You just drink the coolant straight up.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Just before...

I make sure that nobody will be able to exploit 
what I have done. 

I triangulate. 
Maybe it needs to be a trapezium. 
I'm not the one who is controlling that. 

I just control the plane. 
I make sure the landing gear is deployed. 
Then sail smoothly into the fog. 

Sometimes it is as scary as hell  
But I keep a calm and open mind. 
I tell myself that it's going to be okay.

There is an uncanny tint.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Greedier in the Feed Machine

Being written, over a measured period. May 14 - May 31 (2012)

And clearly wasn't. Now being written over some other...measures. Antecedent is here.


When the snake first heard this ruffling, sort of  papery sound, it had thought, "Oh there goes another mouse." It just snuck its head back to its important work (the underbelly), and ignored said rodent.

Some snakes like to crawl very carefully, so it is important to them the disposition of their bellies, cute as that disposition might be. They move slowly, slowly feeling the earth upon which they are moving, hearing the sounds of the forest or jungle. They have a favourite tree or two that they like to sit next to, and they know when or where any big storms will come.

This is a survival mechanic. Once you don't know the position of the big storms, you're pretty much dead. Not much sympathy. There are other snakes, little tiny thin and green ones that can just dart around, biting your face, but we are talking about a huge snake here. Massive in both mass and size.

This snake can afford to let little mice go.

But it wasn't a mouse that had ruffled its feathers (Yes, feathers), was it? Wasn't a little whiskered and whiskeyed furry little brown fellow poking and sniffing where he shouldn't, running its life away in pure nervousness. It didn't have that vibration, that mischief--that je sais quoi, mais...

No, this time it was a chick. It was tapping away, over its skin. The snake slowly uncurled its head. Not that this was a cobra, oh no. No embarrassing flaps. Just the size of the whole snake meant that it had to wait, reposition, wait, reposition, etc. etc.

But it finally saw the chick. Yellow, fluffy. There was a duck once, too, similarly yellow, fluffy, but that one turned out to be a huge mistake. The type of snake we are talking about cannot afford to make two mistakes. So, the snake watched the chick for a long, long time, as it pecked and twittered around.


Tweed was having a very hard time explaining to the prostitute why he couldn't bring himself to be fellated by her, when she mentioned something that gave him pause. She had said, "Well then, let me slip into something a little..." and her voice had trailed off (for him), just like that.

She could see that he was suddenly under a lot of stress. "How long have you been living like this?" asked Berlyn.

"Oh," said Tweed, rubbing thumbs together, "it's been about two years."

"You must have family," she tried. "Friends?"

But Tweed only shot straight out of the room, down the stairs and over the turnstile at the station entrance. She was a little pissed off, honestly, as she watched his receding performance from her window, but when she finally turned away and saw what he had left for her, she realized that in fact, Tweed was just a very kind man, who maybe didn't fully know how to take a rest, or relax.

Tweed, already miles away, carefully considered his visage on on the cheap plastic of the train seat. It hadn't just been two years. For him, it had been thousands of years. That is what happens when someone you considered a good friend starts slipping in and out of people. They had called Williams a psychopath, but Tweed wasn't sure.

He hadn't exactly killed anyone yet.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Sonic Bloom!

Sudden heat, spores
allergies of affection.
Pollen don't want but
immediately, crabs.

The gentle milk streaming.
Finally landing the plane propeller-ly.
Twelve other indignant boy-racers.
Just two girls.

Oh wait. Twelve women.
Sixteen. Twenty-five.

Infinite women. All, of them. All of them!

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Crying Dude in Computer Lab

"*Invents amazing new tech where, if you scan a dvd you own into the camera, the movie suddenly starts to begin.* #wastingtimewithdiscs"

I then added, "If you scan a dvd you don't own, it plays a recording of your birth"

Satisfied, I rose and scanned the computer lab. There he was again. This guy that spent way too much time there. But this time, he was crying. He was staring into the monitor, and tears were coming from his face.

Being an investigator of all things, I approached this human, and asked, "You ok, man?"

I mean, something must have happened, right? "Did your gf just break up with you, online?" I asked. I tried to apply humor: "Heh. Maybe she faxed it to you, eh?"

He didn't even seem to see me. Something had happened that was visually depicted to him on the monitor that I was not privy to. A new set of tears drained down his rosy cheeks, and now, he even sniffled a little.

"What? Did you just learn your mother died, or something?" I touched him with my left boot. "You alright?," I asked. "What are you fucking crying about?"

No response.

"Just, cause, like, I have to spend a lot of time in this computer lab. I don't want your tears gradually causing a biological hazard that could injure my person."

Nothing. No response.

"Can I do something for you, to make you stop the crying?" I asked. Incentives are always motivational.

Then something unexpected happened. Something unforseen. The man turned his head to me, and, with a little sniff, asked, "Yes. Can you get me a cola?" Then he turned his head back to the monitor, and continued with his weeping.

Right. Sure. I had been meaning to go to the vending machine anyway.

Heart Feel

Bad things happened last night. I issue, now, a public apology, which can be only so heartfelt.

My hope in doing this is that this will be the end of it.

What is "it", you ask?

I don't know whether to tell you plainly, or to somehow butter you up first. Or to just lie. An event of such magnitude could only be felt in the bone, not in flesh or the vagaries of little neurons travelling in such mushy topic as the biological brain.

But know that it was felt through these pathways too. And after we switched off all the lasers, the quantum drives and all the special-eject-seats, we experienced a short moment of it.

That is all I will say. Good morning.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Petrol Breath

Had the nozzle in fuel tank
to sink a few timezones.
Would take a little time so
lit a cigarette up.

Plastic melted onto scalp,
gashes round the elbows,
I asked the little store ma'am
where the vaseline was.

She didn't say, but was staring at me in a way that guaranteed we had communicated.
This was when I began believing in telepathy, as the explosion had blown my lips clear off.

"Where's the damn vaseline,
little gas station store ma'am?"
My pants were lighting on fire,
my nipples dripping petrol on it.

If you saw the CCTV footage of that afternoon, you'd see my apparition jogging
haphazardly around the chips and candy aisle, searching wildly for any sign of pharmaceuticals or skin care.

She reached under the register
pulled out her eight-gauge.
Pointed at me, then pulled,
blowing my brains out.

Sticky gobs of burning napalm
with tiny splinters of my skull
flew as my body did a little dance,
all over the back wall.

Suddenly the store was all explosions. Little ma'am ran out, screaming.
A jar of vaseline rolled uselessly to my foot, and from above, a stray tic-tac landed into my torn open throat.

It didn't help much with the petrol breath.

Clear The Years

Can't hear anything.
My years are full up.
34 years not a bad amount.

My mother used to poke sharp instruments,
say, a hairpin or (during daring missions) a wood toothpick
to tickle my auditory canal
and 'clean' me.

This has become only a most obvious message
about how I am supposed to exist and operate.

There is something deep in there.

Thank you, mother. What else was there before?

Monday, January 23, 2012

La Maison Impossible

(Partie 4, Protocole Fantôme)

"Ahem, sorry. Actually going to be a party for six, actually," he said. There was the sound of velvet rustling in the background, and he coughed again. "Ahem, hem. Sorry again. Looks like it could be twelve."

"Pour douze!"

Then there was a lot of shouting into the phone and a struggle to take control of the receiver. Shortly thereafter, he returned, and breathed heavily: "Party for these all these haughty pricks now. Looks like we'll need room for the whole damn team." Then he put down the phone.

Back at the maison, they were scrambling "Dix-huit, imbeciles, dix-huit!"

"Pourquoi sont-ils faire la fête, monsieur?" asked one of the young children.

The chef took the child and put it in the oven.

DHCP Release. DHCP Renew. Shit is like yoga or something.

"Oh, don't mind me," he said. "Just poking fun at my router's abysmal 'web interface'."

She turned back to her door and inserted her key.

"Because that's what I have to spend my fucking life doing," he went on, getting up. He kicked a blue plastic device hardly with his foot, making it roll against the wall twice. "Cajole a fucking router," he said, holding his right foot to in both hands now. The toe was pushed deep into his belly, and, wincing, he hopped back into his apartment.

She turned the key, opened her door, and entered her beautiful sauna equipped satin pleasure dome.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Pricks and Pones

When the judge called for the defendant to be brought in, a curtain of gasps and whispers from both sides of the aisle preceded him.

Detective Stoole turned to see what the all the commotion was about, and nearly spat his tongue out when he saw the defendant's face. The man was black and blue all over his head, the left eyelid swollen and hanging over his cheek like the top of a soggy portobello mushroom. His jaw was veered to the right, and as he creaked his mouth open painfully with each step, the Detective could see he was even missing a few teeth. A prison guard had to hold the man steady as he walked up the courtroom to his attorney.

Stoole, mouth still wide open, spun to look at Warden Billingsley, who was standing just a few rows down from him. Billingsley raised his eyebrows and smiled widely back at him, and then conspiratorially rubbed his nose. Detective Stoole held his hands out, palms up, and mouthed something at him.

The Warden's smile didn't fade, but he mouthed back, "What?"

Detective Stoole walked down swiftly and stood next to the Warden. "What the hell have you done to him?" he asked, quickly but hushed.

The Warden couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh from deep in his belly. "Ah, don't worry, Detective, none of it will come bite us."

The Detective looked at him still puzzled. "But--why? What did you have to beat him up like that for?"

At this, the smile on the Warden's face turned into an annoyed frown. "Damn pervert, Stoole. He got what was comin'. Come, this isn't the first time you've seen this. I mean--what if it was your child, huh? It's a good thing you caught him, too. But you should know all that--you're the one who charged him."

Detective Stoole was utterly confused. What the hell was Billingsley talking about? "But it--it wasn't that bad," he whispered.

"Uh, I think," snorted Billingsley, "I think I know what's bad, and what's just utterly sick, Mr. Detective," he said, tapping a wad of paper that was folded in his pocket. It was a copy of the arresting charge that Stoole had filed.

Stoole snatched the document from the Warden's pocket and unfolded it quickly. He scanned through the details, and then he grew very still. "Oh shit," he said, "oh shit, oh shit".

Warden Billingsley peered back at him. "What?"

Stoole looked back. "The charge. It was supposed to be 'Downloaded porn illegally'," he said, "not 'Downloaded illegal porn'".

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Shadow Fax

The modem is able to whistle certain tunes.
One of them begins as a call to ShadowFax,
(who, without digging for the Silmarillion, but maybe quick Google-ing)
is the Lord of the mearas.

ShadowFax *happens upon* Arod and Hasufel, almost by accident.
Then returns to those who truly care for the horses.

It is a very natural and *real* world.
A world well left untouched by my virtual hands.
A fantasy with heart, fermented during those most depraved of days
when Squires would see their Arms in lakes
and lakes would see Arms gaze at their Squires

...what other madness could provoke a man to write?
but love or love, or love, my love?


Can't say I'll go through what Tolkein
did but then, so much was left unsaid.
Can't hope to mimick Sir Terry Pratchett,
unless it is to ape Rincewind.
Rowling, though I've only watched your movies
not out of shun, but due to time:
can see why readers young and old love you.
Can't hope to write that wizard's life.


In small fiddling with fires of revolution
where plastics may singe arms but wires

wherever you try to fit the best possible signals
or die teeth cracked and lips some cobalt,
I'll speak of the immense magic of evolution;
it was never your father's or mother's fault.

With gusts in rivers lined in moss
or cool blood of a newly eaten reptile,
could be swimming with Kurzweil or laser sharks


No. Not sharks with lasers on their heads,
Sharks made of lasers, that's Shadoo0FX.

Whistle now.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

What was Supposed to be a Soothing and Nurturing Persona Has Become a 24-hour Abuse Line


"No, I didn't call you."

"Yes, you did. You called to see whether I was going to say cool things, like back in the day."

He correlated. "Well then," he asked. "Are you?"

"Bitch who fuck do you think this is, your mom?"

"Mmm. Actually you are my mom."

"I just want you to stop drinking all the alchhols"

"Of course you do."

"Maybe now you can switch to the *third* person."

"Maybe I'm actually winning in Zelda -- did you ever think about that?"

"Shut up and stop drinking."

"Is this how you create terrorists?"

"Oooo. Wait What are you saying?"

"Your voice sounds all husky, like Colonel Gaddaffi."

"Shut up. I'm not the colonel!"

"You're the kernel":