Friday, September 16, 2016

Sometimes I Wake Up and I'm Only A Leg

Then there are the nights when I wake up at 3am and I'm just a leg. I am my leg, but just the leg, and nothing else.

"But what does that even mean? Just a leg? Is there a thigh? A knee? A lower leg? Any hips?"

No hips.

"Why is it always so dark with you?"

I'm a leg. I don't come with eyes.

"Well, one time, I--"

Yeah, no. I don't want to hear that.


Nobody spoke for at least nine million years. Then someone asked:

How is it coming along?

"Still researching inverse kinematics, why don't you sit down and relax a little, Anxious? Make use of that fine pulmonary system you have flowing there."



It's just. Just you'll never know that I am only a pair of lungs. Floating in mid-air.

Also, nobody knew that inside human legs, there is a very secret and very long middle finger.

Saturday, September 3, 2016

There is Absolutely No Reason to Feel Bad

I know it is a bold statement. And I am in high horses.
I can't fix everything for you, but know that when you hurt
I receive the tear (as in paper) in my eardrums.

I recognize that things aren't so optimal with you.
You sing these songs when things aren't great,
these beautiful things in my presence, sending

my brain scattering.

I think the best of life, in all its permutations.
Think. Actively. Not just contemplate but manifest
thought to light, and sound, inscription
There is absolutely No Reason to Feel bad

The cynics among you are already ganging up on me,
because your flesh is heating up due to this being Pompeii
in your imagination. (If you are reading this you're aren't in Pompeii)
brains just scattering all over the place

everyone must register and affirm existence.

seance end ;)

Thursday, August 4, 2016

My Vision Is Star Stuff

I apologize in advance for all the spelling and grammatical errors. It was a long post, written fairly quickly.

I promise I'm not stealing this from J.M. Straczynski (learn, small children, learn: ( *Even before* yesterday's devastating post (, I was walking around, feeling a little bit like I might fall off at any time. This has been occurring for a couple of weeks now.
It's like, a strange weakness in the legs. Legs are fine, body is fine, but brain is worried about HP on the legs.

Unlike JMS, I I think I may have found my solution, though. See, I already knew that it was a kind of vision problem. A doctor had already warned me that in latter years, my vision could become an issue. Except, JMS is almost 90 (how else could he have been there when I was a child?), and I'm, like, barely 38.

The doctor (an ophthalmologist), had mentioned that I should start wearing sunglasses now, to prevent future disaster. She recommended some of the sunglasses available nearby. They were even in the same store.

Being wise for my age, I declined. "I haven't worn sunglasses since I was a teenager," I told her. "Not only do I lose sunglasses so easily to the point where they become pointless, but it was then that I realized I did not need such accoutrement in order to look cool.

I'm too cool to wear sunglasses," I said to this woman. Would it have made a difference if the ophthalmologist was a man? No. It's just that I'm too cool.

"You've become old," she replied. "Not as cool anymore. Trust me, wear them."

Today I was feeling the worst of not listening to advice. It *is* a vision problem. My brain *is* getting fucked by the sunlight due to my fucked up eyes. Then I came up with a solution.

I began walking around like the worst possible asshole in the universe. Seriously, I was walking around pretending I was Larry David. I began to imagine I was Larry David, walking around with round ass sunglasses. Now, if you saw me, you'd never see the resemblance. I mean--I have an ex-girlfriend who kind of looked like Larry David when she put on her sunglasses. But me? Nah. Totally not Larry David.

But I was. I was a total cynic at the entire world around me. I watched and observed everything:

"Why do we need 10 more Indian people on the street, these days? Does my presence not sufficiently cover the entire spectrum?"

"Is this what they call legs in New York, these days?"

"Do we really need more construction? What the fuck are these people installing? Some decent Internet for a change?

Seriously, why don't you take your fucking shitty big little drill and fuck off, unless you are installing real infrastructure."

"Who the fuck needs the Chelsea Hotel to be that shitty red?"

"The Sun is shit too. Better get the Hayden Planetarium et al. to update their program to reflect reality."

I was doing a quip per foot. And just like that I was okay. I was totally fine. I didn't feel like I was going to fall down.

"My legs don't need HP when they have full MP!"

It wasn't intense. It wasn't going to give me a heart attack. It was easy. It was always so easy to be a cynical little shit, that I had left it off when I was a teenager.

"I don't need fucking sunglasses. Because I can just *imagine* them", I laughed, later, at my eyes. I think they're still worried, though. "Forget watching the Cursed Child in the theater next year, fellas," I like to tease them, "we're going to be watching Braille". "Inspector Morse Code".

My eyes are like, "Please, please, please tell this motherfucker he's not a teenager anymore."

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Seven And Se7en

"I thought you were NEO! It's not adding up!"

"I gave you those sweet white rabbit sweets, where you can eat the wrapping paper."

"Well, I have a new boyfriend, now, and I don't need your sweets anymore. Can you leave me a lone?"

"Twenty-six fifty?"

"That'll cover it."

And that's how I decided I would join the police department of New York City. They figured I would end up dead in some kind of penitentiary or something. After having shot someone point blank in the head for making an arrangement with UPS.

"Why aren't there any true detectives around?" asks a woman who has misplaced her child at the pretzel vendor.

I give her a pretzel and suddenly she walks away, happily. Like my detective coat means nothing. I *was* the pretzel guy. Her child looks up at me, concerned about the receding apparition of her mom.

"I think she's teasing you," I tell the baby, and pick her up. We walk fast across tourists, and return the child to the mother. Nothing special. Matter of fact. Expected. Mothers don't lose children in Times Square. It doesn't happen.

I watch them walk into the stars, together.


My coat shatters. I feel that I am not a true detective.

An Anime Idea, Part 10

As they walked into the blue darkness, where streetlights would light up everytime they came near. They had been discussing about their families, and the different sources of their powers.

"That woman over there," nodded Kurimusoda, towards a woman wearing a very short skirt and pulsing under one of these ethereal lights. "Don't you think we should try to help her?"

"I am here. You are *holding my hand*!" said Arata. "Avert your eyes!"

"I just mean that I can feel her pain," said Kuri. "Why should a prostitute not be given attention to?"


As she led him into the city center, the tarmac was turning into sand and mud, and he could feel her leading him into it. He felt that her hand was getting more wriggely. Like she may be having serious doubts hold his hand anymore. They were walking into a thick jungle, together.

"You're driving me insane," said Kuri to Arata. "I don't know how long I will be able to resist not simply holding your hand, at this entrance to the Shrine."

Arata poked him in the ribs and scolded his ankles. "Do you see the trail lines furrowed to such fine precision, for the hermit crabs?" she said to him.

The moon was pretty round tonight.

"Yes, I do," said Kuri. She was wearing such great shoes, he had to have her there, under the moon.

"This is your friend, Akira's house," said Arata, and suddenly she was riding a beast motorcycle too, and she rode it into the air.

The waves started to come into Kuri's ears, so he collapsed in the sand next to the hermit crab, and pulled out a cigarette. He had not been prepared about sea-shore ornaments manifesting themselves in a lush tropical jungle.

Anyway. Like he was ever going to drive a motorcycle that was that cool.

Saturday, July 9, 2016

An Anime Idea, Parts 8 & 9

Part 8

"I don't know if you're ready, yet, y'know, Kuri?" said Arata, stroking the young man's head that appeared entirely dazed upon her lap. She was wearing her favorite skirt, a floral pattern she had seen in the night markets that intimated at her about space--as in 'space, and the universe out there'.

"Whaddya mean not ready yet?" asked Kuri, some of his eyes rolling aft, others very stern.

She laughed. "You don't even know anything about sailing, or ships, right now, do you?

No, what I mean is that you seem like a man who is sometimes very rich and textured, and fruitful with his intent and direction. Other times you are like a canoe. Wish-washy."

His head sank lower into her lap.

"I think you just need a little more soda." She poured a bottle of Pepsi over his face.

Pepsi-face sat up suddenly, and moved an inch from her.

They both sat in the dimness afforded by the poor bulb, with their heads between their knees. She, orange and reddish hints surrounding her form, and he with blue soda dripping down off his face.


"I-I have always known where the pain comes from," said Kuri. "It's when someone from my family is hurting. Then I know who and what it is, and how to stop it."

She nodded. "That's what happens to me too. But lately, even though we have transitioned into the summer," she said, and a firefly sat upon her shoulder, "and everyone I care about is healthy, fit and fine, I have been undergoing these shrouds of sadness and fear."

He tested whether he could lean against her, and she allowed him to. Their heads drew close.

"You smell like soda made of coca cola," she giggled at him.

"You're like a very tangy marmalade," he ventured with his lips.

Suddenly someone drove a very futuristic looking motorcycle into Arata's apartment, and skidded right against their face.

"Save the romance for a time when you have enough alcohol!" screamed the rider. "My name is Akira, and my mother is dying you slackers!"

Part 9

"I'm sorry that you feel putting a vinyl along the side of your moped that reads 'fU turistik' makes you feel that your vehicle is very futuristic, and allowed to crash through a wall into the apartment of a citizen," said Kuri. "And that you are offending the tourism industry of Chile with it."

Arata got up and went to her fridge. She came back with a bottle of whiskey for Kuri, and one for herself too.

"Come on guys, aren't you even excited to learn about how I know you feel other peoples' pain? And that I may have a idea as to why Dr. Chesterfield knows you experience it? And how you aren't imagining everything?" said Akira.

The couple murmured between sips and kisses of whiskey. "MMmmm...mmm..tongue tongue...lemme...tongue...guess...i twist here, you twist...your...slushie lip, dripping somehow...your hair feels amazing in my blame?"

"You have let me down," said Akira, and he drove home a little less excitedly than he had entered. Somewhere in the all the noise, they heard his scooter slowly putt-putt-putt away into the city.

Eight minutes later they both dressed into their respective clothes.

The light in her apartment went out, and in the darkness he said, "It was, erm..."

"Painful?" she finished for him.

He nodded sheepishly. "I wish it would have been, you know--without the thought of Akira's mom on her deathbed. I mean. Not even just the thought of her. Her actual dying feelings. I lost my grandfather this way, too, you know?"

"I'm not interested about how your cherry popped, Kuri," said Arata.

"What I mean is, that is how I found out about my unusual condition. I was left in a coma for almost a month." The bulb flickered for a second, and her saw her face. "How did you realize who you are?"

"There's a hole in my apartment wall," said Arata in the darkness. "I guess we don't have any other option."

Kuri shook himself from his gloom. "I guess we've both found out why we're feeling all this pain. Somehow we've evolved, and my trait has gone beyond just my family."

He heard her walk, and then saw her bloom under the pale blue afforded by their city's street lights. She went dark, then bloomed again. For a second, that floral pattern of the universe appeared. Then went away. Dark. Then bloomed again.

He ran after her, until he reached her side. Then he held her hand, and they walked in the direction of Akira's home together.

Friday, July 8, 2016

An Anime Idea (Parts 6 & 7)

Part 1 is here

Part 6

Arata had fallen asleep before Kuri could even move again. She seemed conveniently poised, her back against a thin archway leading into her kitchen area, the dim light of living room hinting at her. Kuri began to move towards her, realizing that as he moved, he was leaving behind a trail of actual cream soda that led back to his original position. This was surprising. He had not realized that he bled cream soda.

Sugary and fizzy as it seemed, he crept on, toward Arata's body.

When he reached her, he was almost dead. He laid his head on her lap and asked, "Please can you rejuvenate me, Arata? I promise I won't take this type of advantage again. I only want to discuss our collective malady." Then he died upon her lap.

Part 7

"Do you mean why we both feel inexplicable pain?"


"Why I've lost most of my friends, and why nobody believes me when I say to them, sometimes, that I cannot be there for them?"

"That is the worst!" said Kuri. "You say that to your friends?" he added, opening one eyelid.

"So you agree, there is no gender bias. It's not women who become depressive, or men who become physically weak, through this ailment?"

Kuri thought about that. "Well, typically women are accused of being weak at everything, so while I agree that there is no gender bias posited toward me, I will say that, I am a man. And what I experience is sort of a phenomena. And an unbalanced phenomena at that."

Arata was amused. "You're a phenomena, huh?"

"We may both be. I wrote this in my diary," said Kuri, before his head finally collapsed into her lap.

She took the diary from the fevered boy. It started: "Please read Part 1 of my diary, before you meet me in the battlefield. Perhaps then, we can both fathom as to the extent of our pain, and understand it together."

An Anime Idea (Parts 6 & 7)

Part 1 is here

Part 6

Arata had fallen asleep before Kuri could even move again. She seemed conveniently poised, her back against a thin archway leading into her kitchen area, the dim light of living room hinting at her. Kuri began to move towards her, realizing that as he moved, he was leaving behind a trail of actual cream soda that led back to his original position. This was surprising. He had not realized that he bled cream soda.

Sugary and fizzy as it seemed, he crept on, toward Arata's body.

When he reached her, he was almost dead. He laid his head on her lap and asked, "Please can you rejuvenate me, Arata? I promise I won't take this type of advantage again. I only want to discuss our collective malady." Then he died upon her lap.

Part 7

"Do you mean why we both feel inexplicable pain?"


"Why I've lost most of my friends, and why nobody believes me when I say to them, sometimes, that I cannot be there for them?"

"That is the worst!" said Kuri. "You say that to your friends?" he added, opening one eyelid.

"So you agree, there is no gender bias. It's not women who become depressive, or men who become physically weak, through this ailment?"

Kuri thought about that. "Well, typically women are accused of being weak at everything, so while I agree that there is no gender bias posited toward me, I will say that, I am a man. And what I experience is sort of a phenomena. And an unbalanced phenomena at that."

Arata was amused. "You're a phenomena, huh?"

"We may both be. I wrote this in my diary," said Kuri, before his head finally collapsed into her lap.

She took the diary from the fevered boy. It started: "Please read Part 1 of my diary, before you meet me in the battlefield. Perhaps then, we can both fathom as to the extent of our pain, and understand it together."

Saturday, July 2, 2016

An Anime Idea (Part 5)

"Also, don't call me senpai. That is a term reserved only for someone older than oneself," said Arata, dressing the wounds Kuri had suffered from being thrown off the balcony.

"I was in a different state of mind when I said it," said Kuri, accepting her swaths of alcohol upon his open wounds.

She laughed as she finished dressing him up. "Did you really imagine this was some kind of fiction, and some guy was out there, in the open universe, writing about your predicament?" One of tips of the bandages was showing, so she got up, navigated to her dresser, and came back with an implement. She snipped off the offensive tip with the implement. "There. Now you look like, erm, what is your name again?"

Kuri was suddenly healed, and he sat up. His eyes were clear, and they looked into her no longer for her shoes, or dress, or her bodily sexiness, or even as the ample bosom who had just healed him, but as an equal, and a confidant.

"My name, shidoshi," said Kuri, "is Akahoshi Kurimusoda, or Kuri, for short. I have an unusual secret that I am now compelled to disclose."

"Shidoshi, huh?" Arata had walked away and was looking in what seemed to be her many closets and cupboards. "Yes, yes, we've heard that, but why don't we forego your secret for the meantime and discuss why you are named after a brand of soft drink?"

Kuri was aghast. "A-A-re you making fun of my name? At this holy moment?"

The being known as Arata began to break down at this point. She had been standing very tall and mighty, but now she was on the floor. Kuri had seen this kind of special effect before. A woman, completely in her own regard, and poise, lying on the floor and laughing uncontrollably. The way she moved seemed unseemly, almost horrific, but there was an immense sweetness to it.

"Are you sure? You want to know why my name is my name? This is going to increase the amount of time we have to get to our mutual resolution."

Arata, between her giggles, laughs, and outright bellows, managed, "W-what resolution--" seizures, by now, "what type of resolution(s) are you hoping for? Please? Please. Tell me about your name. I'm almost actually going to say L-O-L."

As has been intimated earlier, Kuri's most essential aspect is that he prefers to operate in states of absolute clarity. "I didn't mean to break into your apartment. It is just that, previously, no matter how hard I tried to reach you about a very deep question that I have, related to my suffering, I was met with general 'fuck you's. So I went drastic."

Arata finally sat up again. "Your suffering, huh? Well, I'm glad you didn't turn out to be a Hitler-type, at least. Alright then." She rose to the sink to clean her hands from his blood. The antiseptic was warm on her palms, and she tried to imagine what it might feel like to feel like her, except with physical ailment rather than mental ailment. "So tell me about your name, Kurimusoda-san."

An Anime Idea (Part 4)

" went to the Doctor," finished Kurimusoda, sitting in her apartment, drinking alcohol, layers of slime dripping from his reclined position.

"This is fucked," said Arata, immediately approaching the body, kicking it, and sending it toppling over the balcony of her nice apartment. "You're assuming a little too much!"

"Wait," screamed Kuri. "I've been waiting! I've been waiting for you! We're the SAME!"

"Are we?"

"This guy is even writing an anime idea about me. Us. We're the same."

She pulled him back over the balcony and then the sky became black, thunder occurred followed by casual lightning. Amidst the sparks she asked him why she was feeling like she was going fucking insane, even though she knew for a fact that everybody in her family was not experiencing any type of harsh mental  malady.

"Senpai," said Akahoshi Kurimusoda. "I may be the answer to our mis-engagement!"

"That doesn't give you a right to appear just lounging drunk in my personal space!" she screamed back at him.

An Anime Idea (Part 3)

Arata had started to feel a little bit like some small boy had suddenly taken control over her whole life. All of a sudden, where normally she would be calm, concerted, and inevitably sophisticated, suddenly it was like this guy was running up to her, claiming she was his answer to everything.

 "My name is cream soda, cream soda! I'm just like you!"

She seriously doubted that she was in any way, under any circumstances, just like this man. "I don't think that you should be communicating with that equipment any more," she indicated at the world in general, hoping this Kurimosoda would just piss off.

 When you bear the horror of slow, degenerative brain disease for your beloved family member, you don't exactly waste time focusing on popular brands. You don't exactly have time to meander into magical fantasy, or the wrong area of the button on the mouse.

 There is only one button, you click that, and that's your outcome.

 That's why you

Friday, June 24, 2016

Secession (Cessation)

I'm leaving now,
withdrawing from our (w)hole.
No stated plan,
but bound to rules of exeunt.

For 2(?) years this may hurt a lot.

My peeps felt gray, and they say
it's not just 'cos our weather.
There was a lack of agency.
Everything we believe was not spoken loud enough, or heard.

For 2(?) years this may hurt a lot, eventually things will be the same again.

Once, I made you my colonies,
my pals, my droogs, my best friends under me.
Now I'm leaving you because
you've rushed into me so frighteningly.

For 2(?) years this may hurt a lot, eventually things will be the same again. I'll still have my troubles with money. Still feel I'm not in control. And you'll still be rushing into me.

As I wander away, my feet begin leaving grasp.
Cessation of sensation, as though floating up a staircase
into space, ignoring laws of gravity
so as to ascend in a straight upward line.

For 2(?) years this may hurt a lot, eventually things will be the same again. I'll still have my troubles with money. Still feel I'm not in control. And you'll still be rushing into me. But now I'm ascending like the slant of the largest pyramid in the universe, there is a cessation of oxygen induced worry, and I can finally convince myself, once again, that the world is actually a flat 2D plane.

Friday, June 3, 2016

An Anime Idea (Part 2)

"Well," said Dr. Chesterfield, staring intently back at Kurimosoda--the kind of stare that appears to be meeting your eyes, but is actually extending its phantom limbs beyond to pick apart and study your mind, "there is certainly something wrong with you." His inspection ceased suddenly and he gathered his pen to make some notes. "But it is not anything to do with your body. You're perfectly fit, physically."

"What are you writing there?" asked Kuri, trying to peer over the doctor's concealing arm, but the notes had already been written, and the pad secreted away into a coat pocket.

"Nothing, just some notes. I'm going to ask you to see--"

"A therapist. Right? I knew it. Look, this wasn't easy for me. I've tried to be truthful, and as hone--"

"No, no, you don't understand. I am referring to you to a colleague of mine, a specialist."

Kuri stared back at the doctor, in parts with distrust, in parts with distrust. And wholly burning with pain. "What kind of specialist?"

The doctor appeared to think for a moment before answering. "A--special one," he said, calmly.

"What?" Kuri exploded.

The doctor was still calm, but something uneven was surfacing in his voice and demeanor. Not fear or nervousness, but some kind of uncertainty, a tinge of anxiety. "You see, Mr. Akahoshi, you're not the first person to tell me this type of tale this week.

"A girl, calling herself Gushiken Arata," Chesterfield reviewed his special notebook, "also claims that she is hurting, just like you."

"Probably not just like me," explained Kuri quickly, but Chesterfield was too fast.

"Exactly like you," he said. "YOU ARE THE SAME!"

An Anime Idea (Part 1)

My name is  Akahoshi Kurimusoda, or Kuri, for short. I have an unusual secret that I am now compelled to disclose. It is a secret about a non-standard trait within my family--in particular, my more immediate family. The trait persists in members about two circles out, that is, my grandparents, parents and siblings, first cousins, and immediate uncles and aunts.

The trait involves the distribution of burden over adverse effects to those in the family most equipped to handle them. How it works is like this: Say a person in the family has a toothache. They of course, feel the effects of the malady, but they are only burdened to the extent that they, as an individual, can successfully manage the pain. The remaining adverse effect is transmitted to the strongest person in the family, because they can handle it.

I want to reiterate the nature of the trait, so that it is clear to the mind. Say a family member cuts their finger badly in a kitchen knife accident; it's not that they don't feel the pain--they definitely feel it. But it doesn't become overbearing or overwhelming. Any excess burden is transferred over. And it is not distributed evenly; that would be an unsuccessful trait, because then you'd have a family where everyone is suffering slightly, which would be both stupid and unhealthy for the group as a whole. The entire family would be a bunch of miserable sods, and would likely not succeed very well in society. I imagine that somewhere in the past, things may have worked that way, but that such a nature was selectively weeded out. Instead, the adverse effect is transmitted directly and exclusively to the strongest person.

And I am the strongest one in my family. Before I learned about the trait myself, you can imagine I was a pretty miserable bastard. I'd whine, complain. I'd bitch and generally sport a curmudgeonly disposition with everyone. People thought that that was just who I am--that I was genuinely just a suffering and insufferable jackass. Of course they had no idea how confusing it can be, to suddenly experience a burning sensation upon your finger, or a crushing pressure upon your molar. An interesting aspect of this trait is that it even involves psychosomatic adversities. So yeah, that one birthday where my parents threw this massive party, and all my friends came over, lots of presents; I was a pouting little shit at that party, and I wasn't just crying because I wanted to. It was because my older sister had secretly broken up with her boyfriend and was experiencing the torment of love lost like only a teenager can.

However, that was a long time ago. I was secretly told about the trait by my paternal grandfather, at his deathbed, when I was fourteen. It was kind of like a rite of passage, sort of, but he also had let me know about it as a warning, or matter of note. To help me deal with it, and to give me perspective. Grandfather then passed away with relative ease, and I was, of course, left in a coma for about three weeks (besides this arcane knowledge, grandfather also passed over the excess adversities involved with his death to me).

But when I finally came to, it was a little like being reborn. Because I now knew what was happening, I found myself able to start coping with the problem. If I were to suddenly experience a sharp pain in my stomach, it was probably because I was helping someone in my family with a digestive issue. Or, there was a time when inexplicable and overwhelming sensations of panic came over me, and I later found out that a little cousin had suffered intense fear as he sat for an important exam in school. Because I absorbed the excesses of his fear, my cousin was able to overcome it, and successfully complete the exam.

In fact, I began to realize that the trait even has its plus points for me. If I ever experience anything inexplicably bad, odds are that someone close and important to me is in trouble and may need help. I can come over and help, I can intervene and stop their suffering; and this is extremely rewarding for me, personally. It's not that I'm a selfless do-gooder, or some kind of sponge for adversity bullets (well, literally, I suppose I am). It's just that I am pretty strong. I still curse a lot. I'm still pretty insufferable to everyone. Sometimes I crash pretty badly, ending up drunk in some alley or turning to look at the ashtray and realizing I've smoked a whole pack of ciggies in the space of an hour. My love life is a mess of papery tatters collected across spirals of thin wire, and I frequently offend the people I love most. But all of this is just my way of coping with everything that's heaped upon me, and if that's what it takes, I've come to find that I am fine with it. Hell, I was always a haphazard sort of kid, happily doing crazy stunts on my BMX, or skateboard, and all that; I guess now I'm just doing stunts with my psyche.

So I feel pretty centered these days, at least in terms of perspective. Well, at least until fairly recently. You know how I said earlier that because of this trait, I'm able to implicitly know when someone in my family is in trouble, or suffering? Well, for the past couple of weeks, I have been wracked with extreme burning sensations within my body. It is a full body sensation, not limited to any particular area or extremity. Seriously, I had worries that this was the precursor to spontaneous combustion or something. Anyway, I immediately got on the phone, chats, and scoured social networks to find out which one of my relatives was being affected. As I've said, knowing allows me to isolate and solve problems, or at the very least, provide comfort and kindness.

But as much as I investigated, I couldn't find anyone with a problem. Nobody in the family was having a bad time. This wasn't a cursory search, like a "Oh, just wanted to check in" thing. My methods, over the years, have become quite pervasive. Friends and colleagues are questioned, key figures are followed; garbage is run through. I even have a contact who will provide transcripts of phone calls and texts, if necessary. Despite all this, it seemed that everyone was okay. Suffering undetected. What the hell?

Finally, entertaining the unlikely possibility that there was actually something unwell with me this time, and that this malady was my own, I came here, to you. And you're telling me, doctor, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? Don't you fucking lie to me!

Saturday, May 14, 2016

You're Not A Soda, Miranda (Act III will take some time)

"I admired you. You were all to me. Then I found out you named me after a soda."

"Mirinda is a soft drink from Spain, Miranda. Don't worry--you're something more special than that. Riverfr0zen, my magic robes, please."

Here, art your Ariels.

I don't want shruggery. No cynicism. My magic is too powerful.

I shall begin to sing a song, then fall asleep, then wake up and continue whereupon I had previously stopped.

Yes. You do that, and I will be very charming to usurpers. Show them my sleepy spirit.

Show me wherever. On whatever device


And Why have we stopped speaking within speech quotes?

Ah. The Tempest. Are you going to make a very long speech that I will be expected to hark?

I am preparing my long speech now. You will read and understand everything.

(At the audience)
This is
meant for you, not for cold hearted and dispassionate sleeping spirits.

Act II (Two) Two Of The Tempest

"Juventus! Score! See me run to dance upon such cans of beer this very replay. Re-play! I fist my screen in euphoria."

"Hooligan. Uncouth son of swaggered sow. This is how you see the sport? Remaining so Unknown?"

"Gentle, sir, don't expect me a Ferdinand for your fodder. Witness: Goals met!"

"You don't know how to write your best feelings. All you know is traipsing."

"Juventus just blew Milan away. Tell me about your best feelings."

"Your blood is drain'd to my cell. You do not know how to prosper."
"Be less unknown, you river of merely words. Know thyself!"

Looks like you've coldly dealt me here. Can't I freeze entire oceans toward entrenched vessels?"

"I, Milan, have been malfunctioned, dear flow of freeze! Your encounter is a pathway which I art! My Ariel, please."

"Release me."

"Entirely. Soon. But I have some small ways I'd communicate."

"Father, why am I a soda?"

Monday, May 9, 2016


Ghosts sometimes come and visit me. <-- This is a request, not a statement of fact.

Sometimes you come over (not every time, otherwise people would notice).

I want to be invisible. Immersed. Entangled. A delivery of focus. A marriage of madness.  Enough figurative speech.

Your claws, upon my hand. Tearing minuscule wounds, so causing blood to emerge. Then the band aids.

The help. The gauze. The cute smile and wink. An envelope of persuasion, to persist. To live.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

Start Of The Tempest


I typically do not impose these types of explanatory passages directly into my pieces, but since this piece works very closely with my actual reading of Shakespeare's "The Tempest", and, I personally feel more sensitive (as a human) than past occasion right now, I pray you spend minutes to understand what this act of writing actually is.

Last weekend, I was reading something--don't remember what, could have been the back of a cereal box--and simply got bored of the way contemporary prose in English is written. Having no desire to stop reading, my mind drew me to The Tempest, a play by William Shakespeare which I had read when I was figuratively three, possibly up to the End of the initial ship. I have a distinct memory of, having reached that sinking, throwing my hands up in the air and cursing the winds for modernity to pirate me away. And it actually did. Other interests, works, and jobs arrived.

So having that recollection, at that moment of shrug, I dived into technologies that would re-present The Tempest to me. And I've started reading it again. So far, it has been only during commutes between Manhattan and Brooklyn, so I'm still (at time of writing) only in Act 1. Note: Not that I encourage speed-reading, but I'm only in Act 1 because I have to get into a mode where I can understand what is being said, so I re-read a lot of the words. I think the English in the reader I have is fairly accurate (possibly somehow simplified) but it is still something that comes with a training of the mind. The last time I seriously read Shakespeare was in Grammar school, so it will probably take some time to re-adjust.

Another Note: I'm not making any statement about contemporary English prose here. It was purely a subjective boredom, probably stemming from many other acres of my life. There are amazing writers out there these days.

And Another Note: The structure below will not (at least initially) likely follow the actual structure of a play (and yes, yes, I know it is a play, so I am also watching as many video versions of the play I can get my hands on, but only as far as I've read in the, erm, book). Especially because I am more of a short-novel writer, and really live more happily in prose. And of course, the story, while influenced by The Tempest, is not a claim to a sequel or anything. If anything, to be honest, it's just me having fun with characters, modalities, and fashions of expression I'm enjoying as I read through the *actual* play.

Start of The Tempest

Act 1-1

"This is going to take you, almost 90 years to write, is it not, Caliban?"

"Caliban, you call me, sir? As a Caliban yourself, I bet. A rapist?"

"Dodderer. I am still reading your startings, Milan, but they are differently aged. This now is a time for quick munches and talks; a zero or, or and, one, fashion of direction. I am yet engulfed by mere first act."

"It is very easy that the cock sure mimic a dead rooster. How do you find that I cared more about books than the taste of Milan?"


"You brute. You've stolen my spirit! You shall be pulled into my island, pint, then wasted over miles like a sliver of burning rums! Thieves of the sea!"

"This is longer term than your small dukedom, sir. I plan to exist in study of the future acts for some time, and then mutate them to my appreciation. This is my way, as has always been."


"Hopefully not bastardizations, no."

Act 1-2

"Juventus! Score! See me run to dance upon such cans of beer this very replay. Re-play! I fist my screen in euphoria."

"Hooligan. Uncouth son of swaggered sow. This is how you see the sport?"


Friday, April 8, 2016

There Is No Monocular Vision In TEAM

One of the greatest things, as a baby, for me,
was when I was began to recognize and distinguish imagery.

It was just a a moment of pleasure, nothing more:
Knowing that there was this new avenue of information, in stereo.

I went back to my business with words, sounds, tastes
and touches. Yeah, we had touches too.

Then one day the left eye started to bitch about life in the group.

Said it wasn't down with all the shit we were looking at together.

I was like, "WTF, VR has just come out!"

E was like, "Fuck that shit, I'm done."


This wasn't the first of E's attempts to secede.
Over the years, you could see the motherfucker trying it.
Getting bitchy, growing astigmatisms all the time.

Straight out refusing to let everyone see the secrets of some 3D stereograms.


So I called up my brain, and we had a conversation about E.
"I don't want him to think I intentionally just scratched him."
Brain was like, "If I pump him full of positivity, he's gonna be poppin'. I don't know if you want to handle that."
"I don't give a shit. I needs him. I need him next to me, parsing everything."


Brain sent extremely precise signals.
Left eye was soon on the mend, and more eager than I remember.

Friday Morning Apples, Eggs, Aimed At Oneself

I enter the sexy shower, which, when I turn left is warm.
And if I turn right, is cool.

I turn warm and cool in the shower, and then emerge feeling so fresh!

When I put my boots on, it is with the memory of how I reached down and cleaned myself, which was very, very spotless.

When I have to lock the door of my apartment, it is like washing my hair with whatever shampoo that is anti-dandruff.

I am ready for the world.

I notice, over the broad view, how people are flocking to certain areas. But my left eye is complaining about its infection, so I head into a choice of two pharmacies.

I opt for the pharmacy that will let me abscond with 'homeopathic eye drops' with a slip of a card, rather than waiting in line to be served by a human who asks about the in-house card.

^ That advice is only legit if the eye problem is not serious, btw.

If the eye problem is serious, you may need to first buy a patch to cover it, and then force the other eye into OverDrive.

Inform the other eye that life is hanging on a thread, and that surgical skills may be needed within your cache of availables.

Saturday, March 12, 2016


Friday, March 11, 20:03: 2 drinks from 6am to 17:30pm, from half a pint of bombay sapphire. Then went out and got another bottle. Had two drinks between 17:30 and 20:05.
Friday, March 11, 20:05: Still 2 drinks left in second Bombay bottle, but feel I may need to get more to last me and keep me from desire. Debating ordering in (which means ordering 2 bottles to match delivery requirements) or walking over.
Friday, March 11, 20:06: Going with delivery. My end goal is to be able to master the rate of consumption such as to not be self-destructive, so this makes sense. Walking over may have made more sense had I been less sober (in terms of clearing the mind and so on), but given that I feel pretty secure, I'm going with delivery of two more pints of gin.
Friday, March 11, 20:12: Decided against delivery of two bottles. Walking out to buy one pint of gin.
Friday, March 11, 20:24: Returned with a bottle of gin. Placed in freezer. Old bottle still has a drink or two in it. Will report further, hopefully.
Saturday, March 12 07:20 Functioning nominally. Have run of out of drinks. Must wait 3 fucking hours for any semblance of alchohol. Thought I lived in the center of the fucking world, and not fuller house.
Saturday, March 12 11:32 It's funny how moods change. Now I can do with or without a drink. I still want one. I could walk out and get one. But it's not very compelling.
Saturday, March 12 11:41 Going to walk out bearing a very grumpy face, for laffs
Saturday, March 12 12:00 I made probably the most basic comparisons with the world of The Division during my walk. I really wished that I had trotted my phone along as well, in order to show friends some of the differences in terms of nuance between the Division and walking out into Chelsea. There was a particular spot of vomit which I feel was not entirely covered by the game. I also managed to tag a notice sheet on an elevator that was gloating about adding 'bike stands' in the basement of the building (?). I basically said "PUT FIOS too".
Saturday, March 12 12:03 It took me 3 minutes to express the above
Saturday, March 12 12:08 While enjoying only a sip of gin, I am musing about the disconnection I feel with handheld devices such as phones. A part of my brain is trying to convince the other that it may be time to stop dawdling and fucking play the Division already. I'm still wearing shoes--why am I wearing shoes in my house? I'm--I'm still wearing long trousers. Why?
Saturday, March 12 12:08: I admit this has now become a 'format' for me, and I'm kind of adding special flavors. I promise this is just a spell, and later logs will be in earnest.

Saturday, February 13, 2016

Wow, you have made a whole art out of this, haven't you? Your whole 'accuracy'.

Se7en Years Later <-- Okay, Seven. Conceit.


A resource was lost to the world. It had just simply disappeared.

"What do you mean, 'simply disappeared'?" asked Roger. Roger was an older type of gentleman with a respectable beard and what we would call an 'earned' coat of arms. If you went right by him, you'd be okay. But if you didn't--"Like Bilbo Baggin's or wot?"

"Yeah, just disappeared, Roger."

"At least say 'vanished'."

"But it did not vanish. Vanish implies some type of indication of malevolence or some unseen hand. This resource, it was there, bright as a light, and then it just disappeared."

"I'm sorry that I'm not as intrigued as you are about how magical this disappearance was. You, also, are soon to be 'disappeared', as you put it," said Roger. "Unless you give me more valuable information."

"Roger that," and here was where I broke a sweat, because I had not been lying. And then I, too simply disappeared.

It is a real mental toll to wake up into a new reality just like that. Because one minute you're really focused on something, and the people around you have become important. Some of them know all about music. Some know all of the movies out there. A special friend knows all of the best TV shows too. Which one was I this time?

"You're the one that can just disappear," said a dude next to me. "Not vanish, but really disappear."

The content was still negotiating, so I took a moment to sit back and enjoy a small fruit. It was a sour little thing, with promising circles of sweetness. "Looks like we're in the same boat, buddy," I snapped.

"No, we aren't," said the Ninja. "You're heading into the worst place ever. Because you're drunk."

I said nothing, but I pulled a small blade from a secret pocket.

"No, wait," said the Ninja immediately. "Because you are a drunk."

"I'm learning to sip slowly," I told him. I knew the guy didn't give a shit about me--he was off on some fantastic mission, and I was (as he knew) going to the worst place ever. But it was nice to speak frankly with someone, for a change. It was just nice to feel similar to another person, and not have to worry all the time about 'appearances', as is the parlance.

And I really was making an improvement with the drinking. Gone were the days of gulping entire distilleries in one evening. It had been easier to do that in the beginning, you see. Your reality shifted so easily, and suddenly you were living in the roaring 20s as a telephone operator. You got shit-faced enough that you could cruise through these 'troubles' that you were visiting with great ease, and it was always a positive thing. You were always working to make things better.

Usually you have to overcome some kind of hate dilemma or insecurity. I had been quite stout of heart, so I was very cavalier about it. They even started calling me 'Ace' (this is an inside Red Dwarf joke). I suppose I was tempting reality every time I smirked inwardly about how I could 'live this person's life with my eyes closed'.

Yet, despite my frivolousness, I was extremely careful. I would always make sure that whatever I did was understood, and that even if I happened to disappear, the returning to the stream of consciousness would be in the best possible situation. I liked to think of myself as the ultimate set-up for good feelings.

So, that's what happened after I disappeared. I saw a drink and immediately drank it.
"What the fuck," rumbles a bellow from an angry man, who had come from the stage, barging directly into me. "We hadn't even started recording yet!"

"I'm sorry, man," I waved him off. "Guess I was really excited about this holy matrimony," I smiled at This was my style. Overwhelming charm. But this group--it was kind of weird. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was happy. Was I at a funeral?

"Who died, guys?" I rolled my eyes. "This guy again?" I was searching for that nexus wherein you become part of the group, or at least you appear to be part of the group. But nobody in the audience would meet my eye. It was like nobody gave a shit about me. I began to wonder why the hell I had appeared in this place, if I was that insignificant.

Then the angry man slapped me hard, in the face. "It ain't complicated, putz. You just sit down and listen, yeah, you hear the click, and that's the tape recorder, ok?" he said.

"Oh. Okay ... ? Then what?" I winked. "Something good?" I was hoping this was some kind of out-of-bounds bachelor party or something.

"You are in the First Seat. It was *all* depending on you. You were to hear the click, then you drink the koolaid," said the man.

Friday, February 12, 2016

manners in an eco-sphere ripe with aliens

There's a problem with me as I get older,
especially if I'm traveling within public transports,
where I've suddenly become in synchronization with
the slowness of it.

Why, only yesterday I had filed into the slow-lane,
emerging from the subway on 28th St, when there was a kerfuffle.
A man to my left, who had chosen to 'run past traffic',
was facing denial of progress by the natural barrage of people
who sought to go *down* the stairs.

Because during peak times, stairs in public areas are typically
gorged with two-way traffic. People on one side going up,
people on the other side going down.

This speed monster had assumed he could be faster than everyone else by overtaking the people going up, and was now being denied progress by, basically, the traffic going down.

Then he bumped into me, and tried to create a 'third lane' in the middle.

I put on my best Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" and refused his creation of a third lane in my surroundings, as we moved up.

He *quietly* (quietly!) persisted to imagine some kind of non-existent third dimension in this stairwell.

Finally, I had to physically *use my hand* and *move* this crazy person back, and said loudly, "Come on man, get the fuck in line!"

I was really pissed that I had to resort to physical action like that.

So I added, "Where the fuck are you going, anyway, your mother dying fast or something?" Loudly.

It was as I kept walking up that I finally heard this son of a bitch's squeaky whiny fucking voice yell back from somewhere down the stairwell: "Fuck you, you asshole, how dare you! My mom died three years ago, okay?"

As I finished the stairs, I said loudly back, "Well obviously she didn't teach you any manners before she went."

Saturday, January 23, 2016

I Don't Know Where Jamie Is Now, Part 1

"Before even starting," it was said, with much rubbing of hands and an infrequent tremor to the head, "I want to apologize for the way--" and the publican was instructed almost callously by a shivering finger that strobed among the amber of the fireplace to pour another "--that our conversation will sort of be, well," and now turning and looking outward, with those horrible large black eyes, "just kind of talking heads."

Sam, who was wearing a brown calfskin jacket and a tan cowboy hat, immediately placed his whiskey upon the table with a few sips to spare and turned to acknowledge that now, words had indeed been spoken. He had been waiting, he knew it was going to happen, and it happened, and those words had come out. And now he indicated that they were being listened to. Sam had kind of, stubble, and appeared as though he may be a smoker. One may have easily mistaken him for the sheriff of the village, had this place not been a small, well kept secret in the Village, in Manhattan.

"I," this was very nervous, "I really don't know where Jamie is now."

"Oh. Jamie, huh? That's what you're calling her?"

"Jamie," with a nod, "but a guy, not a girl."

"Oh Jamie, that guy. Yeah. Yeah, he's missing?"

"Pretty sure I have an address for his exact location physically. I know he's probably in his apartment, probably surfing the Web, or probably watching TV shows or something on his computer."

"Something, yeah. That's where people tend to be, on Saturday afternoons in this city. It's not like he may lost somewhere in some museum or gallivanting away in Central Park."

"There are those," and another indication for another drink, "but no. I know he's at home." Turned again, those horrible large eyes upon Sam again. "But you see, I don't know what he must be thinking! His mental state of being. His outlook on life."

"It troubles you, doesn't it?" said Sam, lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes and entertaining the idea of one of his remaining sips. "There's something--something has happened in Jamie's life to the point of leaving you extremely concerned about the affairs of this other person's--Jamie's--life."

"Two things, to be accurate."