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.