In Vino Veritas

"In Vino Veritas," she said, as though it may be a spell from her Harry Potter books or something.

I waited a second simply to see whether magical stuff would begin to happen--you know, lights and special effects. Then, as I realized there was nothing in her words, I just burst into this horrible laughter. Laughing, directly in her face. "I'm sorry," I managed, between slivers of cheer (sometimes patting my chest just to remind my heart that it would need to beat faster in order to keep the pulmonary system chugging at point), "I'm just. I'm just Dumber, I guess?"

"You're what? Dumb?"

"No, Dumber," I smiled. I gave her a trinket from Chinatown that had made me think of her on an off minute.

"It means that when you drink, you speak the truth," she said coldly to me.

The sun then died and all the pyramids of the world became cones of peanut butter ice-cream. "Who the fuck is Vino. Are you cheating on me?"

"You said you are sick of me!" she cried. "You drank, and then you said you are sick of me!"

"Yeah, that must be the real truth!" I accused her, instead. "You know what--in my Vino, it's YOUR veritas. When I drink, I suddenly find out who the fuck YOU really are!"

"Yeah, you know what, that's the Veritas in Vino Veritas."

I switched off the tape and started a new one. This one was called "She's Your Je Ne Sais Quois".

As time poured down the funnel of my mortal existence my mind slowly evaporated with that thought. My imagination became as vapor, thinning itself to the very world that surrounded me. I became my imagination, and it sat in my stead.

"So now you're a fucking noun," she said. "Imagination. The noun."

"Is this the warning about showing versus telling?" I asked, smiling.

She nodded.

"You see, in Vino," I explained carefully, choosing each movement of tongue, "for me, it is not Veritas. It is merely the layout of a playground."

"More lies, huh?" she sulked. She was wearing something. A 'hoodie', I believe they call them. It was pink and clearly a comfort garment.

"You look cute in your hoodie," I told her.

"You're grossing me out right now, just shut up," she said.

I knew there was no way I could possibly shut up, given the expanse of ruminations at the time, so I veered off to a different direction. I began to think about space. I contemplated the way it seems that space grows infinitely. I thought about the human journey, from the beginning of speech and storytelling to the gradual objectification of perception. I imagined I was blind for a lifetime, just walking around the Earth without the amenity of sight. Just touching things, smelling things as I walked around the Earth. Hearing. They made a tv show on Netflix based on comics that some of the instructors would read me on my travels. Daredevil. And then I began to lose the sense of taste. That came as a shocker, because I really loved to eat food up to that point. I laughed and figured, "What better time to switch to protein drinks?"

I was reminded of the story of the poor man who would simply smell the rich man's food and be happy eating gruel. That was a real kicker of a story right there. Began to live on $2/day in New York City just ordering pints of rice from any Chinese takeouts I could find as I walked around. Even if I was strolling through Mars, it would still be these $2/day pints of rice from New York City Chinese takeouts. At least I could smell everything around me, and imagine that I was experiencing a feast. At least, for a little longer. But then, even the smells stopped.

"What next, my sense of touch?" I rolled my eyes...and started noticing I couldn't tell whether or not I was rolling my eyes. "SURELY THIS IS A JOKE" I typed in caps all over the 'Internets' (by that time, I was probably just making light impressions on tissues or walls, or whatever else was around out there--I couldn't tell, you see--t that's kind of the point).

I began to feel really paranoid. Because I could not see, hear or taste or smell or touch.

"You ever sit down at a sort of outdoor establishment, get a coffee, you know? And smoke a cigarette?" Enjoying the environment around you, contrived as it is?

I didn't think, and just said out loud, "You mean, like, it's a fairly warm day. The sun is out. It's kind of hitting your dark skin. You have the option of sitting either at an umbrella table or one without an umbrella?"

"Yeah, you know? You just had a fight with your girlfriend and she's going to leave you soon, and you know it. But you're sitting there having a coffee and smoking your cigarette. In the sun."

I smiled. "I've been there," I said. I took a drag off the Dunhill. "Though, I'd like to think that I've kind of advanced a little, you know?"

"What do you mean more advanced?" asked the young man.

"Like, I'm at the point where I'm in a relationship where she knows I can be really impossible sometimes, so everything is cool. It's much better than when you're younger, and everything is a fucking drama, you know? Sure, we fight, but everything's fine, you know? It's not like she's a three year old. What's the big deal?"

"So the fights mean nothing?"

I smiled. "Sure, you know, you hear about all these hotheads out there trying to fight for something. It's like someone told them there was a game that they need to fight over, and now, over time, they're just fighting over this...really pointless shit, to be honest."

"And it doesn't really matter because you can always go back to your girl?" said the young man.

"Yeah."

There was an idea of sunlight and the thought of dragonflies, and a small stream.

"Which girl again?" except this time I realized it wasn't the young man saying it. In fact I could no longer perceive him.

"Young man?" I asked out. "Young man, what do you mean by that?"

Nothing.

Where had this started? Which girl again? Why? "Vino?" I emanated. "That's your name, young man, Vino?

Vino, please!"

.

To be continued.

Moving from Anti-Gravity Vehicle Simulations to Close Chats with You

"I'm flying over for a close chat," said the voice, which sounded a little bit like a mix between Tom Selleck and the KITT (Knight Industries Two Thousand) voicebox.

"You're calling me a voicebox? Now? I was a fully interactiv--"

KITT was turned off.

Only Tom Selleck remained. "I don't like that you have switched off your companion," said Tom. "In real life, you can't just switch people off just like that."

"Just don't fly so close to my vehicle," I said, tersely over the radio. "It's enough that I'm contemplating various geometry as I hurtle through space and time, I don't need your moustache to pose issues."

"There, we have finally connected," said Tom. "This might be a first, man. This might be the first time a person actually shifted from one cockpit and began knocking on the next."

"And what are you knocking with, the bones of your knuckles?"

"What?"

"There's no way your skin will even survive these speeds. Let alone your oxygen helmet."

"I guess I'll just camp out here then, on your wing."

I looked at my controls and there weren't any more buttons to make it happen faster. There was only this slider that indicated the gradual increase of speed, and it was set at Maximum.

"Just make sure you do it according to safety regulations of making a fire on the wing. Don't want your lazy arse flinging me to oblivion," I told the guy.

Things began happening faster.

"Someone"

Someone online has started calling me a racist.

At first, it left me a little uncertain, a little unsettled. My brain began to collate my own personal history with the question of race, and the fact that I, indeed, have been a lifelong victim of racism, and persecution. So it left me really puzzled, initially. Who was this person? And what had I done that must have been so horrible--so terrible--that accusations of racism were now being flung in my direction?

Then I realized that that must be how every racist thinks. That somewhere in their mind one of the synapses has made a very clear decision that "Nope, I'm not having any more of this. There is no possibility of me being a racist".

There was a lot of smoke in the room. And there was this...mixture of noise. I almost felt like I was right at home, that this was my comfy place. Being in this zone allowed me the privilege of contemplation. Because, usually, I'm very blunt to people. Very tit for tat. You say words to me, I disintegrate your previous comment with a special mix of my own. Extremely quickly, but regardless of thought or conscience. It has landed me in oceans of trouble, but over the years I've learned to deal with this annoying feature of mine. Seriously I can only be friends with people who already know I'm not really a terrible man. Because of shit that I say.

Anyway, this time I was able to come back with a decent response, I feel. "I don't want to be," I said to my accuser. But I said it while looking directly into his eyes. "I never want to be that. Never want to be that person. How could you even suggest such a thing?"

We were floating in mid-air, flying through space as though passengers in an aeroplane. Except, there was no plane. There wasn't even an aisle or two. Everything had stopped existing, and there were only two people. Me, the defendant, and my accuser. "Witness, I explained to the fellow, "how quickly we are traveling. At this speed, there is just no--room--for racism."

"So you will accept me as I am?"

"No."

"WTF"

"I can't." By this time I had become blind. You know how some people can smell different colors? Blue and orange? Some people can actually live just by imagining those colors. I was feeling like that was happening to me, at that point.

My opponent was not an idiot by any stretch. He knew what was going on. He knew the number of the game. He knew I was a real person, with buttons. Buttons that could be pushed. "So you are a racist. Who won't accept me."

"I need you to tell me about you. I need to hear your story," I replied. "That's all. I need to learn about you--who you are, your name--everything about you. What cellphone plan you subscribe to, your purchasing habits. The decisions you make in everyday life."

The accuser stared at me, but I had already been looking directly into his eyes all the while. I felt I was a passionate man, and that I had empathy, and so it allowed me to figure people out, simply by staring into their eyes. They unravel, you see. They unfold. Characteristics slowly seep out. Diagnostics are revealed and their personality slowly starts to shine. "You see, I could stare at you like this forever. But it would take a very long time. And the results would probably not be as accurate as--"

"As what?"

"--as, if you told me in your own words."

"So what you're saying is that this is an opportunity for me. To disclose details, to reveal myself. You are opening yourself up to my manner of being, allowing me to penetrate your existence with my wholeness."

"As data," I carefully pointed out. "Information about who you are."

.

That night they called me names in my sleep. Names from when I was young. Disparaging names. Mutilations. But I knew who I was, so I just waved back, and I was terribly arrogant about it.

tobi decides to return

---
tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs. But where is teep? Surely we won't get shot to shit.
--- 

Return of Tobi:

"I told you that you can return whenever you please," was the instruction.

"Whenever I *fucking* please," was the countermand.

"Don't mess with my schedule."

They all laughed. "Schedule?"

.

Tobi considered quietly. Then he declared: "Yo you heard of RRules?"

.

There was a long gap. Then someone sent: "I hope you're not fucking around with RRules."

"Times recur, sometimes," said Tobi. "I'm still wrapping my head around it."

"Tobi. tobi Tobi t0bi."

"Yes?"

"Motherfucking tobi."

"Nope."

"It is time."

The bullets came from Nowhere, which is also a place considered. Tobi was saved by someone who prefers not to be noticed.

Ghost Story X

This is part 10 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5.666 Part 7. Part A8E. Nothing can stop NIN now.


[scaffolding is up. who likes arial, the font?]

This is going to be based on TED Talks: Sex, Secrets and Love's Dr. Helen Fisher.

Sweet Inclusion

everything so salty
sometimes malty?
Never paltry!

sweet inclusion

the observation of happiness,
'n synthesis thereof.

by including sweet into there diet.

Indy...Asps. Very Dangerous.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh Indiana,
Indiana, Indiana
Jones

If you could see yer own state you'd be embarrassed to your
bones.

But don't you worry, don't you worry, The Marriages will keep
goin',

With pizza pies for everyone, and on each slice two whole toppings one would
presume.

Because let's all support the classy act of catered pizza for a wedding.