Start Of The Tempest

Preramble

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

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

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

UNKNOWN
"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."

PROSPERO
"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?"

UNKNOWN
"Cock-a-doodle-dow."

PROSPERO
"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!"

UNKNOWN
"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."

PROSPERO
"Bastard."

UNKNOWN
"Hopefully not bastardizations, no."

Act 1-2

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

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

[tbc]

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.

consumption_of_drinks.txt

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.

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 the...group. 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.

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."

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."