A conversation between two people which started with out any previous reference.
“When do they start?”
“What?”
“What time do they usually start?”
“Who?”
“They are normally in by now.”
“Who are?”
“Oh no wait they are usually not in for another hour airnt they?”
“Who are not in for another hour”
“No. What time do they normally start work?”
“Stop. What time do who start work ?”
“AMERICA”
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
The Devils Baseball
What a crazy week he thought as he picked up the bin outside his house. He had been meaning to burn the papers for some time but with everything that had happened he didn’t have a chance. As he casually threw the papers into the flames he went over his plans for the next day in his head. He had met the girl a week ago but had just worked up the courage to ask her out that day. He couldn’t believe she said yes but now all he had to worry about was the date itself.
The man in black opened the gate and walked into the garden he didn’t know why but he knew that this was where he was supposed to be. He still had the Childs blood on him but had been too preoccupied to do anything about it. He saw the man burning his papers and walked up to him until he was right behind him. Looking over the mans shoulder, he watched for a moment as the paper disappeared into flame.
The children were playing on the green, about ten of them had gathered and were engaged in a game of tag. The old woman looked on still in awe at a Childs ability to recover from traumatic events. The ambulance had left just ten minutes ago but already the children had returned to the same state as they were before the accident. Without thinking she knelt down and picked up the baseball which was at her feet and walked back into her house to finish her dinner. As she walked into the kitchen she thought she smelt something but put it down to her imagination. Once she finished eating she put her left overs in the bin outside. It was then she discovered the baseball she had put in her pocket, she stared at it for a moment before she threw it over her fence into the neighbors bin. She lit her cigarette and walked back into her house. The resulting explosion caused by the gas leek being lit by her cigarette rocked the whole neighborhood.
Charlie was always alone. Being the smallest and youngest kid in the neighborhood he always felt the other kids picked on him. They would call him names and throw things at him, sometimes he wished he was dead. That would show them, they would be sorry they were so mean to him then. At this moment he was standing alone in the shade of a tree near the road. As he watched the other children play he began to cry, even the new kid in the neighborhood had been allowed to play there game. The new kid was the son of a local baseball hero and all of the kids wanted to play with him. They had started a game of baseball and had picked two teams but told Charlie he was too small to play. As he watched them play the baseball was hit out of the green and rolled out onto the road near Charlie. Seeing his chance Charlie rushed out to pickup the baseball. As his hand grasped the ball he looked up to see a man in black standing on the side of the road directly in front of him, where no one had stood seconds before. Charlie froze as he looked at this man and then something hit him from his left. Charlie’s body flew through the air and his last though was that perhaps now that he had gotten the ball the other kids would let him play. As the bus skidded to a halt one of it passengers began to scream.
Being new in town sucked but when you were the son of a sports star you had to learn to make friends fast. His father was always changing teams or moving into a new rented house. This was the latest in a long line of teams who had bought his fathers ability but this could be the last. His father had been playing bad for the past few months and this was the only pro team who were still interested in him. The kid walked into his father’s room, picked up the baseball from his father’s bed and went out to meet the local kids. He failed to notice through the half open bathroom door, his father’s lifeless body hanging from the light switch.
THUMP. The man who had been burning papers snapped back to reality as he heard the sound. Looking down he saw a baseball had fallen into the flames. He stared at it for a moment as it began to unravel in the heat and wondered at the events that had led to this ball being left in his bin. As the ball burned the man in black shrank back in to the shadows from where he had come.
The man in black opened the gate and walked into the garden he didn’t know why but he knew that this was where he was supposed to be. He still had the Childs blood on him but had been too preoccupied to do anything about it. He saw the man burning his papers and walked up to him until he was right behind him. Looking over the mans shoulder, he watched for a moment as the paper disappeared into flame.
The children were playing on the green, about ten of them had gathered and were engaged in a game of tag. The old woman looked on still in awe at a Childs ability to recover from traumatic events. The ambulance had left just ten minutes ago but already the children had returned to the same state as they were before the accident. Without thinking she knelt down and picked up the baseball which was at her feet and walked back into her house to finish her dinner. As she walked into the kitchen she thought she smelt something but put it down to her imagination. Once she finished eating she put her left overs in the bin outside. It was then she discovered the baseball she had put in her pocket, she stared at it for a moment before she threw it over her fence into the neighbors bin. She lit her cigarette and walked back into her house. The resulting explosion caused by the gas leek being lit by her cigarette rocked the whole neighborhood.
Charlie was always alone. Being the smallest and youngest kid in the neighborhood he always felt the other kids picked on him. They would call him names and throw things at him, sometimes he wished he was dead. That would show them, they would be sorry they were so mean to him then. At this moment he was standing alone in the shade of a tree near the road. As he watched the other children play he began to cry, even the new kid in the neighborhood had been allowed to play there game. The new kid was the son of a local baseball hero and all of the kids wanted to play with him. They had started a game of baseball and had picked two teams but told Charlie he was too small to play. As he watched them play the baseball was hit out of the green and rolled out onto the road near Charlie. Seeing his chance Charlie rushed out to pickup the baseball. As his hand grasped the ball he looked up to see a man in black standing on the side of the road directly in front of him, where no one had stood seconds before. Charlie froze as he looked at this man and then something hit him from his left. Charlie’s body flew through the air and his last though was that perhaps now that he had gotten the ball the other kids would let him play. As the bus skidded to a halt one of it passengers began to scream.
Being new in town sucked but when you were the son of a sports star you had to learn to make friends fast. His father was always changing teams or moving into a new rented house. This was the latest in a long line of teams who had bought his fathers ability but this could be the last. His father had been playing bad for the past few months and this was the only pro team who were still interested in him. The kid walked into his father’s room, picked up the baseball from his father’s bed and went out to meet the local kids. He failed to notice through the half open bathroom door, his father’s lifeless body hanging from the light switch.
THUMP. The man who had been burning papers snapped back to reality as he heard the sound. Looking down he saw a baseball had fallen into the flames. He stared at it for a moment as it began to unravel in the heat and wondered at the events that had led to this ball being left in his bin. As the ball burned the man in black shrank back in to the shadows from where he had come.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Process
Posts are transcribed predominantly from the frontal lobe area of my brain onto feint ruled A4 size paper, using a black “Imperial” Conway Stewart ballpoint pen, sometime between the hours of two and five a.m.The paper is carefully torn from a brown Cartier Refill Pad which originally contained eighty leaves. However, at present only thirty-four feint ruled leaves remain. Each page or leaf has a thin, royal red margin.
Next the finished handwritten script is sent away to be typed up by a dedicated team of criminals and degenerates, while they await execution for the diabolical crime of original thought. A crime, which in many instances they are innocent of.
When the typing process is completed and the post is published on the site “Retard Vegas”, the handwritten copy is shredded using a Hewlett Packard 3300C ShredJet. This data is then separated into the lovely consonants that we all know and love, and the evil vowels which decent society loathes.
First, the horrible vowels are cast haphazardly into the core of a nuclear reactor along with the afters of a gypsy wedding.
Then, the wholesome consonants are carefully inserted into a particle accelerator where they collide at high speeds with other consonants causing them to fuse together, ultimately creating new words. This process is particularly significant as it allows the formation of words without resorting to the use those of backstabbing vowels.
However, the high-speed collisions produced in the particle accelerator can occasionally cause the consonants to become unstuck in time, so to speak.
Unfortunately for everyone, these dissident consonants are usually deposited somewhere between 40 and 200 B.C., where they are used as the literary source for the Bible of St. Paul.
The Author fervently regrets this unfortunate side effect of the Blogging Process and wishes to express his deepest sympathy to anyone who has suffered at the elongated and freakish hands of boredom.
Next the finished handwritten script is sent away to be typed up by a dedicated team of criminals and degenerates, while they await execution for the diabolical crime of original thought. A crime, which in many instances they are innocent of.
When the typing process is completed and the post is published on the site “Retard Vegas”, the handwritten copy is shredded using a Hewlett Packard 3300C ShredJet. This data is then separated into the lovely consonants that we all know and love, and the evil vowels which decent society loathes.
First, the horrible vowels are cast haphazardly into the core of a nuclear reactor along with the afters of a gypsy wedding.
Then, the wholesome consonants are carefully inserted into a particle accelerator where they collide at high speeds with other consonants causing them to fuse together, ultimately creating new words. This process is particularly significant as it allows the formation of words without resorting to the use those of backstabbing vowels.
However, the high-speed collisions produced in the particle accelerator can occasionally cause the consonants to become unstuck in time, so to speak.
Unfortunately for everyone, these dissident consonants are usually deposited somewhere between 40 and 200 B.C., where they are used as the literary source for the Bible of St. Paul.
The Author fervently regrets this unfortunate side effect of the Blogging Process and wishes to express his deepest sympathy to anyone who has suffered at the elongated and freakish hands of boredom.
A Head in Crisis
In the wet town dry mouths scream for water.
Rampaging rape mobs stampede to earthy ecstasy as death squads stalk the ravaged rooftops, snatching military choppers out of the air like butterflies. The liquid death of the streets turned mosquito rivers; greet those attempting to escape the city’s escalating lawlessness.
It is something resembling day. A balding captain and a hairy young man are moving through the chin deep flood mire, approaching each other from opposite sides of what was at some point in time a street. After an indeterminate lapse of time the two men draw level, or should I say their heads draw level, for that is all of both men that is visible.
A third man sitting on the balcony of a fourth story apartment eating breakfast, is struck by the similarity between the scene before him and a dream he had two nights previously, involving talking heads, a horse and a monkey. Having monitored their slow progress through the floodwater, he now observes the heads as they begin to talk.
Captain: Hey Beardo! Did you forget to shave this morning soldier?
Beardo (laughing nervously): Oh no I’m not in the army, I’m a reporter actually, for the Limerick Leader. It’s a newspaper in Ireland.
Captain: Don’t you know me soldier?
Beardo: No.
Captain: Where’s the rest of the division? You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t recognize me. You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I found you! I made you what you are now; I turned you into someone new. Five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet; success has been so easy for you!
Beardo: What the hell are you talking about you bloody mentalist?
Captain: The Division of Joy, soldier.
Beardo: I have no idea what that is.
Just then the head of the Beardo heard a sound that can only be described as the noise a gun makes when it is cocked under water. This alarmed the Beard, as he was familiar with such a sound, having cocked under water himself several times in his secret past.
Beardo: Take it easy man! Drop the gun!
Captain (raising the gun to his head): Love, love will tear us apart.
Beardo (Screams): No!
But the Captain’s head did not hear the Beard because it had a large bullet hole in it. The dead head sank beneath the oily surface and the Beard began to cry for a bit because no matter how much he hated the Captain for taking away his childhood, he still loved him for rescuing him from the cut throat world of waitressing, giving him a home in the religious/ military sect known as “The Division of Joy”, and ultimately taking him to the pinnacle of natural disaster journalism. And the Beard was silent for a time.
Meanwhile, it was all going to plan for the man on the balcony. Having finished his breakfast, he was meditating on the power of dreams and how they are really a form of time travel, as a horse with a monkey on it’s back, came swimming merrily down the street. Both (living) human heads looked on in amazement and both were equally touched inside, though in different places, by this fantastic, horse/ monkey combo.
“Pride is the real enemy, not the Black Panthers”, pondered the Beard as he moved off in the direction of the east, a head in crisis, not really knowing where he was going or what lay in store for him but inconsequentially getting closer to Mecca, among other things.
Rampaging rape mobs stampede to earthy ecstasy as death squads stalk the ravaged rooftops, snatching military choppers out of the air like butterflies. The liquid death of the streets turned mosquito rivers; greet those attempting to escape the city’s escalating lawlessness.
It is something resembling day. A balding captain and a hairy young man are moving through the chin deep flood mire, approaching each other from opposite sides of what was at some point in time a street. After an indeterminate lapse of time the two men draw level, or should I say their heads draw level, for that is all of both men that is visible.
A third man sitting on the balcony of a fourth story apartment eating breakfast, is struck by the similarity between the scene before him and a dream he had two nights previously, involving talking heads, a horse and a monkey. Having monitored their slow progress through the floodwater, he now observes the heads as they begin to talk.
Captain: Hey Beardo! Did you forget to shave this morning soldier?
Beardo (laughing nervously): Oh no I’m not in the army, I’m a reporter actually, for the Limerick Leader. It’s a newspaper in Ireland.
Captain: Don’t you know me soldier?
Beardo: No.
Captain: Where’s the rest of the division? You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t recognize me. You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I found you! I made you what you are now; I turned you into someone new. Five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet; success has been so easy for you!
Beardo: What the hell are you talking about you bloody mentalist?
Captain: The Division of Joy, soldier.
Beardo: I have no idea what that is.
Just then the head of the Beardo heard a sound that can only be described as the noise a gun makes when it is cocked under water. This alarmed the Beard, as he was familiar with such a sound, having cocked under water himself several times in his secret past.
Beardo: Take it easy man! Drop the gun!
Captain (raising the gun to his head): Love, love will tear us apart.
Beardo (Screams): No!
But the Captain’s head did not hear the Beard because it had a large bullet hole in it. The dead head sank beneath the oily surface and the Beard began to cry for a bit because no matter how much he hated the Captain for taking away his childhood, he still loved him for rescuing him from the cut throat world of waitressing, giving him a home in the religious/ military sect known as “The Division of Joy”, and ultimately taking him to the pinnacle of natural disaster journalism. And the Beard was silent for a time.
Meanwhile, it was all going to plan for the man on the balcony. Having finished his breakfast, he was meditating on the power of dreams and how they are really a form of time travel, as a horse with a monkey on it’s back, came swimming merrily down the street. Both (living) human heads looked on in amazement and both were equally touched inside, though in different places, by this fantastic, horse/ monkey combo.
“Pride is the real enemy, not the Black Panthers”, pondered the Beard as he moved off in the direction of the east, a head in crisis, not really knowing where he was going or what lay in store for him but inconsequentially getting closer to Mecca, among other things.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
The Closet
When I got to the house it was already engulfed in flames. I knew that Jack was still inside and rushed through the front door. As the flames licked the sky I searched for my friend. I knew where he would be and when I burst into his bedroom I saw him lying on the floor in front of his closet. I dragged him out into the cool night air and checked if he was still breathing. To my relief he was and I lay on the ground beside him. I looked up at the clear night sky, listening to the approaching sirens and tried to figure out the circumstances that had led me to this.
I had been sitting at home half asleep when the phone rang. Answering it I heard the panicked voice of my friend Jack muttering incomprehensibly into the phone.
"Calm down, Calm down" I said suddenly awake.
"Its true, it’s all true. I always knew some thing but not his I... can’t... don’t understand," he stuttered. “The closet, it’s the closet I told you about it. I knew it"
In my mind images, situations and the edges of conversation flickered into thought. Stories he had told me of sleepless nights feelings of dread and foreboding all because of his closet. As a child he had thought it haunted as, a teenager it haunted his dreams to this day he said he couldn’t go near it with out feeling like some one was watching him.
"What about the closet Jack. I don’t understand, what happened?" I said my mind still racing with images of disaster.
"We were doing renovations on the house and we were knocking through my closet as usual the builders were about three weeks late. I was outside when the builder came to get me. They had knocked through the wall of the closet but had not gotten straight into the bathroom as they had expected but had found a space of about two foot. The only thing that was in this space was an old chair. I ran inside to see this but when I got to my room and looked into the closet I collapsed on the floor.
In my mind ...at least I think it was in my mind I woke up on a mud path. As I got up and look around I saw I stood in an old fashioned village with a wooden wall round it. The main gate was open and a cart was coming through. I saw people talking but although there mouths moved I couldn’t hear anything. I noticed people began turning towards the gate and move away. As I turned to where they were looking I saw men streaming through the gate swords held high cutting through men, women and children. I was routed to the ground I stood transfixed as the slaughter enfolded before me. I soon noticed one figure in black more cruel than the rest. Although his back was to me I could see he twisted his sword as he pulled it from the dead and his body shook as if he laughed. I approached him and was right behind him when he turned. I couldn’t see his face as a mask covered it. No sooner had he turned than I collapsed once more.
I awoke this time on a wooden floor I got up and walked towards a door which opened into a dinning hall. From the clothes and physical appearance of the people I knew that this was a soup kitchen which was used in the famine. The mainly women and children who crashed past me had looks of dread on there faces. Bodies of dead children lay all over the place and again the man in black was weigh ding through them again with his back to me. I knew it was the same person and ran towards him, once more he turned to face me and I collapsed.
I awoke in a garden in front of my house but something was different. The car in the drive way looked like it belonged in the 40's. I immediately ran to the front door and tried to warn who ever was inside of this maniac I banged on the door and when no one answered I tried to look in the window. I saw movement and was filled with dread. I kicked the front door in and saw the first body, as I walked through the house I found two dead adults and the bodies of three young children. Before I entered my room I knew what I would find, as I walked in I immediately looked at the figure in black sitting in my closet on the chair. Although his face was masked I could feel his hatred as he stared at me and I collapsed.
When I awoke the builders said I had only been out for a few moments. I sent them home and have been trying to figure out what had happened ever since." He droned out to me as if he was watching the scenes unfold in his mind.
"Well did he look familiar? Did you know him? Was there anything familiar about him" I said slightly panicked.
Only silence answered my questions. I knew something was wrong as I rushed over.
Now lying on the grass I couldn’t figure out what had happened to him. The sirens were only moments away and I prayed they would speed up.
Jack suddenly coughed and leapt up.
"NO....." he screamed.
I stepped towards him to try to calm him down but he continued to scream.
"YOU DONT UNDERSTAND" he screamed looking around" HIS FACE, THE MASKED FACE. I SAW WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE" He grabbed me so hard I wince and he presses his face close to mine.
"It was the face of my grandfather...............MY FACE."
He turned and ran into the burning building. I stood stunned as the police and fire brigade rushed around me shouting and pushing me. As the roof of Jack Egan’s house caved in I collapsed.
I had been sitting at home half asleep when the phone rang. Answering it I heard the panicked voice of my friend Jack muttering incomprehensibly into the phone.
"Calm down, Calm down" I said suddenly awake.
"Its true, it’s all true. I always knew some thing but not his I... can’t... don’t understand," he stuttered. “The closet, it’s the closet I told you about it. I knew it"
In my mind images, situations and the edges of conversation flickered into thought. Stories he had told me of sleepless nights feelings of dread and foreboding all because of his closet. As a child he had thought it haunted as, a teenager it haunted his dreams to this day he said he couldn’t go near it with out feeling like some one was watching him.
"What about the closet Jack. I don’t understand, what happened?" I said my mind still racing with images of disaster.
"We were doing renovations on the house and we were knocking through my closet as usual the builders were about three weeks late. I was outside when the builder came to get me. They had knocked through the wall of the closet but had not gotten straight into the bathroom as they had expected but had found a space of about two foot. The only thing that was in this space was an old chair. I ran inside to see this but when I got to my room and looked into the closet I collapsed on the floor.
In my mind ...at least I think it was in my mind I woke up on a mud path. As I got up and look around I saw I stood in an old fashioned village with a wooden wall round it. The main gate was open and a cart was coming through. I saw people talking but although there mouths moved I couldn’t hear anything. I noticed people began turning towards the gate and move away. As I turned to where they were looking I saw men streaming through the gate swords held high cutting through men, women and children. I was routed to the ground I stood transfixed as the slaughter enfolded before me. I soon noticed one figure in black more cruel than the rest. Although his back was to me I could see he twisted his sword as he pulled it from the dead and his body shook as if he laughed. I approached him and was right behind him when he turned. I couldn’t see his face as a mask covered it. No sooner had he turned than I collapsed once more.
I awoke this time on a wooden floor I got up and walked towards a door which opened into a dinning hall. From the clothes and physical appearance of the people I knew that this was a soup kitchen which was used in the famine. The mainly women and children who crashed past me had looks of dread on there faces. Bodies of dead children lay all over the place and again the man in black was weigh ding through them again with his back to me. I knew it was the same person and ran towards him, once more he turned to face me and I collapsed.
I awoke in a garden in front of my house but something was different. The car in the drive way looked like it belonged in the 40's. I immediately ran to the front door and tried to warn who ever was inside of this maniac I banged on the door and when no one answered I tried to look in the window. I saw movement and was filled with dread. I kicked the front door in and saw the first body, as I walked through the house I found two dead adults and the bodies of three young children. Before I entered my room I knew what I would find, as I walked in I immediately looked at the figure in black sitting in my closet on the chair. Although his face was masked I could feel his hatred as he stared at me and I collapsed.
When I awoke the builders said I had only been out for a few moments. I sent them home and have been trying to figure out what had happened ever since." He droned out to me as if he was watching the scenes unfold in his mind.
"Well did he look familiar? Did you know him? Was there anything familiar about him" I said slightly panicked.
Only silence answered my questions. I knew something was wrong as I rushed over.
Now lying on the grass I couldn’t figure out what had happened to him. The sirens were only moments away and I prayed they would speed up.
Jack suddenly coughed and leapt up.
"NO....." he screamed.
I stepped towards him to try to calm him down but he continued to scream.
"YOU DONT UNDERSTAND" he screamed looking around" HIS FACE, THE MASKED FACE. I SAW WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE" He grabbed me so hard I wince and he presses his face close to mine.
"It was the face of my grandfather...............MY FACE."
He turned and ran into the burning building. I stood stunned as the police and fire brigade rushed around me shouting and pushing me. As the roof of Jack Egan’s house caved in I collapsed.
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