deliquesce (v)
To melt, dissolve or become fluid.
"After that it didn't take long for her to touch his lips and deliquesce into his arms."
--Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
I'm clearly not living in a Salman Rushdie novel. The MG life is more like this: My wyfe heaves an iceberg into the kitchen sink (she's defrosting the fridge), and I stand there making it slowly deliquesce with hot water from the tap. Why? I don't know, but there is something meditative or even hypnotic about the process.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Way I Feel
Taking the recycling out to the street last night, my very presence startled some female next-door neighbor who was sitting on her front steps enjoying the dark and the unseasonal heat (and probably some mind-altering substance). She screamed and giggled, which startled ME. Yeah, I'm a scary one.... I have 127 friends on Facebook now. Still lonely.... Dentist tomorrow and doctor on Friday. They're routine check-ups, but I hate that waiting room stuff with the stale magazines and living-room-in-Hell ambiance.... Always feel slightly nervous after watching L O S T, as if these things were happening to real people -- people I might meet IRL if I got too close to a big electro-magnet....
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Random Sequence
Scenario 4 (excerpt 2)
The sleepwalker trips over the derringer on his way to the kitchen. He wakes up on the floor and mutters, "tomfoolery".
He sits up and waves his hands around for a few seconds like an orchestra conductor, remembering the Stravinksy and especially the arpeggio. He laughs and picks up the derringer, holds it to his temple and laughs some more. Then he stands up and puts the gun on the table.
He picks up his phone and presses seven.
"Hello?" a woman says.
He makes a kissing noise.
"Who is this?" says the woman.
He makes a clicking noise with his tongue.
"Who is this?"
"Tom."
"Oh." She makes a clicking noise with her tongue.
"Night." He sets the phone down on the table.
He picks up the gun and shoots a hole in the wall. A picture of a fat, red tomato falls to the floor.
"Hello?" the woman says. "Hello?" "Hello?"
The sleepwalker trips over the derringer on his way to the kitchen. He wakes up on the floor and mutters, "tomfoolery".
He sits up and waves his hands around for a few seconds like an orchestra conductor, remembering the Stravinksy and especially the arpeggio. He laughs and picks up the derringer, holds it to his temple and laughs some more. Then he stands up and puts the gun on the table.
He picks up his phone and presses seven.
"Hello?" a woman says.
He makes a kissing noise.
"Who is this?" says the woman.
He makes a clicking noise with his tongue.
"Who is this?"
"Tom."
"Oh." She makes a clicking noise with her tongue.
"Night." He sets the phone down on the table.
He picks up the gun and shoots a hole in the wall. A picture of a fat, red tomato falls to the floor.
"Hello?" the woman says. "Hello?" "Hello?"
Monday, April 05, 2010
Photo of the Week
I am related to this happy bunch, especially, apparently, to the fellow holding the branch on the left -- Elias Gates, my great, great, great. I wish it was a clearer photo, but I feel lucky to have come across this photo at all, courtesy of the genealogical investigations of my brother-in-law. (Click to see it bigger and marvel at the...resemblance?)
Sunday, April 04, 2010
The T&T List
Michael of Ephesus
Dražen Funtak
alt.gothic
Bohemian Forest
Bergen Point
Kaoru Mori
Innespace Seabreacher
Buddha's Hand
Baja
Wolf Robe
Rasputin and the Empress
Mekitsa
Dražen Funtak
alt.gothic
Bohemian Forest
Bergen Point
Kaoru Mori
Innespace Seabreacher
Buddha's Hand
Baja
Wolf Robe
Rasputin and the Empress
Mekitsa
Friday, April 02, 2010
Idle Chatter
A: Easter is crap. How could somebody come back from the dead? That's crazy. That's superstition.
B: Oh, I don't know. I've come back from the dead a few times, I think.
A: Huh?
B: I've been there. Been down so far I thought I could never get up. I've seen the bottom.
A: Now you're getting all symbolic on me.
B: Metaphorical.
A: Whatever! You're talking about despair. I'm talking about dead. As in kickin it. Buying the farm. Deceased.
B: You're talking about the body. I'm talking about the mind.
A: Oh, well, I guess you've gone and come back a few times then.
B: Yeah, I lost it, you know. Lost my mind. Was lost and then found.
A: But that's not like being dead.
B: It's worse than being dead.
A: How would you know?
B: There's no such thing as "being" dead. If you're dead, you're not "being" at all.
A: Now you're playing games. Word games.
B: There are some things that words cannot express. Some experiences. You have to use metaphors.
A: So you don't think anybody can come back from the dead?
B: If they did, would you believe they were ever really dead?
A: No.
B: Well, there you are. No one comes back. They never really went.
A: It just seems like it.
B: On a certain level. In a certain way of looking at it.
A: No miracles then. No Easter.
B: Oh, I didn't say that. What's a miracle? You pull up a weed and another weed grows in its place.
A: But it's not the same weed.
B: That's it, isn't it? This idea that it has to be the same one. What does it mean to be the same? Am I the "same" person I was 10 years ago?
A: Similar.
B: But not the same.
A: No.
B: And what kind of person never changes?
A: A dead one.
B: Mmm hmm.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Quote of the Day: Laura Harring
"...And I'm working with the David Lynch Foundation as a goodwill ambassador, so I'm meeting with David and the rumor is that he's writing something. So we don't know what the future holds. I see another movie in David's future, that's for sure.
That you might be a part of?
(Laughs.) I can say no more."
More here.
That you might be a part of?
(Laughs.) I can say no more."
More here.
Word of the Day: callithumping
callithumping (adj)
Loud, noisy, boisterous.
"It was only when the thing exploded later, into a fire-eating callithumping fat lady freak tent cinema-circus, that I began to understand the thing as a story. When they figured out who Derek Brownlow was, and what it meant."
--Emily Arsenault, The Broken Teaglass
I often think of "things" as stories. I sometimes feel like someone in a novel or film. I mentally collect situations that I can write about. I get interested in certain people because they seem like characters to me -- meaning they aren't boring. I guess I'm a...writer.
Loud, noisy, boisterous.
"It was only when the thing exploded later, into a fire-eating callithumping fat lady freak tent cinema-circus, that I began to understand the thing as a story. When they figured out who Derek Brownlow was, and what it meant."
--Emily Arsenault, The Broken Teaglass
I often think of "things" as stories. I sometimes feel like someone in a novel or film. I mentally collect situations that I can write about. I get interested in certain people because they seem like characters to me -- meaning they aren't boring. I guess I'm a...writer.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wrapped in Plastic
I like to roam about the neighborhood on weekends and photograph oddities. (Click the pic for a close up.)
'Shoot, Luke, or give up the gun'
Skedaddle over to Old West Slang and Phrases, A Writer's Guide for a bang-up, hog-killin' time. It's ace-high and according to Hoyle. Twig?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Rogues' Gallery
Like they just stepped out of Oliver Twist: Pictures of drunks arrested in Victorian England, circa 1903.
What's more interesting, to me, than the antique mugshots on this site (though they are an eyeful) are the professions listed for the "drunk and disorderly" miscreants, including:
wood chopper
polisher
tube drawer
bedstead polisher
hawker
grease merchant
packer
canvasser
Jappaner
What's a "tube drawer"? A "Jappaner"? How does one make a living as a "bedstead polisher"? Or is that some euphemism?
A lot of these people, even if they are listed as bricklayers or prostitutes, are extremely well-dressed by contemporary standards: jackets, ties, fancy hats, etc. I guess they were out for a night on the town, got tipsy, got arrested -- and in some cases got sentenced to weeks of "hard labour". Sheesh.
What's more interesting, to me, than the antique mugshots on this site (though they are an eyeful) are the professions listed for the "drunk and disorderly" miscreants, including:
wood chopper
polisher
tube drawer
bedstead polisher
hawker
grease merchant
packer
canvasser
Jappaner
What's a "tube drawer"? A "Jappaner"? How does one make a living as a "bedstead polisher"? Or is that some euphemism?
A lot of these people, even if they are listed as bricklayers or prostitutes, are extremely well-dressed by contemporary standards: jackets, ties, fancy hats, etc. I guess they were out for a night on the town, got tipsy, got arrested -- and in some cases got sentenced to weeks of "hard labour". Sheesh.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Microfiction: 'The Lady in the Lamp'
Ivan was exhausted. After an inexplicably sleepless night, it had been a long day at work, filled with obscure technical problems that had turned his 9 to 5 into a 9 to 8. He was walking home from the train station, feeling half in the real world and half in some photo-realistic hallucination that was only enhanced by his head cold. Then it began to rain. He reached into his backpack. No umbrella. He had forgotten it again.
As the downpour intensified, he looked around for some temporary shelter. A flashing neon sign drew his eye. It said "Vesuvius." Ivan had trod this route from the station to his home many times, but he had never noticed this establishment before. It looked like a bar-restaurant. The windows were tinted so dark as to be impenetrable, but a soft, orange-tinged glow from the glass door seemed inviting. He went in.
The landscape of the interior was strange in only one respect: the round tables, covered with black tablecloths, had what appeared to be flames shooting out of their centers. It took Ivan a few seconds to realize that these were lava lamps filled with glowing, floating, throbbing blobs of orange or blue. Only a few people were sitting at tables or at the bar in the back of the room. "Sit anywhere," a voice said.
He ordered a brandy and a muffin and, inevitably, found himself staring at the lava lamp before him. The brandy made him even sleepier, and the slowly rising and falling orange blobs inside the lamp were hypnotically relaxing. After a while, the largest blob began to morph into a face, a woman's face with large, almond-shaped eyes and sensuous lips. Ivan snorted and said, "Who might you be?" -- to himself, not expecting any answer.
"I am the genie of the lamp," the face said in a muffled, gurgling, but decidedly female voice.
"Oh my god, of course you are!" said Ivan, snickering. "And you're going to grant me three wishes, huh?"
"No," said the blob. "I can't while I'm inside this lamp. You would have to release me."
"How?" Ivan said.
"Break it open?" said he blob.
Ivan wasn't about to do that. He didn't believe in genies or wishes or talking lava lamps. He assumed he was in some kind of hypnagogic state brought on by exhaustion, a head cold and brandy. But there didn't seem to be any harm in playing along with this little fantasy he was having.
"No way. I'm not going to make a mess and cause a scene here. And those three-wishes stories always end badly. You're not real anyway," he said.
The blob laughed, and gurgled, "That's what they all think...at first."
"Well, are there any little magic tricks you can do for me while you're stuck in there?" Ivan asked.
"No, but I can answer questions, if you like," the blob replied. "Questions about the future."
"Like a fortune teller?"
"Yes, like a fortune teller. Except I can tell you nothing about the stock market or lottery numbers or things of that nature."
Ivan giggled. "Then what good are you?"
"I can answer personal questions," said the blob. "You have already thought of one, have you not?"
It was true. Ivan did have a question he wanted answered, something he'd been thinking a lot about lately. "It's hard to put into words," he said. "I want to know if, if I'll ever have a...a moment of clarity."
The blob smiled at this.
"I want to know if a time will come when I'll know that every strange thing that's happened to me means something. That I made the right decisions. That I did the right things, took the right chances -- that it will all, finally, make some weird kind of sense. That life was worth living. That I'm not just a loser stumbling randomly through an absurd world."
"I can answer that if you're ready to hear the answer," said the blob.
"Another brandy, sir?" Interrupted the waiter. Ivan was startled and sat up straight in his chair. As he did so, his foot kicked against a cord under the table. Instantly, the lamp went dark and the blob-face sank into the ooze at the bottom.
"Sir?"
"No, thanks," Ivan said. "Not yet. I don’t think I'm ready yet."
As the downpour intensified, he looked around for some temporary shelter. A flashing neon sign drew his eye. It said "Vesuvius." Ivan had trod this route from the station to his home many times, but he had never noticed this establishment before. It looked like a bar-restaurant. The windows were tinted so dark as to be impenetrable, but a soft, orange-tinged glow from the glass door seemed inviting. He went in.
The landscape of the interior was strange in only one respect: the round tables, covered with black tablecloths, had what appeared to be flames shooting out of their centers. It took Ivan a few seconds to realize that these were lava lamps filled with glowing, floating, throbbing blobs of orange or blue. Only a few people were sitting at tables or at the bar in the back of the room. "Sit anywhere," a voice said.
He ordered a brandy and a muffin and, inevitably, found himself staring at the lava lamp before him. The brandy made him even sleepier, and the slowly rising and falling orange blobs inside the lamp were hypnotically relaxing. After a while, the largest blob began to morph into a face, a woman's face with large, almond-shaped eyes and sensuous lips. Ivan snorted and said, "Who might you be?" -- to himself, not expecting any answer.
"I am the genie of the lamp," the face said in a muffled, gurgling, but decidedly female voice.
"Oh my god, of course you are!" said Ivan, snickering. "And you're going to grant me three wishes, huh?"
"No," said the blob. "I can't while I'm inside this lamp. You would have to release me."
"How?" Ivan said.
"Break it open?" said he blob.
Ivan wasn't about to do that. He didn't believe in genies or wishes or talking lava lamps. He assumed he was in some kind of hypnagogic state brought on by exhaustion, a head cold and brandy. But there didn't seem to be any harm in playing along with this little fantasy he was having.
"No way. I'm not going to make a mess and cause a scene here. And those three-wishes stories always end badly. You're not real anyway," he said.
The blob laughed, and gurgled, "That's what they all think...at first."
"Well, are there any little magic tricks you can do for me while you're stuck in there?" Ivan asked.
"No, but I can answer questions, if you like," the blob replied. "Questions about the future."
"Like a fortune teller?"
"Yes, like a fortune teller. Except I can tell you nothing about the stock market or lottery numbers or things of that nature."
Ivan giggled. "Then what good are you?"
"I can answer personal questions," said the blob. "You have already thought of one, have you not?"
It was true. Ivan did have a question he wanted answered, something he'd been thinking a lot about lately. "It's hard to put into words," he said. "I want to know if, if I'll ever have a...a moment of clarity."
The blob smiled at this.
"I want to know if a time will come when I'll know that every strange thing that's happened to me means something. That I made the right decisions. That I did the right things, took the right chances -- that it will all, finally, make some weird kind of sense. That life was worth living. That I'm not just a loser stumbling randomly through an absurd world."
"I can answer that if you're ready to hear the answer," said the blob.
"Another brandy, sir?" Interrupted the waiter. Ivan was startled and sat up straight in his chair. As he did so, his foot kicked against a cord under the table. Instantly, the lamp went dark and the blob-face sank into the ooze at the bottom.
"Sir?"
"No, thanks," Ivan said. "Not yet. I don’t think I'm ready yet."
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