timeline: The Bamboo Book Archives

February 17, 2008

NYC Limits - 2 - Ostia

NYC Limits - 2 - OSTIA

Ostia, late in the morning. After the rain, on the beach, the haze is a cloud of children. Cora sits slacking at a round tripod hanging on the bums at the front porch of a bar shack. On the table a Dior and a Razor. Every five minutes the phone beeps. Cora is going the distance on a puffy roasted croissant filled with thick chocolate cream. Vanilla snowflakes are everywhere: on her fingers, lips, on the black tank-top and on her knees.

A rainbow-striped smack back from a fishing trip hits the shore. Two men are dragging over the sand amidst a crowd of supporting kids, then dock boxes are dropped. Fish is being sold on the spot, at the shoreline, to a growing audience of passers-by.

Cora is fixed on the scene, reminded by the sugar to give her crescent a take.

A morsel falls down splashed on by the phone a quarter of a second later while she detangles from the chair's frame and runs inside the shack. Everything is covered in sand. The flip-phone opens and rings.

Cora grabs a bottle of red wine from under the counter, backs into the light with a victorious cheer, takes a sip then digs the bottle half into the sand, picks up the flashing phone and answers.

- They only trust their Tamiflu. I closed for 28 millions, including hedging on most of the hairy assets. That makes me not exactly happy -

At the other end a soothing voice is crossing legs, moisturizing lips on a glass of Gordon's and sharpening on an ice cube.

- We're liquidating, not taking a bet. Is a good price. When you don't have to give a blow to each of these morons with the package you buy my smile. I'm waiting for you here. Enjoy the weekend.

Struck by warm acquaintance and thrown back into early afternoon, she looks deranged on the leftovers with plans growing to get drunk on the way back to the Hotel. With the Italian allies in the black and a second bottle of wine fit in the suitcase Cora is swiftly getting into her wheeler and on the road to downtown.

The phone, discharging on the passenger's seat, rings several times unanswered. On the fifth call, blinded by the sunlight on the rearview mirror, Cora answers the phone.

- He called?

- I would say yes, yes - She laughs.

- He was here early morning. I'll see him at 3 pm.

- I will most definitely get jealous. Are you going to fuck him?

- Have to think about that. He's quite focused.

- I know and that's my problem. Now I just want to get wasted.

- Take care

Drops the phone ends under her seat and for a while stops beeping. Sticks Dior on and speeds up to her Sheraton's cube. Out of the Mini it's 4 pm and she's framed into the security cam with bright green eyes wide open. Lipstick half gone, half a guesswork, busy with the memories of her conversation and on the stairs to her place Cora opens the suitcase against the door. The red wine is barely fluttering in the bottle.

Posted by lck at 10:01 PM

February 15, 2008

NYC Limits - 1 - Keren Surrender

NYC Limits - 1 - KEREN SURRENDER

Keren sits alone on the blue leather couch by the window. It’s early morning. She is brushing her long white hair. The sound of suspensions cracks panning from left to the right of the room. Keren is wearing a white Waffle and is barefoot. She is loose, content.

Jimmy Dean sits legs crossed on the vinyl, office-dressed, Reebok Flip and rolled-up sleeves. A thin aluminum suitcase lies by, open and empty. Jimmy looks confused, waves hands. Although he is talking to Keren he is expecting her to ignore him.

- I thought it was the right thing to do. You know me. (whispering) I could not tell she was about to turn me down. Not like that. Not like that -

Nailing on his flap…

- You know, you were the one with a crush on her, I really… last week in Paris, both, did she smile and say anything to you? Or was it the market roller-band and hotel rooms? Did you sleep at Clad Sweeney?

Jimmy pauses, pushes on his legs up to the wall then hangs starring at Keren in silence. Keren is done brushing and is now turning to Jimmy with and idle face.

Jimmy walks to the blue couch and sits next to Keren, opens arms to embrace the cushion behind him and takes a deep breath. Keren turns to the man then speaks, marking every word.

- We were somewhere. Paris… or something. Had more sex than we usually get from these trips. She did not turn you down. You sank the whole affair yourself -

Keren is starring, awaiting, slowly tracking Jim’s breathing and wavering her hands on his lips and neck. The hairbrush has been dropped. Jimmy is amused by the girl’s sudden re-calibrating, legs crossed, toes pushing.

- I could not pronounce her name. We dug the metro and wringing the sadness in cinema-scope coloring at 3 in the morning, a gorgeous, sun-kissed Friday morning like now. I wished you were with us on the up and downs of the vodka outbreak. I really missed you -

- Up next Riverside, Jimmy. Coffee is at 3. Cora is in Rome on the Citi swaps with UBS and stuck up to Sunday. I have an audition in 40 minutes at Atkinson. Just don’t call her -

As the noise from the awakening cloud of chemistry outside starts pouring in Keren disappears.

Jimmy staring at the camera relived, his muscles relaxed. There are after all so many things, he thinks, for him to love.

Posted by lck at 09:09 PM

January 25, 2008

Coney Island

On the shine of a sunset beach
bicycles on the boy's birthday
fast moving shadows
scratch a twist of stars
in the sand the young boys
pull to picture the scene
now you tell me
breathing and laughing thru your skin
in waves between magazines the rain
the sunshine stumbles in repentance
and though I'd like to laugh
at all the things around us
in the harsh light of day
somehow back though the wavering weeds
like a paper plane in the sun
I'm diving

Posted by lck at 11:10 PM

January 01, 2008

Feathers - 8 - Quartet

Look around the scene
everyone is dancing
some dead some imagined
some hit the street.

Crack in a motel room
stretch out your hands
like a compass
your practical balance.

Widen to gather
a fine world
the glint of a light
touch-tone your way out.

Posted by lck at 12:36 AM

December 31, 2007

Feathers - 7 - Sweet Sweet Candy

The sea to its leaves,
the waves to their darkness.

With no ease down
the old language sleeps
through the fire
on a breath
on a step
a subject where
repetition
a body walking
each night into the minutes
trying into existence
one must be careful
a thing or gesture
not attached to where
even darkness and night
have disappeared.

Someone should know
we're no longer human.

Posted by lck at 02:33 PM

December 30, 2007

Feathers - 6 - Lux Nox

They live on the fourth floor.
When they look out their window all they can see is the other window.
When they awake in the darkness on the phone is the other phone.

They don't know each other's names.

A wire-mesh barrel rolling every 30 seconds
at certain hours
between nightfall and morning.

Beyond the pane is green grass holding back.

He says people make him feel strange.
He knows all the old songs.
He’s fifty years now.
He has moved ahead.

The Winter’s Wheel tramples our singing.
Work out.
Don’t quail.

She stands along the pale dock-light.
She puts on some make-up.
She looks back at those forks along the way.
She has nothing to lose.

The old of the new world's steeples
against the window
nothing will know that you are gone.

What they survived.
What they could not live.
What they were.
What they stood with.

What by their lights is time to.

She didn't want to do
nothing
with anyone.

There's no anger or patience.

They live on the fourth floor.
When they open the door all they can see is the other door.
When they awake in the darkness the hand that shakes is the other hand.

Posted by lck at 02:28 PM

December 29, 2007

Feathers - 5 - Jesse

Whenever I write in numbers
to seal the water triple cap off
the drowned girl beneath
lifts her head by a slow degree

falls about her knees
like buds upon broken glass
the hands above the head
to get my headphones on.

Whenever I write in numbers
to black with civilization
these phantoms at their innocent gasp
lift glue upon my language run the route fall

in a tethered pose
like Jesse
the dark roses two years later
to a leaf of social furniture.

Whenever I write in numbers
to form a common breathing passage
the river that there alone we followed
lifts the art of each sung through

in walking paper
like the carrying skin
the vineyard stands
to trace our footsteps.

Posted by lck at 02:14 PM

December 28, 2007

Feathers - 4 - All I need

There's a hush in everything you do
a feeling across the words
 the waves conflected exert
wandering droplets of

your smile
touching places
within this teasing beauty
inside remains

short of the left side
a touch to stifle your steps
which leaves me feeling
you is all I need.

Sitting long after midnight
the eye begins to see the night
Julie and Candy
flowing with birds

after the rain stops
the landscape is another scene
and every rock drifts
but cannot leave

in the broad day
we come at last
which leaves me feeling
you is all I need.

Posted by lck at 02:10 PM

December 27, 2007

Feathers - 3 - Free-fall

Who we are and all they are
you know right here now
on the board but what comes first
comes along unnoticed

Sunda, Ayla, Reena, the little embrace we must
get to know the young air darker
as we rip for every ground
all that is missing we'll not know 

where I imagine her long fingers
have only ourselves to sell
 and if it grows holding its warmth
 to get the hang of it over the free-fall

and then dying off the nail shooting
at each passage
we have never risen
 from a slant of the evening sun

I picture her here
cracking over the details in her lap
I picture her here 
and no matter how long in grace.

Posted by lck at 02:08 PM

December 26, 2007

Feathers - 2 - To Walk, to learn

As the tides of human emergency
hitting the dive onstage
rejoice without hitting away
alive at both ends

I have begun
ten minutes past eleven
to refrain from representation
and retracing that it is another sixty minutes

as blood runs out like water
and circumstance irradiates the playground
bordering the cracked walks I walk
astounded

in the snow melted
shivered in the new wind formations
how clouds crumble
silently drifting

before I know
all I want to do
the clock moves to twenty one
as through complicity confidently forgotten

you separate the dark from the dark
to signal forty-four
the trees buck and quake
by the magnetic hectic bang

I know you do not know who I am
engaging downward from
warlike talent downcast glance
every torrent burns.

Posted by lck at 06:45 PM

December 25, 2007

Feathers - 1 - The Santa Rally

With the Santa rally well underway
behind the long arm of the law,
the crowd has it and the man in the straw hat stands in the red marquee under the ballroom.

The seasonal demand cycle,
the nocturnal pulse,
one need never leave
the front-run it and perhaps get smashed.

What happens to the O-ring when you're wrong,
talking in the tongues again
a band of light across a blade of grass,
when it was never

by a single gesture.
We would move back,
dancing too close,
arriving at the wooden gates.

It courses through the cables laid for,
it mounts to the candles and beats
tender,
blue like the sky

and changes all the time.
Involved with the surge,
in the one-day dialogue meeting,
confines of New York to grab the greenie.

Enjoy some other sign of my will that people do not,
entirely specific of breathing in the spring air,
I am always looking away
or again at something after the photo gallery.

Not yet 10 p.m.,
Ms. Greenhouse takes a drag of her cigarette,
smiles away sweetly.
I wrap myself in slanders.

Posted by lck at 07:48 PM

August 18, 2006

7

We go to the mountains and camp with the fire and lakes, the smell of mint and a chimney. It wasn’t you on the corner in White Avenue honestly I imagined it would spin me out of the picture. Out of the picture, next to the store with Bob, Kate and Lou, staring at all those other shells, rolling down the slide, speaking your team’s language, from nowhere to out there.

Taken in by the wind-works I watch the squirrels gather in the gallery sorting thru water throws some childhood game backwards. Once in the story when they snap off another click I rage to believe downstairs a really good cup of coffee across the tray awaiting for social investment. With the grass, the milk, the devoted family by the runway, a frame of the view someone else covers. Lookout your six when you curl up.

The shattering clouds cut the morning sun off then the line of purples after the storm glancing on the tiles, two wooden poles hold the frame and from their wet narrow track the billboard girls deflect in the other window, brushing where everything is lips closing in a chime of plums, oxygen, gold and regret. Pink as birthday balloons, light the rainbow emerges from the dull lake to the east, the running water, the billboard girls speak.

Humming in the air that masks us clear by the hundreds trafficking droplets of blood warming my hands then up on the beach for a minute. A thousand leaves chained to the air conditioner burst with a puff and roll in the snow speeding away. A thousand leaves for me to give the little laughing, drop the little chainsaw and fall asleep on the pillow.

I live in the land where the waterfall flows thru a pool and thru the ocean the sparrows revolve, the scale grows, a bump or a trail of miniatures, maps and insects crowding to meet me on this street. After and before every morning she gets on the phone and the couch, the wedding gift, a critical stance. I hold in until I begin typing when I step across the sleep I stretch at a fraction of a breath. This is part of what I like.

Two people in the room blinking, falling into place, painting. A backbone kicking and kicking to start the plot in every recess first in the needle. Everyone will work it out right about now.

I am dating no dramatic layouts but a collective fortune. In the face of deliberately misconstruing the wounding as a kind of case, disseminated, faked by frustration, the light indicates no coincidence. Boxes thru boxes, thru 27 miles of shrubby cactus then the 56-foot tall iron gate. You have arrived.

Posted by lck at 06:23 PM

June 08, 2006

Poetry takes time, we know that.

Poetry takes time, we know that.
Music (pop, puff) takes sometimes even more time.

On July 20th, 2005 I posted (under Creative Commons) the following post as part of Dead Engine. The plan was to have UnderWave, a local band, use the lyric for a song of theirs. I'm happy to report they finally did it and the track is now in the wild.

It is here

I like their blend of early Smith with moderately polished Velvet Underground. Can't complain about the English as that's possibly the best you can get around here - Amen.

Poetry takes time, we know that.
But sometimes poetry knocks down early. So it is for Sara Carothers, which first and only piece is here. I read and read this piece and how can I believe this is coming from a 17 years old? Would you? So I asked her. And she sent me 6 unpublished pieces. Sara is on PixArtisan. In a few more days.

In 10 or so years nothing called literature has surprised me more than these 6 little poems of her.

Poetry takes time. Sometimes doesn't.

Posted by lck at 01:40 AM | Comments (1)

May 24, 2006

Near Happy Ending

It's near happy ending, wrapped around the floodlight, speed,
the drive-shaft spin, the eardrum buzz, balanced the backline
ahead, decorating the perimeter shifting and the factory quote asks,
up stage scenery, one, what do you see?

Her white Dior touch the deck and the weight balance grasping between
then, now, with one eye see, hands soaked red, two figures silent, reclined on the dash, the other on the floor whispers orientation, the afternoon pointing,
up stage scenery, two, what do you see?

Stomping on the grass, black, towards the swamps, the lights at a distance
whisper for a generator, bending under the branches I stare at my nails,
sitting on a rock, catching a breath the waters flow tomorrow a featured synopsis until now, plating a braid, up stage scenery, three, what do you see?

The morning after, papers and the tow-trucks parade, bicycling downhill the sun
smiling, the gear gone, dabbing the sweat, breathe,
mapping the hour surrounding houses,
up stage scenery, taking Polaroids.

Posted by lck at 08:56 PM

March 05, 2006

Green

Green

I've been checking the grass. Green. Up to where it's blue, blurred and foggy. Lightnings strike in couples on the distant little trees. I've been here for a while, can’t remember since when. There's a large pale rock I'm sitting on that's giving me a cold and a headache that's like a rainbow and a gift. Starring at the grass the landscape changes. It's not all green. The blue is almost white. Sometimes thru the fog I can see a house.

When I get far enough from my rock I can see a tree that's right between base and the horizon. It's a skunk olive tree, burnt down to its roots, praying for resurrection someday. A tiny young branch grows right perpendicular to the floor. The base is very large. I can sit on it comfortably and it gives me relaxation. When it gets dark the ghosts push me back to base.

I can't see her but I can hear her voice clearly. She gets out early when the sun is low and sits outside on the grass, by the house. From the voice I can figure her face, her many layers of expression, her anger and smiles, like dunes constantly changing and getting deeper and then skin deep, casual, ironic, deranged, tired, sleepy. Then the door bangs, around noon and I'm alone again.

Around base is littered with cans, papers, dead birds and skeletons of cars I’ve never seen before. I haven’t got any food in a while. Chasing overflying birds is useless but I feel fine. I miss my brother, my job routine, cigarettes and sex.

Every time I wake up I check the grass. Green. Up to where I get dizzy. I focus on a bush that's slightly taller and start walking. I stop at the tree to check the progress. Disappointing how slow nature is at its business. Then I start playing fingertips.

Half a world away the chords in her tongue are Japanese, Korean, beautiful.

One day it rained all day. I was shaking. I could not move but I could hear her conversation. Lonely, coming down like hail, broken in my eardrums, refracted and shy. That day I talked to her. Loud as I could. We started dueting, something between Jap and French, ice-cream and Chanel commercials as far as I recall.

One day I'll learn all the truth, complete.

Posted by lck at 01:08 AM

January 21, 2006

The Night Clerk - Chapter 5

The crying game

Aperture is just right. I'm taking measurements of the landscape before running to work. Talking funny and looking funny, shy by the sudden glimpse of a luscious pair of twin legs getting on the bus. I bet from a distance for a prize meticulously taken care of and a head start. The Sony barks off with a loud unknown on the wire. At the other end a man is looking for a Sophie, which (unfortunately?) I don't know. Sophie? With two fingers on the flip he's crying single syllables off the speaker. The girl pays for a routine and sits down, hands on her knees firmly. Make my way back with the tune pounding, sick, awake and calm in the jungle, breath out and catch her on the eye-wire.

Finger-picking on the heels and off the bus. Is this where you live, Sophie? You and your copy machines? I work at the Ambrosia, down the block. Her soothing dark eyes speak of three legged stools, scattered Polaroids, napkins and crumbs in the sun, a casual eye musing for Paris every other day.

Can I buy you breakfast?
You're going to wear that funny hat and spin?
May I survive thru the night...
9 a.m. at The Wall, bring a tie.
A tie? What for?
I only date boys with ties, no questions.

The phone rang for the rest of the night. Unfair affair and the crying game. Who's there?

Have a tie to spare, John?
Talking to me?
I missed the crowd, pie-hole.
Who's getting married this time?
Friend of mine.
Got friends? Black tie far-out these days?
I'm all highway on the silk. Cheers.

Don't talk to anybody, lick away the dancing until it's go on the watch and wave to the Wall, a recessed spot by Metro, hiding by Regent's and the neon lamps. I'm not supposed to see what I see: she's at a table, crisscrossing in the black suit, mirror-shades to the overcast, a cream pullover and a smile, chin and jaws dipped into psychology.

I had coffee early on. I like your shades.
Sophie... Sophie, right?
What happened to your funny hat?
Traded in for a tie. More coffee?

I learned everything she could possibly tell about the place, the 1970's styled neon signs and their manufacturing process, the font faces in the menu, a list of drinks and the snow melting at 46F. I mumbled with myself that I never spotted her before and of the guy who loves my wire so much and how sleepy I was and of 404. So this is where you work.

You lost it. How exactly?
Do you want phone, room number, eye color or social security?
Ah! Hell, the tie would be enough.
John, forget it. I'll buy you one.
Is she one of ours?
Naa. One of ours?
Did she like your phone?
No, but she wanted a clamshell and I needed a new one anyway. Now you're questioning way past work ethics. I dunno if I want to talk to you.
404 was looking for you today.
I know. I'll touch base.

On the second day of the shooting season, rock bottom, away from buses and neon lights, it's 48F outside and the snow is starting to melt. I like my new phone. My girl loves it too. Once she asked about the old Sony. We were at the hotel having croissants and she was experimenting with cornrows style, which made her look as if she had been intentionally distressed to look older. Maybe that's why I told her that I lost it.

Posted by lck at 08:42 PM

December 22, 2005

The Night Clerk - Chapter 4

A problem of identity

She came rushing down the stairs when it was sunrise, screaming for a band-aid. I imagined that she had left the TV on in the middle of a Star Trek re-run or waking up from an especially gory nightmare. Her voice in the hall made the glass window tremble as though an invisible wave had hit them.

- What do you mean bucket-shaped?
- You have those strips, positive. Please, boy, I'm bleeding.
- Jason, Jason. And you're not bleeding. What's this, paper cut?
- No, it's a CD cut.
- A CD cut? And rotary saw? And disposing of body parts upstairs?
- Band-aid, pleeease.
- I have big patches, then smaller and thinner, water-resistant grade and circular patches. I can't find the bucket-shaped ones.
- Yes, those, there, circles.
- These look like buckets to you? Are you all-right?
- No. I'm not. I'm bleeding like the holy body of Christ. Gimme two of 'em.
- Perspective noise… I'm not going to read too much into your geometry, Julie.
- Can you unwrap them for me?
- Sure. One, two, tight. Don't get them wet, cowgirl.
- I won't shower today, I promise. Thank you, Jason.

She looked relieved that blood was out of sight, with the twin little domes overlapping, plugging her day and smiling. Circular band-aids really are for casual snake bites, straw pins and sewing machines mild offense. The cut off a CD coaster... pretty friendly edges. I'll remember to ask her when the clouds are not this dense.

She was crawling back into the hall, cozied up in pink, fluffy and steel-toed when I was packing away to bed with an eye on the clock. She had a perplexed, puzzled rocky face, like a slow eerie cloud that just can't give to dissolve.

- How's it going?
- Are you sure this is not too tight? I can barely feel my finger.
- Maybe a bacterial infection, hopefully not systemic. Soap can sometimes cause that.
- Silly. Could you loosen 'em up for me? I can't watch. God, what a day!
- Well, see... Can use to see a doctor, maybe stitches. You can call work and give them a head's up.
- Jason, I'm not to quit when the snow is sooooo thick, that's some Frank Capra's and I don't need it now.
- Burgers with extra ketchup and embedded at the source. I'll cleanse it for you.
- Where do you buy your humor pills? I'm a wuss and you're nailing well. Playing ER with the pie in the sky, bad boy.
- Would you sign-up to anything less than a handful of signatures in a singular body?
- You're right. I Guess. Maybe next time you'll handle the media while I work the corkscrew.
- Whenever you want.

Sometimes the day lacks any perceivable taste or smell. A straight path over which the winter's wheel revolves by gravity and routinely stretching a finger to beginning or end. On these days I feel nothing and smell nothing. I adjust myself into design by employing arbitrary management. With the bike parked a block away and wearing a visor and service late to 433... I'm just trying to feel something.

Popping thru the static she woke me up shooting into the speak, spotting for a break to enjoy.

- I'm getting better, getting well.
- That's good.
- Are you working tonight?
- Did you get my schedule?
- You gave it to me? I got all my stuff in the washer. Sorry.
- You are messy. So what is it?
- I've got some wine at my place and some new flicks, we can hang out.
- That's the best thing I've heard in a while. So, I'm on the cooking, what would you like? Spinach, carrots and salads? Keep warm.
- Cool. Later.

With the veggies in the steamer and the cheese in the nuke, the cab stopped, framed into the kitchen's window, half submerged in the snow and smoking like ice-cream. I staged the car for a moment, then it pulled and left. In the white cloud of exhaust the girl was balanced in between two brown bags, an anime adaptation for a cheap western addiction. Hair too blonde, eyes too big and too many words glancing right, left and walking over. Before I had a chance to hear the cheese bursting in the bowl I realized that she was rapping at the door and singing out loud. Just not with the usual pitch.

- Hi. Can I help you?
- Hi Jason.
- Yep?
- Could you hold these? It's glass.
- While you're at it, do you want in? You must be freezing.
- Thanks.
- I was expecting someone else. I guess. Did we talk on the phone earlier on?
- Sure we did, now you are messy.
- We did? I assume that as long as you like the salad, spinach and some quite hot cheese we can look into those wine bottles and discuss the weather. But I'm still waiting.
- I won't creep the evening with any more geometry, I'm not joking. Dinner will be fine. This is Shiraz. Are you still waiting?

We went thru one movie and onto another, cheese and two bottles of wine, moved onto beer with the sound of aliens zipping thru the East Coast in the background and tales of the Registry Office in my ear. She snugged up on the couch, an embryo in a coma and I followed her shortly with an arm hanging out. When we woke up it must have been two in the morning.

- We've been sleeping?
- Yes.
- Wow.
- Who sent you over? She did?
- What are you talking about?

She left that it was late afternoon. We cooked several times and gathered several more bottles of wine at the diner two blocks away. I think we had a good time. I think. I changed her medication every two hours, finished my reserve of band-aids and culled up her complaints about sharp edges thrown into daily life. We found ourselves starring at each other with nothing to say, which is when she started to laugh weaving down her curly blonde hair. I always like her when she laughs.

© Fortunato Caragliano. All rights reserved.

UPDATE: A dear friend of mine that has just some English pulled my attention over to translate this in Italian and I did so. This is the first time I ever try to translate one of my own writings back into my native language. I'm happy with the result. Do not compare the 2 pieces as most of the differences function to keep the story in context.

So, if you can read Italian, please enjoy the PDF.

Italian version (PDF)

Posted by lck at 12:11 AM

October 29, 2005

The Night Clerk - Chapter 3

The sleepy leg

I wish I had time to rest than funneling down markings and secret ops on the passers-by, checks, rents, appointments and roses. Yes, roses. My sub-staff of Filipinos, bums. As you know, it has been raining for 3 days now, with furious winds and subarctic temperatures, and thick and sharp snow falling all over the metro area. Cry baby, cry, it won’t be like this in April. Lying in bed and pedaling to work and I just feel like I want to cry. My only cozy went to visit olds in Biloxi, ham hock, corn bread and all. But New Year’s I’m off, alright.

I dreamed that I was at a party having stuffed shrooms and cheese and checking tattoo listings, waiting for a spark to choose the carrier when I noticed the face of a man idling carelessly, smooth and shiny, staring at me. I closed my eyes and let the waves of some tropical warm shore wash away my wrinkles, the crummy chats, the expensive white palms. Restless, when I opened my eyes I saw a blue-eyed boy with red hairs falling forward on his sunglasses, smoking from a crackpipe. He was shaking. He had a gun, a silly huge black thing. And I saw the other man, still, eyes open, smiling, calm, happy that it was over. He had a tiny hole on each side of his forehead. The party was on, following the score of laughs, small-talks, avances and fake palm trees.

At twelve I woke up with a sleepy leg, the word “Med” pounding in my head tickling voodoo, a reassuring view of empty cans and socks piled up in the pit and a plan to sweep anonymously thru the last day of the year. My sassy girl was coddled in very parental arms, the Caribbean in the viewfinder and work happily understaffed on plenary indulgence.

I forced myself to visit a tattoo parlor with the backyard barber and got out bold and fantastic, hairless and senseless in a rain of snowflakes. By late afternoon it was dark and the celebrations had started in full. I had a Blueberry and several cups of Tazo in Third Ave at Starbucks where I met the boss and his smooth cluster of businessmen, secretaries and insurers on daily rations of lemon chiffon pie and Expresso. Left and walked south-west realizing only after an hour that I was in Times Square. A sprawling of shoppers, staring at displays, making faces at strangers and pushing a pattern of liturgical worshipping. Drugs were at knocked down prices. I did not have any but rather drank every kind of the old drug that I could put my lips on. Beer, brandy, tequila, rum, martini, vodka and even Mexican gin and tonic. I dragged a puffy midget with blazing green pupils that forced me to Mulagatani soup at the Electric Lotus. I never liked chicken but dipping into chaos with a smile is me. We got a room and hit it like animals for two hours. Outside naked people started to appear at every corner, windows were falling, riots began. Cars started to smash against each other for the fun, police joined the ride, fires started.

Midnight arrived in Times Square. Thousands, hundred of thousands amassed elbow to elbow, between the 46th and the 42nd, laughing, screaming, happy and for an hour I was squeezing on somebody’s boobs, the only quay in an ocean of sheer mass derangement.

I was terribly drunk. I was thrown away and run with the crowd, fighting to catch breath, and I fell. I covered my face waiting for a second hit but it did not arrive. At the first terrifying thunder the collective orgy stopped and started to rain. Blast after blast, a torrential rain welcoming us into the new year. I was naked. I let the rain wash out of sweat and drowsiness but after that I felt shaking. I dragged back home. By the East Side I was frozen to the bone and by the 58th the rain was snowy particle dust. It was 5 when I got home, crashed naked on the bed, waiting to die. And I started dreaming.

In the hall I’m having a break with the girl. Between a croissant and a sip of coke she’s listing reasons why the job at the burger's line sucks. Rolling dice and eyes methodically, aligning the count with no regret or anger, playing with her chin and expression, she whips her communication into a usable vector of calibrated empathy.

This is my card, this is my job and this is my name. Yes, my name.

Posted by lck at 07:05 PM

September 19, 2005

The Night Clerk - Chapter 2

I've got some pot with me to support myself on tonight's mission that I've swiped from the circle of maniacs at 351, a bunch of retreats. They're all attending some exotic congress but they're enjoying better stuff at night while supplies last. In exchange for this tiny subtraction of veggies I'm filling their iPods by encoding a whole library of CDs on their portables. It is the boring job people hate to do, requires little human stress and music is needed as much if not more than wallpaper. In the end a little skunk burning by the gate while I'm chasing passers-by glowing in the dark is a tiny disturbance for which I'll forgive myself twice. My friends go in and out of 351 for refills, impending needs and to visit friends off location, all plugged in their white ear-buds and soul-fitting, like going for jogging. They can hear me and I assume they're never too deep into their private cloud or blitzed off their head too far. I appreciate their sense of consistency and maturity, head over heels with firm a sense of the network lying in close proximity. Smooth pushers in white suits a good investment.

I love people as much as I hate myself for being a spectator. But I guess that's the game at play, dispatching the keys and not getting enough private entertainment to care for.

The power went out last night in a breathless moment. A group of insomniac women uneasily gathered in the lobby asking for candlelight. I turned a battery-powered camping neon light on and hoping it wouldn't be long. Apologies and glasses of cognac were offered and accepted.

Playing Pinochle. Watching, trying to make sense and promising to study lawyer next time. I've got all kind of excuses. Walk away spinning round the block starring at my black shoes and thinking my girlfriend is lying in deep sleep, unconscious of troubles and dreaming that by morning it will be Sunday and she'll only be needed dead-walking the dog to the Starbucks on Vesey for cappuccino and croissants. Sometimes life is nothing more but waiting. But the waiting is not part of life. Go figure. Not now in the stinky cloud of fish restocking in the neighborhood. Empathy is more than required back onto these ladies, needed now more than ever. I walk back for a call to the power station help desk hoping our westerns rights get a fix before a refund is due. The boss may have to spend the next couple weeks responding to hundreds of enraged emails publicizing customer service gone horribly wrong or that the place is ghost-infested, which would be fun. They may love to invent a set of stories from the ages and a couple of close encounters to spice up the advertising.

When power comes back two hours later only four of the ladies are still playing. Some are raping the magnolias by pulling baby flowers off and sniffing them as if a good trail to a newfound lysergic experience, others oozing on the couches and some have left altogether for a safari around the block, comforted only by the sound of police cars roaming the area. One young, distressed at not being able to get emails, for which she had to recharge her 'book, was invited over to one of the friend's portables still running on cells (and encoding) and she was nice from there on. She explained that was running some tourists package auctioning and awaiting on client's confirmation. Truth is she's spying on someone's mail. A private eye and a liar calling for a spare battery pack.

Getting away at 3 a.m. I get a girl at the reception that's a regular:
“Welcome back, Laura. Where have you been?”
“Up, down and all around.”
“Lots of pictures?”
“Truckloads.”
“Always interested in news trends?”
“Yep, what you got? Uh, iPods? That's all? A bit short of taste my friend.”
“No, this is just their muzak. Room 352 for you, you'll have fun. By the way, Newsweek wants to talk to you.” I handed her a piece of fax paper as she unfolds it and inside the tiny purse. A short but ominous message: Spiked you. Van McCann. Call for appointment.
The tiny elevator groaned to 352 with its girly payload.
She called back around 5 barking at me and scaringly asking if I had anything to do on the evening next. An invitation to a place called Touraine was the matter. Now I'm thinking of herb salads and mushrooms poached in red wine. That will do me fine. Don't know about the rest. But she had an idea.

I hung up and suddenly the funny time lapses and washed out colors induced by the smoke are gone. Sunday morning sidewalks are turning gray, heavy and wet. Eyes are sticking onto the poles and staying there. Mushrooms start growing. Poles start swinging.

Posted by lck at 05:45 PM

September 09, 2005

The Night Clerk - Chapter 1

Look on the Hotel's website, on the FAQ pages halfway between Lost and Found and the ID Card program, two rows of arial black, "evening" misspelled and responsible for the so-called "dining facility features", which ain't true. A copy from Delhi on big students discount did it. I'm here by chance and to pay for Health Insurance and food and housing.
It is a simple job.

On this job you normally have these responsibilities:

· Monitor the front desk of the hotel. (Hours 22:00 p.m. to 8 a.m.)
· Monitor hotel hall entrance security.
· Enforce hotel policies.
· Report incidents or concerns to Hotel Manager.
· Maintain neat appearance of lobby area.
· Report maintenance problems.
· Respond promptly to emergencies and phone calls.

but in some areas may also need to pass these qualifications:

· High School graduate or GED
· General clerical skills
· Good communications skills
· Computer knowledge
· Pass a background check

Between me and you, enough.
The place is the Ambrosia, a respectable second-rate on West Side street in Manhattan.

In the late hours when all returners have returned I like to dream. I have a good memory for dreams. And I dream of going back and forth and around thru these alleys and corridors where clients have established themselves with their habits and friends and furniture in their self-contained nanoverses barely sharing room-service hours, a list of credit cards, a pair of elevators and a brand of linens. I know all these guys as much as I know myself. Others I don’t know. Some live in the hotel, one is my girlfriend, another is a hooker that is now in catering services and wakes me up with a loud ringtone, another sells real estates around here and believes mustaches are a mandatory sales tool.

In these dreams I always wake up in a suite over a cliff on the ocean and go out roaming by myself in the crashing waves passing from a night blue to a pale cyan of clouds and shoes shine.

I love to entertain myself on a nightshift.

I know everybody who has a job says they hate their job, so let me put that in context. I work three nights a week for ten hours a night, I commute as many as five hours a day and make 450. Before that I was starving, broke and bleary-eyed but happy. That’s right, happy. Before you start thinking that this is a bitchy, that I’m going to start filling with complaints about customers or my boss and leave you wondering let me explain to you that I know what I’m doing and had a pretty good idea of what I was getting myself into when I moved here and when I took this job. The fact is, I didn’t have a choice. After failing out of a private college and then a public state university, I had to go to a community college. And my community college is one of the best in the country. Now I feel like I’m in the unusual position of being an articulate loser, uniquely capable of describing the colorful and seedy scenery that surrounds me inside and outside of the light-filled bubble that I inhabit ten hours a night.

I have no specific agenda, I’m not smart enough for that. Retrospectively, a lovely advantage.

Holding a pencil with two fingers and embracing a view from the dwarf-magnolia tree to the entry curtains, I can feel both the life and waves between my fingers bordering to abyss and the dying quakes of cars going by.

My girlfriend is not my girlfriend. She lives in 404 and does not drive. She is thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rather small woman but resolute bearing, she came down in the July, and in the September expected her third baby. She loves to say she works as a manager for Burger King. Can not see anything worse than piling up grand-totals all day on a dying Dell and falling asleep on shift schedule drafts. Speaking to me from a rain-world with dropping tunes and creeping in the morning blues and disappearing in the city carpeted with cars. She leaves just when I’m getting ready but never at the same time and I bring her broken and watering voice with me and save it for the day next.

I like the view through the main gate, a nice framed and layered low angle view of the ground at the bottom. But I hate cars. In the morning, it's all people walking their dogs, homeless still hang out at Logan as they do in many other NYC plazas and cars and I feel like a plain fool with the sun trying to keep me from going to bed, twirling and jumping.

A fire broke out on the second floor at 251 at 6:15 a.m. while some guy who left a candle burning was taking a shower. The fire started when the candle, placed upon a 3-foot plastic stand, tipped over and nearby papers caught on fire. According to the police, he received second-degree burns on his hand while trying to put out the fire. There were no serious injuries but the fire and rescue squad expressed their disapproval at the fact that during the evacuation, nobody pulled the fire alarm.

Two hours before the heat I was quietly going thru thin blue corridors enjoying casual parties with this group or the other and I remember that we drove a boat with two blond haired Norwegians who do water processing in Amsterdam and a dark Chinese girl passing by and sketching each one of us in the fog towards the edge. We set up a fire under a tree and spent the night there breathing a mix of weed and red mangroves. Then one of the boys walked right into the water and disappeared and I don’t know why we did not care.

I went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take myself out, yet unable to stay indoors. The heat was suffocating.

Looking ahead, the prospect of my life make me feel as if I am buried alive. But there are books, sleep, places to go and a deal I cut for at around four tonight and I’m going to look into it.

Relax. For awhile.

Posted by lck at 07:12 PM

August 19, 2005

Knitting Theory

This post is dedicated to zib and all her knitting friends at knitty.com. Zib helped, acting as a consultant for the jargon up to where language gets blurred just enough. As I live with her, time was fine to talk about knitting, which she turned out to be extremely good at. But I have not yet learned how to knit, see:-?
Enjoy.

Knitting Theory

Knitting Theory was discovered in 1485 by Alan Pattern, a mathematician, in cooperation (and not in competition) with E. Redd and E. Green by what is believed to be pure chance.

The best and worst of life, Nietsche never got it, comes from chance.

While researching basic properties of fabric compounds and getting high on generous amount of Stutt (beer), according to mythology, the ladies went into suggesting that components of matter in these compounds are not point-like, as we still believe they are, but spaghetti-like, or stringy. The discovery sparked a whole new breed of housewive's behaviors and fashion trends that have developed and evolved in time. Knitting Theory is peculiar for its cryptic, mathematically-dense language. The most exotic and advanced versions of the theory are excellently summarized quarterly online on knitty.com and exposed in writing in SnB and IK, available from specialized bookstores.

Knitting Theory is based on strings of fabric or wool (yarn) that can show topologically peculiar properties: in the most common incarnation the theory predicts yarn that have loose ends, in others yarn is closed in a loop, anchored to a surface (like in zib's purses) or lie in fuzzy manifolds (mess or stash) set aside for "untangling". Yarn behaves much like spaghetti naturally and knitters spend most of the time consistently untangling the Italian mess. This inordinate state is common and predicted by theory which suggests several ways and tools to make a clean and ordinate "skein" or "yarn cake" out of a typical mess. Popular tools are "the swift" and the "ball winder". By using any of these tools and a kid on minimum wage, but not a cat, a utterly mess of yarn can be made into a tidy "yarn cake". If you have a very disciplined cat at hand, risk is yours to try. Knitters indulge happily in a trance-like state, admiring their stash accrued beyond life expectancy only to find themselves frantically in the other extreme known as "paradoxical sorting syndrome" or PSS.

Yarn cakes can be found ready-made in all sorts of colors and variants in shops called LYS. These are dark alcove-like shops recalling an Irish Pub, but without the smoke and beer, located next to the most unusual neighbors. Yarn can occasionally be found available at the LOYM. SEX is lots of fun for knitters but can be boring to their partners, who can be found mostly hanging around wandering dogs, kids and other memorabilia waiting for knitters to be done with the SEX and eventually coming out smiling with bags chock-full of multicolored "skeins".

Knitting is a religious-like theory and allows for no compromise in practice. A true knitter can be easily offended if you sarcastically notice that all her projects are WIPs and UFOs. As for other personality-empowering activities, accessories are important and bear their own exotic code-name and language. Knitters rely on an extensive army of tools. From aluminum needles to wooden sticks often made from exotic materials such as bamboo or ebony, from elaborate yarn cutters to colorful stitch-markers, a full range of these can be found. (Some of the tools can sometimes sport a slightly obscene look, such as the nosty. If you are of faint heart think twice or look for ethical advice before joining)

In recent development heretical versions of the theory have been formulated. One of these assigns tools to functions other than usual like self-defense and tactical fight. Followers of this interpretation are troops, who specialize in hats and socks. Another sect includes the BcoD Devotees, knitters who “boil” the knitted yarn to make a soup. This is know as “felting” and its followers “shrink-heads”.

A bag full of colored cakes (yellow-cake is treated especially for its radiant properties) is just half the job. Theory implies you know what you're doing, which is the hard part and philosophy does not help.

Yarn can be worked by any combination of sized and shaped sticks into elaborate patterns and designs. Several topological categories, some sleek, some ugly, some hair-raising exist. You can knit skeins to make socks, scarves, skirts and purses and dog-bags but also whips, bras and pants for your favorite animal. Patterns can be drawn on paper, on computers or come via email from a friend in the form of spam or viruses. The theory makes clear that it does not matter how good you are, you will make mistakes. This is called "tolerance". Experienced knitters exhibit low tolerance. When said knitters find they have made a mistake the best of them will find a way to incorporate it as a design feature. But mistakes are part of life, for which a cure may or may not exist. Going fishing is a cure, divorce, while an extreme remedy, another, but to stop knitting is not a cure. All in all, don't fool yourself, if you made mistakes staying in frogging denial is just a temporary option!

Living with a knitter is not easy. To which degree varies based on the knitter's personality as knitters come in all flavors. The sociological kind is common, to which knitting is a crusade, the polarized kind, to which an SKP and a K2TOG are mutually exclusive, the helping type, which needs to help you even when you never asked for help and the guru type, which only lives in Nepal. Some knitters are militant to their partner, which is, they want their mate to be involved. This can develop in requesting for help winding a hank (which can have catastrophic results), help choosing color and design (which turns into masochism easily) and can go as far as outsourcing a design to the mate. The latter, technically called "black hole initiative" is definitely hairy business and can go as far as what is known as "annihilation", don't try it if you are the Romantic type.

Unfortunately for me I don't take my own advice and I am now working on a design for a lady's top that falls into the hair-raising category. D&G are making inquires and we are keeping the thing secret but, well, now you know.

Minimal glossary for those not in the know

SnB Stick n' Bitch. Refers to a knitting group or the book by Debbie Stoller
IK Interweave Knits Magazine
Stash Cumulative inventory of all yarn in posses of a knitter or "path integral"
Skein Elementary unit of yarn, normally found as a unit of 50 or 100 grams
Yarn cake Product of winding yarn on a ball winder
Swift tool Extendable tool used to hold a hank of yarn usually in conjunction with a ball winder or a nosty
Ball winder tool Small tool used to wind up yarn to yarn cakes
PSS paradoxical sorting syndrome
LYS Local Yarn Store
LOYM Little Old Yarn Man
SEX Stash Enhancement Expedition
Frogging Ripping out the work in order to correct errors
Frogging denial Procastinate frogging
WIP Work In Progress
UFO Unfinished Object
Nosty phallic implement used to wind a ball of yarn when a ball winder is not available
BcoD Boiling Cauldron of Death
SKP Slip Knit Pass Over
K2TOG Knit Two Together

Posted by lck at 06:12 PM | Comments (4)

August 11, 2005

The String Theory Fun Park

I have been working on this for awhile, the String Theory post. It was very fun for me and not easy as comic pieces of this sort never are. But here it is, enjoy the little characters.

Tonic: Shut! So here's the scoop: Gaugino's been feeling bad because her Mom and Dad had to stay home with the baby and weren't able to take her to the String Theory Fun Park. (sound of baby crying in the background) She could have gone with \Alpha and QCD, but she really wanted to go with her family. So, we thought we'd cheer her up and invite her to the String Theory Fun Park. (We see shots of the destroyed fun park.) But last night the Causal Set Raiders stormed over and everything was ruined.

G-Dog: I can't believe it! We worked so hard fixing up the String Theory Fun Park and now look at it!

Hum: The tribe really did a number last night, didn't it?

Stringy: I don't know why we even bothered decorating all day yesterday. Everything's blown down and torn to shreds.

Higgs: Mmm.

Tonic: We fixed it once, we'll fix it again!

Scatters: Are you serious?!

Tonic: We can't let our String Park lay here in shambles! We gotta get it together again!

Newton: Tonic's right! It's worth saving; not everything is broken.

Fuzzy: Ala! With a little teamwork we fix the framework, no problem!

Tonic: All right, let's get to it then!

Scatters: (cheer)

(The camera focuses out to show Murky sitting alone atop part of the wrecked park. He groans.)

G-Dog: Murky, how's the wreckage looking from up there?

Murky: I hate to say it, but the Causal Set Suckers have done so much damage to the overall structure that we're probably better off starting from scratch.

Scatters: (shout out in shock)

G-Dog: Are you sure? That'll take forever.

Tonic: Well... Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.

(Bubble appears, riding the Hamiltonian and strumming on his guitar.)

Bubble: Everything fades under the sun. This park is like life, you gotta make your own fun. Sometimes you're blown down before you're begun, you gotta pick yourself up...

Tonic: ... Shut up... and build another one!

Bubble: You got it Krauss, life can be rough. You gotta weather the singularities and brother, they come in all forms.

4D: The only philosophy I have about a Nasty Causal Set is always ride upwind from the pigpens.

G-Dog: The only thing I can't ride are your stinking jokes, 4D!

Tonic: Maybe Bubble can help us build a sturdier String Theory Fun Park. Hey, Bubble, ever do any construction?

Bubble: Sorry, I'm out here in search of somethin', but it ain't no tool belt.

Tonic: Not.

Bubble: I'm searching for a place that I might never, ever find.

Fuzzy: What is it? Maybe we can help you!

Bubble: When I was a baby, my mama sang me a lullaby. It spoke all about a string’s heaven, a string’s paradise. I don't know where it is and I don't know if it even exists. (He fantasizes it. It features 4D as
Cupid, G-Dog as a statue and more!) It could be on the very edge of a semi-stable DeSitter or by some Einstein-Rosen bridge riverbank, where our ancestors once burrowed. Why, I just know I'm gonna find it. Even if takes me to the ends of the Multiverse. Well, good luck with your buildings, my amigos! With that, I bid you a fond adios.

the Hamiltonian: (snorts)

Bubble: (leaving) Dot Dot Dot Dot Da...

G-Dog: If he could throw a hammer as well as he can throw perturbative regime normalization, the job would be half done.

Tonic: Hey, I've got it!

Fuzzy: You've got what, Tonic? Is it good?

Tonic: Hey, why don't we try and make a String’s paradise like Bubble was talking about?

Scatters: (flashing yellow question marks over their heads) What's a paradise?

Hum: Isn't a paradise the most perfect place?

Tonic: Yeah! It's perfect, cool and fun.

Bubble: Hmm?

Tonic: Let's make the String Theory Fun Park into the best amusement park. And then we can invite Gaugino, okay Murky? Whaddya think of that?

Murky: Do you think Gaugino will find it as fun as a Dark Matter amusement park?

Tonic: No, it'll be even better than that.

4D: It'll be way more fun than the Dark Matter park and more environmentally sound!

G-Dog: Okay, let's give paradise a shot!

Scatters: Yeah!

Murky: (groans) Easy for you to say, but I have to figure out how to build it. I don't even know how to start when it comes to something like a D-brane.

Hubble: You should take a look at the one that Tonic and I rode and use it as a model and then make a smaller one.

Tonic: Great idea! Hey Bubble, can we catch a ride on the Hamiltonian with you to the amusement park?

Bubble: Just hop on.

Tonic: Tonic!

Tonic: We're gonna go scout out the Dark Matter park for some ideas.

G-Dog: You guys stay here and start cleaning up.

Newton: Sounds good. We'll also go collect some structures that might be useful for building.

Bubble: Hold on to your pigskins.

Tonic: Giddyap, the Hamiltonian!

Scatters: Good-bye!

(Scene change to \Alpha and QCD, who are out talking somewhere.)

\Alpha: I called Gaugino's house yesterday and they said that Sparty's fever has gone down and she's doing a lot better.

QCD: That's good to hear. So do you think Gaugino's Mom and Dad are gonna take her to the amusement park now?

\Alpha: I think they're too busy.

QCD: Yeah, I guess 'cause the baby was sick, they're probably on the low-energy scale.

\Alpha: Uh huh.

QCD: I'm gonna ask my Dad if he can take us again and bring Gaugino.

\Alpha: That's an awesome idea. I'll run it past my parents too.

(Tonic, Bubble, G-Dog and Murky are out riding the Hamiltonian in a country area right by a D-brane. the Hamiltonian's going very slow.)

Bubble: Paradise. Xanadu. The Happy Strings Haven. I can picture it now. Eternity forever!

G-Dog: It's gonna take us forever to get anywhere if this hog doesn't hurry up!

Murky: Can't we put him into second gear?

Bubble: What's the rush, little friend? It's around the bend.

(the Hamiltonian stops to take a bit of some vegetation.)

Tonic: I know what'll get him moving! Lunch! (He dangles sparticles seeds in front of the Hamiltonian.)

the Hamiltonian: (squeals)

Tonic: If you want sparticles seeds you gotta run and catch it!

Scatters: Whoa!

(They reach the park. the Hamiltonian is panting and exhausted.)

G-Dog: Wow, it's huge, just like Tonic and Hubble described it. Look at all the sparticles they have!

Bubble: You should check out the fun house with the g-string. It's a real body bender.

G-Dog: You've been here before? Either you've packed a lot into that little stringy life of yours or you're a good fibber.

Bubble: (strums his guitar) I came here once at night / It was really outta sight / All lit up with black light / A gaudy boson shining bright / Children were laughin' as the moon shone above the park festoon / But I was left with gloom because I knew the magic would be endin' soon. (strums his guitar in conclusion)

G-Dog: Ya' ever hear of a happy ending?

Murky: The D-brane is exactly like the toy that Gaugino has.

Tonic: Yeah, it's amazing once you ride it to the top.

Murky: Very impressive. I'm going to go take a closer look, okay?

Tonic: Be careful out there, Murky!

G-Dog: Let's go, Tonic. We gotta do some rides because the best research is first-hand experience!

Tonic: Coming!

Bubble: Heh heh. Looks like we're on our own, the Hamiltonian. Let's go grab some sparticles.

(Tonic and G-Dog are now approaching the event horizon.)

G-Dog: Over here, Tonic.

Tonic: What's this line-up for?

G-Dog: My favorite, the event horizon.

Tonic: Yadda, Yadda, Yadda, Yadda. (they sneak into a brane's handbag)

G-Dog and Tonic: Hmm?

(sounds of screaming on the event horizon)

Murky: (thinking and drawing, studying the D-brane) Don't worry, Gaugino. I'm going to make you the best String Park in the whole world, just wait. You're not gonna believe it when you see it.

(Scene-change to Gaugino's place.)

Gaugino's Dad: Gaugino, what's that you got?

Gaugino: It's a D-brane, Dad.

Gaugino's Mom: QCD and \Alpha gave it to her as a present.

Gaugino's Dad: Oh, a D-brane.

Gaugino: Have you ever gone on one before, Dad?

Gaugino's Dad: Y-Yes, but I only rode it once.

Gaugino: Did you have a lot of fun?

Gaugino's Mom: Your Dad took me to the String Park on our first date together.

Gaugino: Huh!

Gaugino's Dad: I was scared out of my wits because I hate macroscopic branes, but I didn't wanna look like a wimp. I was fine at first, but when we reached the top, oh boy, I screamed my head off. (laughs)

Gaugino's Mom: Now I can't get him to climb a ladder to fix the shelf. Fear of heights comes in handy.

(Gaugino's Dad laughs and starts choking on his drink.)

Gaugino: Careful, Dad.

Gaugino's Dad: (manages to stop coughing) Thinking of the D-brane still chokes me up.

(Gaugino, her Mom and Dad and Sparty all laugh.)

Gaugino: Look! Sparty's laughing at him too!

Gaugino's Dad and Mom: Yes, she is!

Gaugino: (thinking) I sure hope I can go on a D-brane too someday. Even Mom and Dad have been on one. (She fantasizes the one at the String Park, behind some clouds.)

(The Scatters are all back at the site of the fun park.)

Murky: I've drawn up the plans for the String Theory Fun Park! (He presents an elaborate sketch.)

Scatters: (gasp in amazement)

Fuzzy: Fantastique! It is beautfiul beyond my belief! Tres bien! This must work!

Tonic: Yeah! Gaugino's gonna flip her lid; she'll be so excited!

Murky: Great! Well, everybody, if you approve of the plans, then let's get down to work and build this thing!

Higgs: Ookwee!

Scatters: Yeah!

G-Dog: Yadda Yadda Yadda Yadda Yadda.

Scatters: Heave-M! Heave-M!

Murky: Tie those bolts back-to-back so it's secure.

Tonic: Heave-M! Heave-M!

Tonic: Tired. I don't think I've ever worked this hard in my life. Time for a nap.

(He curls up and the camera focuses on \Alpha and her Dad.)

\Alpha's Dad: So, uh, Albert's going over there?

\Alpha: Yeah. He said he's going to try to talk Gaugino's Dad into taking Gaugino on the rides at the String Park before it leaves town.

\Alpha's Mom: That'll be interesting.

\Alpha's Dad: (folding up a newspaper) I'd almost pay to see that one. Ha.

\Alpha: Do you think they're gonna argue?

\Alpha's Dad: It's alway tricky: givin' another parent advice.

\Alpha's Mom: Gaugino's Dad's a nice guy, but he's so stubborn. He’s a founder!

\Alpha's Dad: So is Albert for that matter and they've known each other since they were kids at Harvard.

\Alpha's Mom: I know! They used to quarrel all the time during recess.

\Alpha: But they're grown up now.

Tonic: (groans)

\Alpha: Tonic, why are you so sleepy? Do you wanna go back to your pen?

Tonic: (thinking) All right! She's taking me back to my bed. I need to rest up. I've got another big stringy day tomorrow.

\Alpha: (giggles) Hmm.

(It's now the next day and the Scatters are at work.)

Murky: At this pace, we'll be finished this afternoon, Tonic.

Tonic: Yeah, everyone's working so hard. And your plan sure helped us, Murky.

Hubble: (groans and falls down) I'm so hungry I can't take another step. Time for lunchy.

Fuzzy: Would you like a sparticle seed, Hubble?

Hubble: Ah, I feel myself perking up already!

G-Dog: I think you spend more energy eating than you do working.

Stringy: I think you deserve some sparticles, Hamiltonian. Want some?

the Hamiltonian: (snorts happily and gobbles up the sparticles-seeds in a cloud)

Murky: Just a little bit more, everybody. Almost there. Keep going!

(Murky arrives home.)

Murky: Huh? Gaugino! Gaugino! I want you to wake up!

Gaugino: (moans sleepily) Huh? Oh, hi. What is it, Murky?

Murky: Get up and get dressed, 'cause I'm gonna take you to the best String Park in the whole world.

Gaugino: Huh?

Murky: Come on, Gaugino, let's go. All the Scatters are waiting for the guest of honor. (He scurries away.)

Gaugino: Hey! Where are you going, Murky? Come back!

Murky: Bada bada bada bada bada bada bada bada... That's it Gaugino, keep following me!

Gaugino: Murky! Wait for me. (pants with exhaustion) Huh? Wow!

Murky: I sure hope you like it! It's the brand new String Theory Fun Park! We made it ourselves!

Scatters: Welcome Gaugino, come on in!

Tonic: We did this all for you.

Gaugino: Look at all you guys. Tonic!

Tonic: Now that you're here, we can have the official opening of the new String Theory Fun Park.

(A ball with confetti opens! The Scatters all laugh and have a generally good time on the rides.)

4D: Giddyap, boy! Hee hee!

Murky: Look, Gaugino!

Gaugino: I can't believe it. A D-brane!

Murky: We call it the G-brane!

Gaugino: It's so cute!

(A series of shots of her with Murky on the various rides are shown.)

(commercial break)

(Gaugino's parents, who are joined by QCD's Dads.)

Gaugino's Mom: She seemed fine to us, didn't she honey? I'm surprised that QCD and \Alpha are so worried about her.

Gaugino's Dad: The baby's feeling better, so I thought I'd take Gaugino to the String Park.

QCD's Dad: That sounds like a great idea.

Gaugino's Dad: Yeah, but now it looks like QCD and \Alphas' idea.

QCD's Dad: That doesn't matter. At the end of the day, you're still gonna look like the big hero and Gaugino's gonna be happy.

Gaugino's Dad: Remember when our fathers took us to the fair?

QCD's Dad: How could I forget?

Gaugino's Mom: I bet you two were a real handful together when you were young boys.

Gaugino's Dad: It took Albert half-an-hour to make up his mind to come down the slide - he was so scared! (laughs)

QCD's Dad: Yeah, well you were the one who cried 'cause you didn't get to ride the black brane on the d-merry-go-round.

Gaugino's Dad: You stole it! I called dibs and you rushed over and took my favorite color!

QCD's Dad: I did not.

Gaugino's Dad: Yes you did! You always did things like that because you were trying to copy me to be cool! That's why I gave you the nickname Loop, Albert!

QCD's Dad: (he gets in his face) I did not, crybaby!

Gaugino's Dad: Who's calling who a crybaby? (He pulls out a photo with Albert Crybaby written on it. It shows Albert when he was a kid, scared of Dilaton.) You used to get hysterical everytime my little Dilaton was out in the backyard and barked at you, you big wimp!

QCD's Dad: (pulls out a photo with the caption: Jack Crybaby; that shows him scared of a tachyon) You used to squeal like a little pig every time you saw tachyons.

Gaugino's Dad: You take that back; I never squealed! And tacks don’t exist!

(They raise their fists at each other.)

QCD's Dad: Little Miss Muffet Sat on a Tuffet.

Gaugino's Dad: You know, you think you would have grown up a little after all these years!

Gaugino's Mom: Uh, anyone want some sparticles?

QCD's Dad: Okay. If you're so full of hot gravitons, then let's see how many times you can call out your daughter's name in one breath, tough guy!

Gaugino's Dad: Bring it on, Dilaton! (sucks in air)

QCD's Dad: QCD QCD QCD QCD QCD...

Gaugino's Dad: (cutting in over QCD's dad) Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty

Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty...

Gaugino's Mom: (as the two continue in the background) I can't believe how utterly childish you guys are being. Will you give it a rest, please?

(The two cease chanting their daughters' names.)

QCD's Dad: No fair! I started first!

Gaugino's Dad: Fine then. Rematch! (they both suck in air and start at the same time)
QCD's Dad: QCD QCD QCD QCD QCD...

Gaugino's Dad: Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty Gaugino Sparty...

(As the two continue this nonsense, we see more scenes of Gaugino and the Scatters at the String Park. The focus then changes to \Alpha and QCD, who are just arriving and hear the arguing. They gasp.)

QCD's Dad: QCD, takes up more air.

Gaugino's Dad: I have two names to say, you only have one.

\Alpha and QCD: Huh?

\Alpha: Doesn't sound good.

QCD: Let's check it out.

Gaugino's Mom: Honey, please. This is getting embarrassing now.

Gaugino's Dad: (pants heavily) Why do you have to be so competitive, with me, Albert?

QCD's Dad: I'm not! I just came to give you a little friendly parenting advice --- and this is the thanks I get?

Gaugino's Dad: If I wanted your advice, I'd ask for it! You're just trying to make my ideas into your ideas again, Loop!;

\Alpha and QCD: (sigh)

Gaugino's Dad: That settles it --- I am not taking Gaugino to the String Park!

QCD's Dad: Come on now, let's be reasonable. She really wants to go.

Gaugino's Dad: I'll take her somewhere else, like a baseball game! It's way better than the String Park. It's cheaper, there's peanuts, popcorn and at the end of the day somebody wins. Maybe we'll go fishing first! It'll be great.

Gaugino's Mom: That sounds like a great time for you honey, but not for a little girl.

Gaugino's Dad: Nonsense! There will be no String Park and that's final!

\Alpha and QCD: (at about the same time) What?

(Baby Sparty starts to cry.)

Gaugino's Mom: There, there, it's okay. I can't believe you dear. You woke up the baby with all your blustering.

Gaugino's Dad: Ohhhh...

QCD: How are you doing, Dad?

QCD's Dad: I came over to ask Gaugino's Father if he would take her to the String Park, but I blew it. I got carried away and started arguing and now he's being stubborn.

Gaugino's Dad: I'm not being stubborn, I'm just doing what I think is best for my child. Maybe I'll take her out to a tractor pull, but not the park.

\Alpha and QCD: Huh?

Gaugino: (just arriving with Murky, sleepy-eyed) Hey, Daddy.

\Alpha and QCD: Gaugino!

Gaugino's Mom: Gaugino, your Dad would like to take you out this week for a special treat.

Gaugino's Dad: I'll leave it up to you. I guess I could take you out to the String Park or a baseball game.

Gaugino: A baseball game! I've already been to a String Park.

All except Gaugino: What?!

Gaugino: I went on all sorts of ride, with Murky and all the other sparticles. I even went on a D-brane that looked like a flower and it spun around. It was really fun. So I've done that! Let's swim!

QCD: You saw Tonic and Hubble on the D-brane?

Gaugino: Uh huh.

\Alpha: Sounds like a cool dream, Gaugino.

Gaugino: It wasn't just a dream. It was real, I mean, testable.

\Alpha's Dad: Are you sure you don't want to go to the String Park, Gaugino?

Gaugino: Sorry, Dad. Murky already took me. (She holds him out.)

Murky: (thinking) That's right, Gaugino.

Gaugino's Dad: Mmmkay.

QCD's Dad: It looks like I was wrong. I should have never interfered. I'm sorry.

QCD: It's my fault.

Gaugino's Dad: No, I'm the one who should apologize. You're right, Albert, sometimes I can be a real crybaby. I appreciate you coming over.

QCD's Dad: Any time.

Gaugino: Don't be such a crybaby, Dad. We already have one. (looks to Sparty, who giggles)

Gaugino's Dad: Yeah, you're right. Gaugino, why doesn't the family go the String Park and a baseball game?

Gaugino: What, do you mean it?

Gaugino's Dad: Mmm-hmm. You betcha, kiddo. (He picks her up and holds her.) Just don't make fun of me when I scream my head off on the D-brane, okay? I'm afraid of heights, remember?

Gaugino: okkay! (laughs slightly)

\Alpha: Yes!

Murky: This is fantastic, Gaugino!

\Alpha: (voiceover, as scenes of Gaugino and her family at the String Park are shown) You know what, Tonic? Today, Gaugino's gone to the String Park for the first time with her whole family, just like she wanted it to be. I bet she had a great day.

(Night time, concluding scene.)

\Alpha: (writing in her diary) What I thought was weird today was seeing how parents can act like kids sometimes.

Tonic: Krmp krmp krmp krmp... I wonder if Gaugino liked the big D-brane as much as she liked our little one.

\Alpha: The great thing is, sometimes parents can also have fun like kids can. Like Dad when he went in the Screaming Hole with me.

Tonic: You wanna see fun? You should check out the totally cool strings ride. I'm still feeling dizzy from it. (He falls over)

Posted by lck at 08:41 PM | Comments (0)

August 07, 2005

Flares - dead engine

Four young men dancing in their tight white after each song double high-five, throw signs, slap each other's backs, and hug. They shrug, laugh, turn their faces back to the spotlights. Up one row and over five seats, a single, bespectacled woman waves her arms with the frenzy of a sign language interpreter. People snicker at her.

I have no trouble believing her joy but is it that simple?

She’s building onto this house, following the blueprint she has selected, discovering the dream in the cracks of the one before. I'll enter your house, dance in it, learn from it. Bliss requires more concentration.

        Did you see flares?
        I see fireworks.
        No, flares, like a nova flare or a flicker, over the hill, a flambeau.
        Like popcorn flambeau?
        Yep. Did you ever have popcorn flambeau?
        Yes. And if you had a barbecue that worked... I see the lake, the long silver strip and tiny fireworks over the village coastline, red and yellow.
        Yes, you’re right. I’ll get a barbecue, I guess. I always get soooo tired.
        Are you happy? How’s your life now?
        Red is coming back, as you know. The house will populate with her drawings and friends and even on wheels she’ll shake. I’ll be mostly in and out baby-sitting Circus, be a Mogul, passing stickies and phoning agents and castles on the shore with the boys, then sleep. And do crossword puzzles with a cute app. We’ll talk and she’ll entertain all with her special Savoury Liver and Bacon and Spaghetti Sauce to explain which is like getting String Theory right on a couple Burger King’s napkins. I never assume I’m too old for anything… another beer?
        Oh yes, please. Is Red going to walk ever again?
        They don’t know. Red is so comfy in her static fancy state and uninterested in the comeback to everyday life. She says she feels “resplendent”, that’s the term she uses. Frank, how do you like the house?
        The place is magnificent, partition is nice and the terrazza is huge, can see everything and the small fishermen moving on the docks and playing cards. It’s almost a poste de garde. I like humming over a glass of Porto, counting the wine racks waiting for the night lights to pop one at the time.
        What a romic! You should come back in a week, blue eyes, when I’ll have Tylenol to cure you pains!
        In the meantime a cold beer can cure that, can it? It was a stressful week.
        Oh, you can tell. I’m all wrinkly and sleepy. We deserve all the crimpling rounds from our starring role. Are you celebrating again?
        When I can, of course, and every time before sleep. Then every time I see a little lizard starring at me from the edge of the can.
        Smiling and doing the things I want to in so many ways and so many ways to talk, where does one begin? I've been unreasonably tired these days and any number of vaguely productive activities that the human body requires, a variety of exercise and I'd make for the gym. Strange how I work out differently in a gym and when I'm doing it outdoors. Red can't believe I've joined a club full of gay men, not when there was another newer one down the street that catered more specifically to a female clientele. It didn't appeal to me. Feel like everyday is just so cool, I know I'm not writing very much, there are so many stories to tell, but so much to learn.

Three men sketched in the background quickly read into life. The girl is the village beauty and the troublemaker, playing off men against one another and leaving behind angry folks in her wake.

We need more sugar cubes. Frank, would you please help my pony?
On the way down the line, if you've got the money.

When I’m back we're wearing sunglasses indoors. Guests are playing with the profile of hills and the discernible human activities to and from the boats and cars stopping at the bars and skipping, the geckos staring glamorous in the dark from the low ceilings.

        Frank, are we going to square-dance?
        We are going to Mars and we are going to Heaven.
        Yes!

Posted by lck at 12:47 AM

July 29, 2005

Ping on the wing - dead engine

The tall masked figure in dark turtleneck, jeans, holds the mike on stage. Shortcuts, walks and whispers, harshly, frantically. The man holds a chapbook. Below is a semicircle of chairs. Eight women sitting, blondes and a japanese, dressed in pastels and wearing hats, small toy purses, legs crossed and black wayfarers. They are waiting, impatiently, for the speech. A chair is empty. Lights go dim. A man on a stool, a viola doing the balancing on a foam rest, away to the East. He attacks a G9 chord on the amp, repeats it twice then the figure starts spitting words from behind the mask.

ping on the wing
to humor me, fresh me and surprise,
have a seat, don't be a stranger, repaint air-base in orange, aluminum
and peel me to breathe and back into clouds,
ten years and one does what one can,
ping me to sleep peeling your cheeks,
have a seat, write down the address and get the check.

ping on the wing
here in midmorning with a list of dates,
have a seat, not that big of a deal, writing legal essays on your day off,
please me to sip drip hip at the museum's gallery,
and the water silently waiving and swig,
cross-dressing, string on a tape,
have a seat, toss a coin to settle the slam.

ping on the wing
and the air is moving and we're staying on the road,
see thru the near-explosive burst of sunshine swinging the mood upwards,
ping on the black strip I see you blow in,
double park while I do the port-scan and shave,
the bookshelf to the right of this wall and a drinks trolley,
serve yourself and smile.

Lights go back up and the swingy strings stop. There are nine women now sitting in the shade. The ninth woman is dressed in black. She lifts the sunglasses up, approaches the black figure and gets the chapbook. Then opens the purse and picks up another chapbook and hands it out, then goes back to her seat. Lights go dim, again.

Posted by lck at 09:52 PM

July 20, 2005

Five on the fifth - dead engine

[ed- FIVE ON THE FIFTH is being released under a Creative Commons License. You can use it under the CC guidelines which you can find by clicking the CC badge below. This was made to be a song and I encourage you to think of it as such (a shell half-empty waiting for a musical narrative to join the bones). Underwave, a local band, will release a version using the lyric and the song will be made available via Timeline. Think of it as a Byrd's tune of sorts... you get the pitch, smartass. - lck]

Easy on the eyes drops a rookie card
flat on the counter, table three of seven,
relax in his seat Mary reaches fourteenth
whispers naked astronomy with a five on the fifth.

The Pink and the Blue are tied with their counters,
Harry skips the die and places in the casual,
the loser runs out, plays the Mary Chip card,
the Pink and the Blue reveal self-esteem.

Cheer your opponents with a five on the fifth.
Nowhere to go with a five on the fifth.

She bookmarks the day upon a heart-full of gold,
the meanest goes empty handed at all
against the edge of the desert standing the challenge
an island card and the Polar Beer can.

The rookie plays Winter and Spring
forecasts an order and jumps on the die,
moves further back on a vodka martini,
shuffle the race with a generous smile.

Cheer your opponents with a five on the fifth.
Nowhere to go with a five on the fifth.

Easy on the eyes drops a rookie card
the back and the faster right by the yard
The Pink and the Blue on table twelve chatting,
cheating in a corner and kiss a five on the fifth.

I get stuck in the narrow,
run out of cards,
cross the line but three rounds win a stop thief face,
walk over eleven on a different flight.

Cheer your opponents with a five on the fifth.
Nowhere to go with a five on the fifth.

Is George’s turn, lands on a place,
parachute fighter down from a tree,
banana split and rum is all I can see
passes the square and starts chasing me.

Loose romance rookie
thru the black empty windows
for me and them and the gaming boards nuts,
transporters and factories just minutes to go.

Cheer your opponents with a five on the fifth. [4]
Nowhere to go with a five on the fifth. [4]

Posted by lck at 07:21 PM

July 17, 2005

My Ukrainian girl - dead engine

I'm in love, I sweat on a new girl and on changing lanes. She's Ukrainian, a synchronized swimming trainer roaming around Europe these days and what not. Making Milan, Valencia, Zurich, strolling in public, leaving a trail, a reptile, I love her. I call her a pedophile, ain't she, dragging the carrot dish, cart and Oreos action, looking for unnamable, soda on sale and Mexican chips, trust and post-humans Russian, Spanish, German. Altogether. I suck at these things, I'm from Memphis, what do I expect, what do I know?

Time to go take a quick dip under and it's clear, feminine, green, half submerged gestures on the wire ticking "OK", opening in a "V", more structures that I can describe. Whichever way she goes, think of a blonde, something, somewhere under, not exactly a trip, scraping the typos away, can you tell? Busy with my characters, handling time, I'm in love for this girl, seriously! And can't even speak a good idea, just like everyone, I just want more time. But I don't know, I'm from Memphis, what do I expect, what do I know?

A scan of Sophia, I remember sketching for her, nail down a good geometry, fitting and folding, taping and learning, spiders, Bach, another turn and other feelings. This must be serious. I feel it. When I catch her walking in and hailing and spreading the noise, clothes, faces, then leaning down on the current framework, ain't she just right? I suck at these things, I guess I said that, I'm from Memphis, what do I expect?

Education, my family, the old tree in the old yard, does it matter? Now? I like to watch you dancing. I like that. I do not want to disturb you. Please continue. I want to just sit here and sip my JD and watch you. The skeletal complex moving in the pipeline. Hairs brushing and falling, improvising, a string of special strokes waiting. I'm in love with this girl and I suck.

If you ask your destination, a plan for the day, spaghetti for dinner, a walkabout on the shady side of the room, alone with magazines on a lounge, throwing confetti and laughing at the streets, when we walk, confused and can not speak. If I could trace and express but do I want to? I'm from Memphis, what do I want to know, what do I say?

Stand still, work the frame, leaving for a round of buses, planes, the cartoonish treatment. Ask you for postcards. Right out of St. Michel and along Left Bank the stands I caress, the tiny people exchanging and talking politics and the bookstore right on Deux Magot? I love my little Ukrainian girl and her list of things to do. I creep for her symmetry, easiness, and her being volatile. And I'll take care of her, I promise, when she comes back.

All of the money, that's how we do it, passing from her stopovers down to Chinasky and from there to Seoul and back to Djovkhar Ghaala, where our friends live. Easy. The Russians are still trying to hack it down. But they've got Chinasky down yesterday, she does not know and the guns are shining, quietly humming under. My cats keep me company, I won't miss her. When she comes back. My Ukrainian girl.

Posted by lck at 06:45 PM

July 09, 2005

I work for Google - dead engine

I work for Google and it feels fine. Yes, and no, I'm not a secretary, we have secretaries, I mean regular secretaries, I have three.

Worked for Google since 2002 and I'm in heuristics. Me and six like me, well, not quite exactly like me to be true, however, we supervise the Engine.

The Engine is the huge singing star ship in a sinking fleet, ya know, yep and kid, unofficially, don't put it down, remember your several NDAs and our lawyers, which you're going to see later on, those nasty eggballs are going to dig into your notes like drilling cheese. But now, for now, let's relax, talk to me all right?

Talking about The Engine. Our hero, our revenues generator, we all are grown-up hombres, profit not a bad word, we spell it upfront, do we?

We're in it for the money, no joke about it. Your competition out in the field, beat their prize, you're in heaven, from red to black, overnight, like that.
Sign here. Herr Gott, dich loben wir. Good Job! Easy, honest and objective. Danke.

That room there, that's the Engine, The other one is the Patching Bridge. The Bridge is an extension of our kernel and runs on top of it, dynamically over PageRank. From a sociological standpoint you can spell that a Reality Distortion Field. Between me and you, some of our biggest revenues funnel up from this single interaction. Microsoft sucks up our schema via MSN right out of the architecture and I tell you, the Monterey Jack we churn out of it, man! We are crawling on their backs like monkeys. Darwinism is darwinism, and faith and sip blood out of a juicy good dying carcass. What do you think? 10 more years riding a straw, good ole Mary Poppins.

Oh, but my secs, here they come. Aren't they cute? You like blondes? There you go, Avilina, New Mexico, the supreme Elvis aggregator, the living thing all the way to Twin Peaks and Mulholland Drive into contemporary movies Moguls. Ain't she nice? Solid, solid shaped ankles, large feet remind me of some smart-ass Norwegian viking and that heart-shaped ass is plain foolish. Yep, a nice living frame, don't you think?

Come cover me over kid, no, don't bother Ali, she's patching code right now but Christie is there, hanging the probe in mid-air, brain like parachuting down to earth, black-eyed and peel to caress her tail back like eyed-curtains, I told you, we have the best, profit is important, that's all it is about.

What do I do? Oh, man, piping orders from the blue letter and high-gears, obviously, top-clientsry chemistry, top-patching work, slight alterations in the pattern, anticipating some good prospects, precise trends pick-ups from our user's mail. How? You don't have Gmail? I'll drop you a few invitations. Actually, let me drop you a free pass for a 50 accounts batch, just imagine, drag it on to yer friends electric, please mention that in the interview. Gmail is an excellence tool, that's where we pick up the loose threads from and consolidate them into profitable prospected trends. We have an eye on, remember, I listen on the channel, don't you ever let me down, Jamie.

Here comes Kia, she's done and on her break, you can keep her company if you want, it's our duty to get distracted as often as we can. Ya know where inspiration is coming from. She's from Chicago but a ninja in her soul and dressed in a slightly aged Lara Croft suit with good rhymes. No swords but she can hurt you bad, kid, and see you later, she's glaring at you like neon lights at a singles bar in Alvin, TX. Your toothpaste, kids, have fun, come back with bright new hopes, emend the Kamasutra all the way down. Ya want maps? Try maps at google and pin down yer neighbors running the peep show in the backyard. Privacy what? Ehi, I was expecting you to be open minded! Geez! Mind is just too much of a valuable tool to waste in solitary masturbating, let's do it in the road, would ya? You're with the Beatles? But you didn't do Berkley, that's why I'm with the gray hipsters and you're not, right? See the factory, no, the hills up there, look, Sonora, Manteca, that's our database, we'll ride on later, kid, bowling session first, can you play? I'll introduce you to LeeAnne, our database Chief. She's a wacko, Amerindian. Can you beat her at Five Card Stud? I doubt it. But I'll risk my ass and leave ya under her watch for a while, do you mind, ehi, dude?

Frankie, what's up, freakie, you all right? She out with this Japanese transliteration, a new metric we are just rendering into the database, that scared you so? Why? Oh why?

Remember, our shares topped 296.23 today, that's 6 times AAPL before the split, 10 times MSFT current, what do you do with all that money? See, we are just scraping the notch, visit next year for some good adult entertainment.

Got new games to play with reality? What about an audience? We're going to portal when older, inevitably to disposable plugs near location and play Yahoo, delivered free to power outlets, a joke? Want to buy Sony? Apple? Play hardball with the deadheads? They're doing good on the Desktop mind-share and I have a red crew working on that and Steve reads our emails. No headaches and no condoms required.

Ain't it nice? Jamie, what do you think? You have kids, dear? Noo? Oh, man! Dude, what the fuck!

Posted by lck at 06:33 PM

July 04, 2005

Split Ends - dead engine

I was in astrology maybe I should not say, maybe I was in astronometrics and I was there and life goes on but I'm doing fine. I started to move my hands, my arms, and now I can sit up and breathe on my own. There is this odd device that they screw into the hole in my neck that is like a voice-box and allows me to talk a bit at a time.

Tan comes in and visits every day she can, when she's not out of town. She is only allowed to visit for an hour at each time. I feel an incredible sort of love for her. The hospital has become some weird peaceful second home to her. She said that the salad bar in the hospital is not bad... and sometimes at the counter the cook puts a plate of the leftover ends of sweet breads for passers-by to sample. Tan tries to entertain me by reading some of her favorite short stories really loud. Her hair is growing. She looks beautiful. This time she brought the recording of a new band she's promoting, to play for me on a disc-man and some huge headphones. There's a new song and a set of cover songs that she know I would love. She hello, we stare at each other for a while, and fall in love a little bit more, and play the songs and she weeps and I and then the time is over and a phone is ringing.

I've watched the hill get covered in snow a few times since I’ve been in here. There's this stark yellow carpet and the rehab stuff, piles that are accumulating on the floor and I wonder if they'll maybe go away magically.

Why did I not learn how to build bridges? Cometh, be afraid! My small-minded fantasies are driving up with a schedule that I don't even believe in. Zipping through the ward I have an angle into my life I never had before. Bed is near.

Frank brought out this large notebook and started to write, and gave me a nice marker and I got to draw on the other side, so I made some sketches and another picture which was a sort of globe with flowers sprouting out of it stretching to some unknowns. Frank admired them. I think he was very cold and a little bored. But I know these bulgy smooth hands, his wide veins crawling on a deep cover.

The twins returned to summer school as usual. Tan's left eye was swollen in the morning. Daddy told Tan to shed some tears to flush her tear ducts. She said Red hit her and made her cry in the afternoon. Tan said thanks to Red for hitting her. When daddy came home from work, the twins wanted to pick the plums from the tree in the front yard. The twins rode on daddy's shoulders to reach for the low hanging fruits. They picked about a dozen plums. The twins ate all of them after dinner. The twins asked when our neighbor would be home because they want to look for the frisbee in his backyard. Daddy suggested to them to write a letter and leave a phone number so that he could call back. The twins were enthusiastic. After daddy offered several hints, they finished their own sentences. They took turns to write one line each. They have written short notes to their friends before. But this one was their first letter with a purpose.

Doctor Dell came in in the morning. He checked me and said everything looked normal and that the most recent MRI showed no changes. He checked my legs for sensations with a paper-clip. He went up and down each leg poking me with the open end to see if I could feel anything and said something about swirling. I told him of itching and he promised to up my daily Exium to 300 mg. I also told him that last night I thought I saw him getting on his car and resting on the dashboard and that I could see him sneering and could not tell if he was sleeping at all or not. He scratched his nose and laughed and said that must have been Juan. I tried to laugh but ended up with a cough or a dry hacking sound from the Machine. He had me sit up and left, shaking my pinky as he usually does. I spent the rest of the day watching the cars moving in and out of the parking lot. Too fast a shadow against the glow of the unfinished Haven Dome at a distance and it's all right, only please come here cowboy, would ya?

Stevo came in today and he's winding me round the bends on my speed-chair all through the Center's neighborhood. He brought over a catalog of expensive Clarins beauty products. I laugh at Stevo pointing to what I want for my birthday. I will be 36 in two days. I haven't worn makeup in ages. He wears a blue t-shirt with a crescent moon and a star. After a few minutes, he coos about how good the botanically rich neighbors smell. "They relax me" I say. We're going to visit the Art Gallery, two blocks down from Dell's rehab place. Stev doesn't spend time in art galleries and museums. In fact, when asked which artists he admires, he stares blankly, shakes head and can't name a single one.

The place is tiny and incredibly packed with pop replicas, meteoric paintings, two large Bodell's and a generous assortment of Jessica Park's Pop Architectural. The bulky pale sales guy points at the latter right over my wheeled-movers with an hysterical "It's idiosyncratic and people love them" and continues "In fact, Park's sell as fast as she can make them. Many are snapped up by real estate moguls and Wall Street businesses. She works on commission, with a one-year backlog".

One of these paintings is a night scene, focusing on a black carriage-style lamp, filled with radiant multicolored light. Park apparently loves anything pertaining to the sky, be it clouds or shooting stars. Looking at the painting, it's easy to see that repetitive semicircular enchants her too.

It's summer afternoon, Stevo is eager to talk about food and I have a promise hanging to be back on time for my meds. Stev's phone rings and it's Tan calling from Winnipeg where she's touring her new band and a collateral circus of lawyers and falling equipment for the night show. "Is she there now?", "No, I just lost her", then I take it and kiss her through the mike and hail again. She's fine. "I have to go, we all have one big old lawyer-like party on the phone while the fate of my delicate little band and stupid songs for the next, oh, ten years or so, is decided" "Ehi, kid, be nice, take care, I'll be there for the party". Yeah, why not? Ehi, Steve, we're going to have a party right? When I'm older? He nods vigorously with his big red neck and shuts his eyes.

We're heading back, the tacos in a wrap, and as he rolls me back in kindly and quietly through the sliding doors the sun draws split ends on the verge.

Posted by lck at 09:31 PM

June 29, 2005

The piggyback - dead engine

(which way to the beach, please?)

Simple, simpler, our moves are getting simpler.

AN ORANGE DUFFLE-BAG
Tall, thin in blue, a stewardess hat on, the girl with the orange duffle-bag cuts terminal beach once a day on a silent duty ride. If you’re in for a coffee she’ll stand by the corner behind a pair of Ralph Lauren. Girl and duffle-bag proceed onto the pedal-boat and onto another island.

THE SHINING
The girl cuts the shoreline walking as she proceeds on her timeline thru the still waters. At every step she shines. The wavy hairs follow her quietly. She spends the day combing them as she leans on one side, then on the other.

QUICK-CHECK
A short man in blue cuffed oversized shorts walks two kids in, a boy and a girl. The kids leave a stick trail on the sand. The man does a quick temperature check. They leave in a burst of noise, the boy draws the longest shadow.

TERMINAL BEACH
Playing whats-your-name, hitting the waves every quarter, the strong cool breeze cuts terminal beach. In the late afternoon more people come and they bring floaters, helplessly crying girls pulling the mother’s arm and popsicle sand-chair. The sunset lasts forever with one german family in towels winding up carelessly on the benches. We are back from sleep, recharging, planning fish haunting at the store and going thru a nice selection of meds. She gets up in a cloud of noise from the interconnected trees and walks with her hairs in a twist, like a sparrow at take-off. Voices define locations thru the maze of trees, tents, stands and the shabby buildings. Waiting for a sound to crumble and swim south.

PASSING CAR
A blue Land Rover cuts the scene slowly from right to left. The driver’s polling the growth rate and passing on. The pale old lady on the passenger’s seat waves a bony hand out.

THE TEENS MEETING
The teen in black digs left of center field, maneuvering, hanging the heeled shoe, getting busy on a cigarette and cornering the discussion. Tomboy is relaxed, calm, large forehead under a perfect gasket of blond, rules the tongue pitching and jacks up another beer. The Jesus’ seat is empty. A third girl hits the group several times, filling thru the evening like a satellite. The boy in the green polo closes the rig, chewing on a crepe and calling for more.

A WHITE STRAW
Over the open-ended scale of fun and retreats neighbors are curious to draw and classify as they can. It is funny to skip, dance around a while, cook a scene, exchange glasses, spew around. A girl busy with her juice while he discusses with owner and waitresses of options, trends, future plans. In time and days the crowd changes. Age, hairs and colors change, music fades into music as the disco at the other end preps for another round. The girl alone chewing a white straw.

PASSING BIKE
A Ducati, boy and girl on red helmets and minimal conversation, cuts the scene from right to left and fades.

CONNECTED
One out of the three of them cutting the beach at the seawall is connected to friends via Bluetooth. They monitor 2 groups of young students that just invaded the harbors. Jump into the water with no hesitation, form a large circle splashing and spell the masthead rituals aloud. Resting is castle-building or playing with a plastic gun trying to grab the trigger. The 9 year old boy with a baseball cap counts the waves and does not bathe. He fears to be within.

THE PARAFOIL ENTERTAINMENT
We are discussing the menu, wines, blurbs, pop hearts, cherries and of clouds and kids tunneling the palm trees thru the sunset. Everybody line up at the parafoil entertainment, blinded, the boat gears up and springs him higher. A low-flying helicopter makes the shoreline sending waves to the slow-moving army, inching forward. Crawling on a rocking chair, climbing onto another edition and touching the sand I fall asleep. Everything turns into nothing.

AWAKENING ON A BIKE
Awakening on a bike, getting the towels together and heading for breakfast. Birds are rolling off a tree and onto another sketching circles. We are comfortably drunk already. For the rest of the day I won’t ask what comes next.

BIRTHDAY
As you grow, every year, candles multiply on your birthday’s cake. As you grow some more, candles start dividing. Keeping the count makes you drooling. As you fast-forward candles resolve into one. Keep counting.

PASSING BOYFRIENDS
The boyfriend of Monday and the boyfriend of Tuesday cut the scene from left to right and cheers. The boyfriend of Friday is having tomato and chips and churns at the corner. The boyfriend of Sunday eyes the kindergarten space and holds a lollypop in his right hand. The hand says “hate”. The boyfriend of Wednesday is on a phone conversation with H. H is a girl who writes notes. She hides notes behind, beside boxes.

QUARTET
The two bulky kids, dog’s heads and matching swimsuits marching from the showers to the table. A small girl on orange joins them halfway. They are scanning their breakfast. A Grenadine dash, croissants, skimmed milk, a blend of coffee and yogurt. I am at the table and the chair is screeching. The girl and the boys are starring at me and I don’t know them. They offer a pinch of black olives and a slab of bread and start a discussion of films. When they are done they jump on their bikes quietly and run to the gate. The three stop there and turn their heads back to me, waiting.

PASSING BEES
Local bees are 2 inches long, some white, and cut the scene over the turfs disappearing in the haze ahead of the buzzing scare.

SHORE-WALKING
I like to walk up and down, slow, patiently checking for incoming boats and looking for parking, the boys waving at each other under a permanent shadow. If you want to avoid burns don’t stop, laugh frequently, watch over your back. Flying thru the body of passing friends, no mute relationships can take you grounded. Make reservations for tomorrow, learn to debunk your fish efficiently, don’t let the flashlight distract you.

THE PIGGYBACK
He is a tall man, swimming into a big pair of steel toe hiking boots, a bleached tank-top. He gives the little boy a piggyback ride. From an end to the other on the same yard, crossing the playground, the young boy is coughing. The young boy is teething, his head whoops and boobs in a smile. At one end of the piggyback ride the man and the boy are resting.

Posted by lck at 05:15 PM

June 18, 2005

Walking distance - dead engine

When I was 16 she was 22 and she liked a lot to walk. I remember, at that time she wore red-dust blonde hairs in a ponytail and Black, 2132 New-Wayfarer, clipped over a terrific long neck.

We used to walk for three or four days at a time, once or twice a year.

Walking together demands agreement in timing.

Hands loose, brained in a larger design, generous, light long fingers in a slight tan.

I did not wear a watch. She did not wear a bracelet. Picked a direction and walk that way until bored.

It’s hot in the summer though, so that sucks.

The more you walk the more likely you are to do it. Drink tropical juice and feel it oozing, walking like you know where you’re going and everything is lovely and luscious and exciting.

We liked to walk. When we were to find a long distance path, we started by looking for paths that go along coasts or down river valleys. These paths tend to have towns or villages at intervals, and towns or villages tend to contain comfortable places to stay and nice places to eat.

A reasonable distance between towns or villages is about four hours walking.

When we broke up by graduation, and over the summer I decided I was going to become an actor. And, after one semester, I changed into a major in the Writing, Speech, and Drama.

When I was 26 she was 32 and she liked a lot to walk. I remember, at that time she wore a sleeveless cutlass cotton shirt, no collar, bottom button loose, a black leather belt with silver buckle and D&G linen pants.

I saw her on a promo trip with a group of French photographers parading testimonials for a firm in Washington, CT.

“Do you like my girlfriend?” she asked.

I think sometimes you expect to be terrific, then yes, that is a disappointment.

We walked miles and walked hand in hand down Kings Highway, the three of us.

We meet the girlfriend's daughter at the top, wearing a black turtleneck and a plaid skirt, with brown boots. The two went through lengthy mind numbing explanations of their own experience from owning all the Beatles albums.

Girls always have big plans, imaginary or otherwise inaccessible.

I was walking with the three girls, pushing them along the walkways in a rumba, heading for the train. We were laughing it up. Some loud voices startled me and I half turned as two people passed by. One was a very obnoxious drunk man of about 5' 4", spitting as he talked, being insulting; the other person was a reddish-blond. I let them go, even happier now. We caught our breath.

Sometimes I like to walk around with a gun in my pocket. It reminds me of those days.

When I was 32 she was 38 and she liked a lot to walk. I remember, at that time I could spot these visible open-drainage adits from post liposuction surgery over hand built black one-sandals, wary feet in the summer’s haze and a Gucci's mini flap bag.

She was married at that time, love a luxury she could not afford, she said. But as I could see she matured and she had become cautious.

I had spotted her on walkarlington.com looking for a walking companion to hit the trails in and around the Ballston area, which is where I live now.

We hit the Golf Course several times and the promenade and had many of those delicious Jamba-Juice serves up from a vendi-mech, a beautiful hot pink robot-like thing along the way. We were standing at the end of Ridley's Walk, looking west towards the Orchard. The archway at the far end leads to Ivy court, and the building on the right is the old Master's Lodge.

We both stick tongues out with the same sign and grin.

“April has to be the worst month for shopping but somewhere between work and shopping I've found some cute shoes from Neiman Marcus”, she said and looked down into the paper bag.

Starring at her ponytail and laughing, eyelashes and tip of her nose I promise, one of these days, I'll learn how to maintain perspective.

Posted by lck at 08:27 AM

June 13, 2005

That's it!

It ends "today"

Posted by lck at 12:23 AM | Comments (0)

May 22, 2005

Bamboo Part 5 is an Online Quiz

Bamboo, part 5 (Dead Engine) is an online quiz, written along (4 hands) with Valeria Brancaforte.
This chapter is now running the contagiousmedia competition, which opened in NYC on May 19th.
Feel free to browse it at bamboo.contagiousmedia.org

This is "a very mild low-tone" for such a global scream, and it shows but, indeed, it can be fun.

We made it, we recommend it, get MORE fun.

Posted by lck at 08:30 PM | Comments (0)

May 18, 2005

Boyz & Girlz - dead engine

This online quiz was fun to make and take. Posted on ContagiousMedia, it ran thru their first annual Showdown in NYC on May 19th, 2005 and placed 14th out of 84 contestants.

The quiz was authored by Valeria Brancaforte and me.

To the 29,503 nuts (a.k.a. Unique IPs) who took the quiz credit is due for the inevitable degree of anger :-) and confusion they were left with.

Take the risk to make 14 decisions out of your present or ficticious relationship with a boy or girl and proceed!

Posted by lck at 01:46 PM

January 17, 2005

The shopping spree - dead engine

Haven't you seen us?

Haven't you seen us crumbling thru Lou, Red, Muse and me, in the barrier, outside of the bunker, making jokes and faces, making noise. To the square in front of the Cathedral I tried to kill Lou in the fountain. And when a blond haired policeman shook his hand and said: "Don't you, guuuuys, peeeeople, you'd better go".

High.

Gumshoe, bring bills along. Machines on auto-respond, hail the crew in, hang on, shut up, park kid, enjoy a few faces, vespashooting, polished faces of pink churches, a few stars, stoned angels sharing sympathetic fears from higher grounds.

Deploy.

Lou bought the future in his hand, by the square, and he closed the door behind him for a week, and I: "I've told you stupid, that guy here or what doesn't looks like being comfortable". And he yelled out a: "But it's true, stupid!" We played with the guys and it was beautiful and Red and the guys.

Down and up, checking paperbacks, magazines and the panels they set, out, and I told you, colorful, slim, not a solid scene, but nothing and proceed onto Benetton's new color matrix which was 012 colors last year and the persistent cork-full high-heels migrating to men's. Watch your steps, Red, isn't that disgusting? No, but up, higher, take a left, rushing the line, buy America, fold down two buttoned-up immaculate white shirts, low collar chinese, Muse says Calcutta, minimal for the masses and 3 pairs of linen pants 3 different colors just a little too long. And down, get those wet-orange pants, which is a double, and carry em all on your chest like an infant, and thru a pile of black ties, all black and all shiny dipping in big blue bags, printed and glued in Manila. Can we add a few more? But higher? Lou? No. Down, slowly, chasing jewelry now and making up some. A bellybutton thing, I pause, or a umbilical cord I call it, that is crazy? I know shoes are getting less pointy this year neither they are getting round and men's still on ephedrine, redbull for free for all. Ice cream, fast, leave chocolate dripping to the birds, flying low and I get a scare when the bird's eye darts 2 inches out of my shoulder and I go down. Down and up. Stretched-up underwear on display, pink, green but faint, the t-rex is missing, can catch a UFO if I want to. Drop a few on black bulk sunglasses I look good in the glass, I dunno, and Red's browsing to find the match and she doesn't. Hair color comfortable, 1973, smiles my babe. Jumping from the sun side to the shade SIDE and tip-tapping and I'm in deep, touch a few bottles, thinking of the one we're working, classy, classic, tall, fat, transparent? Anything, no, down. Translucent! Laughs. The line at the cosmetic's ward is a waiting room. Dykes get full consultation on issues the least likely and screening on shades and tints, related, unrelated and color-coded, mode d'employ, bon jour Coco. Browsing Chanel, laughing at Kenzo's boxes. Giant eyeliner, blue, floating. Decompressing, wake up on the stairways. Enough with the charm and in the sun again, up.

Bo took me to McDonalds because she likes hamburgers, lazy by the window, her fish untouched, Italian restaurants and people and the streets, lonely men white like blankets beyond the walls, bleached bones, the metro unfinished and the neon lights, taxi drivers.

And down.

A phone, I don't want one but slow down, target the table right, a shiny metal oasis by the door with the palm tree, coffee time. We are sitting down, scanning faces, drinking water and talking about umbilical cords made of silver, gold, white pearls and black pearls. Will suit the dying trend of low ass pants and hair shirts. Laughs. Two more summers? Tie it to your 501, add tiny cowbells, make a mess. Black out shoes, orange, low ass boots, comrades getting high.

You haven't seen us.

Up? No, down, down fast for a dip into the fish market mess, blood everywhere, lambs sliced in halves, chopping pig's head with the chainsaw and is full of tourists taking photos and smiling at the slaughtering. Observations, exotica, the med's photo album. But flowers come first. We get 5 fishes, one is smiling, the others crying to be done for good, money passes by, coins shimmering, it's spring's, lemons, prepped up lettuce and more of the guts. I carry my dead boys thru faces perplexed, tired, crying kids in tow of bigger customers. Wait, up, no. Down, my salad man smiles and we get 3, pistachio, nuts, some more, more and pine nuts. Where did I drop them?

And I got this thing, she said, that we're off-center and we feel good wherever it's not home, On the metro again, a line to the other, marking the time, tracking down.

Second floor at the bank, she was afraid she could stumble at each step, but I could see everything and I covered her eyes with my hand. Killing time at the Yamamay shop-front aNd it was as if there was nothing better than ice cream. Turn left, watch the water, while the dead stones by the bridge, the trembling lights, surrounding And the students, inviting you to come visit the university, explaining with their broken English how funny the students are and how beautiful the town can be with the good frie