Tuesday, August 31, 2010

In the future, when archeologists are scrounging around in our dirt and dust, they will have to wonder why we had so many redundant doors.

Monday, August 30, 2010

The world was strangely, entirely, quiet, as he set off for home. This was strange, but not unreasonable, as he had been deafened while working a data entry job earlier that morning.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

The light this morning was like a dream. Not yet an evil dream, but it had that gloaming going down feel, like things are about to go south, like that moment just before a storm breaks, or just before another car on the highway gets side swiped.

The cats were all talkative, too, pausing to meow even as they ate.

And now, sitting at work, trying to stay awake, floors and floors above, the sky is roiling, threatening afternoon walks. And: only one person showed up to work today.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

It was a good thing he remembered to bring his tool set.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

"Make culture! We can create anything!"

But then, this was a woman, girl really, who thought I'd been hit by a bus, or a car, or was dead, anyhow.

And admittedly, I had been dead, but not so much so that I couldn't answer a phone, or email or whatever.

"The empathic spectrum. The drivers of connection and community. This world is focused on empathy -not attention- and reputation. It is slower, but richer. This is not easy to get to, but it is possible." -Jamais Casico.

And we got up and left, because that world, the world he'd been speaking about had passed, was passing. Listening to his speech reminded us: Starbucks Raid in twenty minutes, and if you've not got an epic mount IRL, then the zepplin ain't gonna wait for your dawdling ass.

Epic gear: harder to get, and when you hit the level cap (or "Adulthood") then what? Then the real grind begins.

They're making the world so easy, but the actual game doesn't even begin until 80. getting to 80 creates:

A) a barrier to entry, however minimal it may be
B) a structured way to learn the basic skills and roles necessary in your career to continue through the new game, that starts at the level cap.

Sneakily, they've added level cap items that do nothing but make it easier for you to drag other careers to 80. "You can stay in the shallow end as long as you want." is, in effect, what they're saying.

You can get a job without going to college, you can even make good money doing it, and if you're lucky, get end-game/epic rewards.

None of that postulating, gibbering and pontificating though, got us to the bus stop before the 34A pulled away, stranding us miles from home and more miles from where our Service Daily Mission was located.

Monday, August 16, 2010

And here it is: the/your/our witching hour. When we think of witches and wonder at the wonder and wish for fishes and bones and bones and bones.

The witching hour: head butts and blood, witchy tits and bitty titty witches. Blond haired men and women, and a dragon on a wire night stand.

The witching hour: two talkative cats and a sad faced spouse.

The witching hour: tired enough to type.

And here it is: the/your/our wishes, riding away on an oil slick tide, memorial immemorial, and for the best.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

"Oh this? Just something I cobbled together from nothing, really. It's not as impressive as you'd think, and I . . . I'm not really into it. I just did it for the fun of it, kinda. Et cetera."

Monday, August 9, 2010

she looked disdainfully at his baba-ganoush salad. She asked him, "You're really going to eat that?"

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Staring into the mirror, he told himself: "Here I am, right now, in this moment." He knew instantly, from the way his mouth worked too much to form the syllables, that he was lying.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

It’s about cooking, is what it comes down to. The process: shop, clean, prepare, pray, eat, do-the-dishes. When I was very little, it was me playing with a remote controlled car while the grownups did almost all of the process

As I got older, more responsibility was given to me. First, definitely first was: do-the-dishes. Then, once I could see over the counter top, the high one, by the back wall, with the proper post modern stool. Once I could see over that counter top, I got to prepare the potatoes, then maybe clean the carrots, prepare the onions (never the meat, that was always Granddad’s responsibility.)

I’m just now realizing this. I tried to recall, as vividly as possible, my grandfather, and what I came to was always food. It was there in the last post, too. Food: careening (hah hah hah) around English country sides and dirt roads and horse trails in search of the best Yorkshire Pud. Let’s be honest, for a moment. We all knew where the best Yorkshire Pudding was prepared: Granddad’s kitchen. He must’ve forgotten, or wanted some innovation, or we weren’t brave enough to say it, though, because a-careening we would go, when we visited.

We went to two pubs, the last time I was in England, and the convivial joviality with which my granddad swaggered up to the bar and ordered a round of fizzy lemonades from the country cute brunette made me blush. It was impressive, to be sure, and . . .

. . .and now I’ll never hear any secret war stories, or youthful 1940’s carousing stories.

This all seems very self centered, I’m sure, but it’s me and him, really. The two of us, saying good bye and I’m sorry –the both of us saying these things. Sorry I didn’t call more. Sorry I didn’t write more. Sorry there’s no to do list for the process of love in my kitchen. Here, have this skeleton, you can make soup from it, to start, and (and this is the secret of love, and life) and if you’re doing the soup right, following and sharing the process properly, then the bones grow sinew, get soft, sprout meat, blossom into a lamb leg, or steaks, if you’re prickly about eating tiny, cute things.

But first: broth and bones.