Culture Shock

Reporting in for duty

2008-07-22T18:45:17Z

I suppose there's not that much for ol' PC to report.

On the subject of Roleplaying games: WotC has royally fucked my ass when it came to DDi, their so-called online initiative and gametable since it has turned into vaporware. They are liars and thieves.

On the subject of films: Wall-E, nice Pixar flick, good production values, good social message. Heartily approved.

Wanted: Popcorn.

Batman: Wouldn't have been that good had it not been for Heath Ledgers fixating performance; as it was, astounding. I mean, when you leave a theater and you can't get the little tics a character had out of your head... that's good, right?

Get Smart: Bullshit. Even though Steve Carrell has proved himself as a capable actor. What the fuck was going through the minds of whomever made this shitbomb?

Some paragraphs from hell

2008-07-10T21:04:04Z

Here they are, some work I've been doing:

Function 3

Jack was trapped far from home and quite utterly alone. He was surrounded by brutal insensible men, men who had never looked up at the sky and wondered at their own smallness. How could it be that these thugs, these carnate substantiations of grim pure muscle were going to kill him? He knew right then that his life was destined to be ended by these truculent killers who were so swollen with barbarism that they seemed no more than ghastly daguerreotypes of men. They were simply outlines sketched upon a chalkboard by an unreasonable designer who reveled in sharp angles and scoffed with syrupy scorn at sophistication. These men who even now drew their clubs and their guns were a far cry from the intellectuals Jack had always known. How could it be that he was destined to end his days at the hands of facile goons? What force in the universe made it possible for him to meet death in the hands of people who were not even smart enough to understand the awful finality of what they were doing? What right did these lumbering madmen have to cut short his all-too-brief stint in the world of the living, the world of pleasures and unpleasantness both alike? These questions suborned his mind into the idle occupation of fear, leaving him no escape. Finally, Jack hit upon a single solid truth amidst the sea of truths that he rejected. They had no right, he reasoned, except for one: they could.

Jack Borgan was wrong about one thing: they weren’t blind pulsing tendons with no greater understanding. He was also right about another: they killed him right there on that very spot as he trembled in useless terror. The whys and wherefores are long and they have a tendency to clump together. To work them out, to sort them into discreet phrases and quanta, would be not only without merit but meaningless, counter-productive, and banal. Not only that, but Jack Borgan’s life is interwoven with countless others and some of them bear direct relevance on the series of lies about to be committed to paper forever. It all has to do with that wonderful terrible Dada Machine; but not yet! We’ll have to convince time to un-kill poor Jack Borgan before we can get to the heart of the matter. We’ll have to walk back back back back to the very beginning - or as close as we can get, anyhow.

That much is simple. With a few nouns and connectors the deed is undone and we find ourselves wondering just where we are. In the span it takes to read a sentence years march forward or back, centuries elapse or curl themselves up like springs or the tails of cats. In a single paragraph more lives are shattered and whole continents engulfed in flames; just the same in a page the wounds heal or grow worse - they close up or fester with gangrene right between that period and the oncoming ‘A’.

Jack was born to Jon and Melanie Borgan in the year 1975. His father Jon Borgan was a mathematical genius. He had been trained from a young age in all the skills necessary to hone the analytical mind. His own father, the Old Man, would sometimes (and without warning) turn to young Jon and shout “Multiplication tables!” which was the cue for a symphony orchestra, an absolute orgy, of numbers to come spilling from Jon Borgan’s lips. It was a wonder that the Old Man thought anything of his son at all - he had fought in World War Two and, as he was keen to remind his little boy, unless there was another such gut-wrenching war little Jon Borgan would never be a man. There were times when Jon was forced to stand out in the snow or the rain: these were when he had been bad, or failed to factor the square root of fifteen hundred and three quickly enough. Once he stood outside all christmas eve after having asked his father if there was a Santa Claus. “Of course there’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” the Old Man had bellowed. “I ought to take you outside and leave you there all night!” And he did. Moms (for that was what little Jon called his mother) didn’t know about it. If she had she would have fought with the Old Man right until morning. As it was, the Old Man had told her that Jonny-boy was off at a friends to enjoy the Yuletide spirit.

The Three Things

2008-07-10T13:30:40Z

So, it's been two years since ol' PC tried to take back the reigns of the Internet and failed miserably. The internet is no less filthy, no less mad, than it was when I began. In fact, it may even be more so. Yet, in those two years of silence I have discovered that there is nothing I love better than the very kind of madness that the Internet represents.

You see, every good story has three things inherent in it -- Blood, Semen, and Sweat. It can hardly be called a truly GOOD tale unless it has at least two, and if it has none then it's not even worth reading. Eat your heart out Jane Austen, where's YOUR Blood Semen and Sweat? I suppose you can replace Semen with Sex of any kind. These are the three fluids, however (semen=seminal?) that make everyone human. These animal fluids, these brute liquids sloshing around inside of us, make us who we are. We are motivated on a daily basis by them, to obtain them, to shed them, to find them, and not to loose them.

How can I blame the Internet for being human? After all, didn't we make it? Shouldn't it, then, have the best of our fluids spattered all over it? Long live the Internet!

The great man himself... Lives?!

2008-07-10T03:02:29Z

I do. Don't run away you frightful children! Stay your hand, vile executioner! Time, reverse your march!

I live again!

Papa Culture and the Literati: Reprise

2006-09-02T03:19:59Z

The dark and wizened figure in the shadow of the cell grinned obscenely at me. I fought down the urge to rush forward and embrace it, however vile it might now be. Giuseppe Balsamo -- the Count of Cagliostro as he fancied himself -- and I had a long and colored history in the Continent and beyond. "My friend," I whispered to him, trying not to alert our archangelic jailors that we knew one another. "My friend, it has been ages."

"Eons," he said with a sour note on his breath. "Eons since I died. Here, every moment is itself an eternity."

I shuddered. "It cannot have been so bad," I said. "I spoke with Azazel..."

"Azazel?!" He thundered. "That weakling devil tried to show me the way out of here! When first I came I was not presented with either the vistas of hell nor the police-state of heaven! Rather I was in Limbo, and it was through his idiocy that I was..."

I nodded. The story was familiar to me. "But surely, Cagliostro, we may find a way to escape. You were the premier Alchemist in all of Europe."

"Europe follows a different paradigm," he said angrily. "They no longer subscribe to such things as Alchemy -- but Reason and Logic, the developments of thought rather than the convincing lies of Charisma. How can I magic my way from this heavenly prison if even the Europeans no longer believe in witchcraft?"

I paused, to recollect. "In South Africa there are those who still do. They revere machines as magic."

Cagliostro snorted. "And? In America there are those who send up magical imprecations to the Great Void in the Sky, thinking they are reaching God and not some manner of Cosmic Nothingness and Absence! That does not help ME. Those left on Earth who profess belief in Alchemy are quackeries and hacks, as are the remaining occultists who truly understand AND believe in the power of the occult. In a word, they are nonexistant. As nonexistant as the Absent God!"

I sighed and sat heavily in the muck. "So we are stuck here?"

I began to get the feeling that Cagliostro was growing tired of my incessant questions. "Yes!" he said with an explosive spurt of anger. "Yes, WE are stuck here unless YOU have some spell or trick that has not been forgotten and cast aside by the men of Earth!"

I thought to myself for a moment at that. Cagliostro was clearly bitter that the world had passed him by. Yet, unlike him, I had not been trapped beneath the thumb of the ravening heavenly order for millenia. I had lived, and grown, and come to understand the ways of the men of earth. And thus, did I formulate a plan. "I believe," I began, "that I may."

When I told Cagliostro of my plan he laughed and cavorted and jumped with glee. He danced in his chains. He jangled his shackles at me and smiled through his beard. It was a plan that could only end in stunning victory or numbing failure, and those were Guiseppe Balsamo's favorite kinds. I watched him do his jig with a growing sense of anxiety as I myself was hardly as confident in my plot.

I cannot commit it to the digital slipstream here, lest the archangelic order realize what I've done. They have keen eyes and Sanctified Programs which can reach into the internet; and from there to both the real and the sub-real. Suffice to say that Virgil, Cicero, Sun Tzu, and Peter the Great all had a hand in my escape. Poor Cagliostro fell into the Lethe, where he was purged of all his terrifying memories, but I! I! I won through! I made it to the surface, via long tunnel like the one Azazel showed me, and I was not turned back!

I escaped the Angels and the Devils, I escaped the chains of Afterlife, and now I know that I have closed those gates behind me forever. I cannot return there -- no I don't think anyone can. So, perhaps I've traded an eternity of torment for one of obscurity and oblivion, but it was a choice between the NOW and the LATER, between what IS and what IS TO COME, and in that situation well, I don't think anyone could have blamed me.

Or perhaps they could have.

But I'm back for you, my children. The Internet Renaissance continues... Let the Pheonix rise, and let the flowers bloom!

A Nation of Doves

2006-08-09T03:24:14Z

There are two major things wrong with the Social Liberals in the U.S. today. The reasons are as follows:

    I. Many who support liberal social policies have also been lured into the noble ideal of pacifism, thus making them unfit to govern a country.
    II. Those who are not fooled by pacifism have abandoned the core values of their social progressiveness

A corallary to this may be considered, namely:

    iii. Social Liberals who are not either of these two things are marginalized in the political arena due to the "moderating" tendancies of the Republic.

We must examine each in turn. Our first point demands a long hard look at the idiocy of pacifism and "diplomacy first" actions. The main problem with pacifism is that it is inflexible. Like any poorly concieved policy, it allows very little movement as it dictates a pure system -- All war is evil, war must therefore be avoided at nearly all costs. This blind idealism may sound tantalizing in the Platonic world, but since Aristotle is inevitably the victor in the real pragmatic world of the polity, we must recognize the limits of a pacifist option. Those in favor of socially liberal programs are easy to lead down the path of idealistic views of foriegn policy. The reason is simple to understand: Social progressivism is a form of idealism. The policy makers envision the ideal form of social state, one where liberties are maximized in a balance with securities. Becuase this ideal polity can only exist in the mind of the reformers, it is easy to make the jump to the idealistic goal of pacifism. However, while social reform is a style of absolutism (social liberties above all), it is not ultimatly a self-defeating one. While liberty and security is a zero sum game, the margins remain wide. However, foriegn policy is not the same as domestic civil rights. By drawing the analogy between the two, social reformers improperly make the assumption that these two things are the same.

Secondly, many "social reformers" have abandoned their programs of social reform to appeal to the moderating tendency of the political arena. However, this tendency is tempered by the increasing political transparency which brings politics and ultimately political power to the masses. The Republic was never meant to support this kind of transparency, and the middle of the bell-curve was never meant to shap[e policy to the extent that it now does. The poison of religion has crept into politics becuase the main body of the country is religious. These people were always meant to be excluded from the political process, allowing the intellectual elite to govern the country as best they can.

This is the diagnosis. The treatments will follow.

The Third Intifada

2006-07-19T01:01:31Z

The Third Intifada - the Archduke is dead. Iran assisted in capturing Israeli soldiers, Syria is trying to get back into Lebannon.

Mark your calenders, this month marks the beginning of the end.

The Culture of Laziness

2006-07-02T15:28:28Z

A new theorem has been bubbling in my idea-pot for quite some time. This cesspool which has given birth to various ludicrous notions has now spawned a further concept. Allow me, for a moment, to proselytize.

The current generation (I am speaking of Generation Y, here, and not those ridiculous new children growing up now) has been affected by the notions of it's ancestors in such a way as to teach it a veritable contempt for work. A loathing, if you will, for the rat race. Throughout the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s, the American Dream Machine of the Mass Media has been teaching us that working is bad for you. It takes you away from your family, your children, your loved ones, etc. Thusly, this has given birth to a people who want to perpetually stop and smell the flowers. The "slow down" message has been appropriated subconsciously by the current up-and-comers, which accounts for the apathy normally associated with the Why Generation. It is not Generation Why? as in, philosophically why? But rather WHY? as in, why do I have to exert myself?

The conflux of technology and this dangerous message that has been left over from the hippies (when it was arguably necessary) has slowly poisoned this generation until the very notion of work has become anathema.

This is my new theorem. Think on it.

Roma

2006-06-30T21:26:10Z

As Papa Culture, I once again feel it is my civic duty to recommend that all people rent and watch the HBO show, Rome. It is magnificent in it's scope and excellent in it's writing. Do it. Do it now and live up to the high expectations I hold of you. Enjoy it. It is beyond all thought of wonder.

Net Neutrality!

2006-06-12T21:22:26Z

Network Neutrality is in peril! The House has failed to pass a requisite net neutrality bill to keep the Internet unbiased as far as data packages go. You have to do your part before the bill reaches the Senate. Go to www.itsournet.org and sign up, send a letter to your Senator. NOW!

A disturbing trend

2006-06-12T18:22:44Z

Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy.

Talidega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby

These subtitles present an unpleasant trend that will destroy our culture. Be wary of them, my friends. More will likely follow.

TITLE: THE FORM OF ORAL STORY OF SOMEONE WITH A FUNNY NAME

appears to be the format of the day.

Culture and Network Neutrality

2006-06-02T17:08:05Z

It may be known to some of you that there is such a thing known as "Network neutrality". This state describes the non-prioritization of data on the internet. However, Network Neutrality is about to hit it's first big hurdle.

Bit Torrent creator, something somethingorother, is working on a system based on the BitTorrent model that will provide, to those who pay for it, a new faster internet connection. Downloads will occur at lightling speeds, and so will transfers. This model is only available to the COMPANIES THAT PAY FOR IT and it affects ALL USERS.

For example: When you visit a company with this new capability (being developed mostly by Cachesoftware or something like that, in the UK) your connection will be improved. Anything you download from them will be at amazing speeds. However, other information from non-Cachesoft sites will not be. This prioritization via cash is a violation of Network Neutrality. Places like Ebay have already begun requesting legal action against this violation. So have Microsoft and Google. There is currently a Network Neutrality bill being talked about on the Hill.

Do your part. Write your congressperson or something like that. Culture should not be in the vice grip of money!

How Cultured are YOU?

2006-06-02T05:39:32Z

The Literati Strike Back: A list of the 110 most often banned books. Read books in bold. Partially or fragmentary in italics. The Papa is getting there, no? I must admit, I don't have time to read every piece of trash that comes my way!

#1 The Bible
#2 Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
#3 Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
#4 The Koran
#5 Arabian Nights
#6 Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
#7 Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift
#8 Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
#9 Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
#10 Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
#11 Prince by Niccolo Machavelli
#12 Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
#13 Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
#14 Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
#15 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
#16 Les Mis?rables by Victor Hugo
#17 Dracula by Bram Stoker
#18 Autobiography by Benjamin Franklin
#19 Tom Jones by Henry Fielding
#20 Essays by Michel de Montaigne
#21 Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
#22 History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon
#23 Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
#24 Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
#25 Ulysses by James Joyce
#26 Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
#27 Animal Farm by George Orwell
#28 Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell
#29 Candide by Voltaire
#30 To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
#31 Analects by Confucius
#32 Dubliners by James Joyce
#33 Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
#34 Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
#35 Red and the Black by Stendhal
#36 Capital by Karl Marx
#37 Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire
#38 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
#39 Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence
#40 Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
#41 Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser
#42 Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
#43 Jungle by Upton Sinclair
#44 All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque
#45 Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx
#46 Lord of the Flies by William Golding
#47 Diary by Samuel Pepys
#48 Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
#49 Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
#50 Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
#51 Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
#52 Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant
#53 One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey
#54 Praise of Folly by Desiderius Erasmus
#55 Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
#56 Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X
#57 The Color Purple by Alice Walker
#58 Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
#59 Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke
#60 Bluest Eyes by Toni Morrison
#61 Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
#62 One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
#63 East of Eden by John Steinbeck
#64 Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
#65 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
#66 Confessions by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#67 Gargantua and Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais
#68 Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes
#69 The Talmud
#70 Social Contract by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#71 Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
#72 Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence
#73 American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser
#74 Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler
#75 A Separate Peace by John Knowles
#76 Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
#77 Red Pony by John Steinbeck
#78 Popol Vuh
#79 Affluent Society by John Kenneth Galbraith
#80 Satyricon by Petronius
#81 James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
#82 Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
#83 Black Boy by Richard Wright
#84 Spirit of the Laws by Charles de Secondat Baron de Montesquieu
#85 Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut
#86 Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
#87 Metaphysics by Aristotle
#88 Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder
#89 Institutes of the Christian Religion by Jean Calvin
#90 Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
#91 Power and the Glory by Graham Greene
#92 Sanctuary by William Faulkner
#93 As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
#94 Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
#95 Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig
#96 Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
#97 General Introduction to Psychoanalysis by Sigmund Freud
#98 Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
#99 Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Alexander Brown
#100 Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
#101 Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J. Gaines
#102 Emile Jean by Jacques Rousseau
#103 Nana by Emile Zola
#104 Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
#105 Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
#106 Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
#107 Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein
#108 Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
#109 Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
#110 Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes

It's in the Blood

2006-05-30T14:31:30Z

If you go back far enough into anyone's ancestry you will find men and women who killed. Whether soldiers or murderers, everyone has them in their family. What does this prove? Nothing, except that killing is in our blood. How can we escape it? It's human nature.

Religious Ceremonies

2006-05-27T16:32:04Z

Sicken me. How can I possibly relate to you the feeling of vitriol I have in my stomache, roiling like some abyssal sea? I was in attendance to the graduation of my great grand-niece from the esteemed religious school of Sacred Heart Academy. Luckily, their Jesus-poison does not infect her, and yet!

While there, I was subjected to a speech of a length no less than 15 minutes concerning the natures of the Devil and of God; terrorists are the spawn of darkness, and evil is all around us. Not to mention the desperatly moribund imagery of hugging Jesus so tightly that his crown of suffering pierces you in the head. I can only desperately hope that this misguided abominable mutation of the education system, the Valedictorian, embraces Jesus so hard that his thorns drive straight into her tender and misguided brain.

Or, perhaps she'll become cancerous, and her womb will turn into an alembic of sulfur. One can hope.

A Sour Victory

2006-05-23T23:28:18Z

A Sour Victory

   Centurio Sergeant Iulius Athanasius did not know if he would ever see his wife and daughters again, or if he would ever again get a chance to lie on the banks of the Atria at his father’s villa. It was thoughts like these that tormented him as he struggled to make his way down the sandy road to Roventia. If only, he kept thinking to himself. If only the desert weren’t so harsh, if only those soldiers in cream colored clothes hadn’t been disguised as bandits, if only that Nimiyyan hook hadn’t sliced him from shoulder to waist… If only if only if only.
   They did not help. Thinking about them made things worse. It highlighted the searing pain in his side were his beautifully gilded armor bit into his flesh, bent out of shape by curved Nimiyyan swords. His shield, still partially strapped to his left arm, dragged in the sand behind him as he trudged. He had thought of undoing the strap with his hand that still functioned, but he was afraid of touching his wounded side. Afraid, both of the pain that might result, and of the horror of discovering that perhaps his arm would never work again; for that hook had cut some important muscle and now his left arm was like a board of dead wood dangling at his side.
   The golden chain around his neck clanked. The pendant that signified his rank felt heavy – more lead than the bronze he knew it was made of. Every so often he would pass a palm tree and imagine lying down in its cool shade. The reason he didn’t was the same reason why he hadn’t stopped at that oasis a few rods back. He knew that if he stopped walking he’d likely never start again.
    He grimaced as he trod over a large stone in the road. In the Imperium proper, such a road would be scorned. Out here in the desert, you were lucky if there was a road at all. And the roads drew Nimiyyans, bandit and soldier alike. He wondered what he would do if there were any more of them lying in wait between him and Roventia. He had lost his sword in the fight – it shattered against rough wrought chain mail. He had resorted to using his baton of office after that, the little silver channels carved in it half-filled with drying blood. He shuddered thinking about it. How soft a skull was when that little bit of metal and ivory was brought against them.
   He was heating up now, too. The burnished black armor of a Sergeant seemed foolish in the desert heat, but the men had to know who was in charge, eh? He could hear Rubidinum saying that to him. “They’ve got to know who’s got the reigns, eh?” He grunted to himself. Little good it had done the men of his battle to know who had the reigns. Eletrium, Gregorus, Marcus, every single one of them where now reddening the sand at the side of the road, their bodies intertwined with the Nimiyyans who had done them in. Iulius couldn’t help but grimace when he thought of his boys spread out under the desert sun to be eaten by jackals. Sons of Dionin deserved a better death.
   The grimace caused jets of pain to streak through his side. Iulius knew his armor should have fallen off long ago. It had been almost sheared in two by that cruel Nimiyyan hook, the breastplate sliced and gashed. However, it stayed on, not due to the clever straps the Imperial crafters had made but because it was digging into his flesh. It was so bent out of shape that Iulius wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it off even if he wanted to. And the gorget was starting to bite into his neck. He could even feel the warm wet pools of blood inside the bent steel. It was trickling down his side and stopping briefly to rest in the deep places of his armor, only to leak out in a steady trail behind him. He looked down and saw thick droplets of blood emerging from the bottom of the breastplate, spackling the ground. He wondered if this is what his wife felt like when the moon was full.
   He started to chuckle at his joke, but was forced to cease when the pain started again. He felt something shifting inside of him, or was it outside of him now? Either way, it moved, and when it did the pressure of the distended armor sent a blinding shockwave of pain through him. It exploded in his head like an Avacci cannon, and he reeled on the road, nearly losing his footing. He stopped at last as it receded, his armor jangling. Ting-a-ling tong-a-long it went, like a sad jester accompanying him to the end. He wondered if Epimetrius had ever written a play like this. He couldn’t recall. The Legionnaire in the Sand? If not, perhaps he would write it when he reached Roventia. It would make an interesting tale, if nothing else.
   It would have to begin already in progress, the fight long since left behind. Staged violence was always so fake, he mused. There’s nothing like a man screaming in agony as his eyes are being ripped out as the thing itself. He would never have borne the terrible knowledge of what it looked like if the Nimiyyans hadn’t shown him using Gregorus to demonstrate. Anyhow – it would start after the battle, leaving just a lone Sergeant wandering down the desert road… No, not a Sergeant. They were insignificant. Why not make it a Legate? Yes, that’s more like it. A Legio is lost in a great battle, the only survivor is the Legate who must tell someone important of their sour sour victory…
   He looked down to take stock of himself, to see what position his fictional Legate was in. His mind almost stopped working as he went numb with horror. His collarbone was sliced straight through, the wicked little ends of it poking out of the long gash. They were sticky with blood and every so often the touched as his uneasy gate carried him forward. He was too horrified to look any further down, to see what red ruin had been made of his body. He bitterly wondered if he might be promoted for his valor, for living when the others had died. Sometimes the dead were commended for their actions, and he was the last living member of his battle – so he would have to be commended too.
   He refused to think about his own death. Such thoughts would surely hasten it, spur it on. Were those vultures circling above? No, don’t look. Don’t even think about it. Then, the provident occurred. Iulius broke out into a smile. It was just like an Epimitreus play. There was a cart some ways down the road that had just come into view. In every direction except the one the wide desert was empty save for the occasional scrub, yet he had somehow stumbled upon the one wain traveling this deserted road. He began to trot, ignoring the cries of protest his tired legs and bleeding side gave him. He would reach it, and they would save him.
   He only wondered for a moment whether or not it was enemies – as it came into view, it was clear that there were no Nimiyyan soldiers riding it. A lone camel pulled, and the rear was stuffed with wools and food and other small possessions. A single man with the dusky skin of the desert sat atop the driver’s bench and in the rear a young woman. A little girl trotted alongside, chatting with her father. Iulius called out. “Ho!” he said, first in Imperial, and then “Greetings!” in the desert tongue of Nimiyya. The man turned, his bearded face wonderfully open and a kind smile upon his lips.
   “There’s a wounded man there, Lilit!” he proclaimed. “Come, help me get him on the wagon!” The woman scrambled to get down and assist him, and the man tugged on the reigns to stop the camel. His wife (who must be Lilit Iulius thought) quickly drew a little dagger from her belt. For a moment Iulius thought that she meant to finish the job the Nimiyyans had started, but she instead used it to slice through the leather strap that held his fallen shield to his senseless arm. She threw the shield up onto the cart and, with the help of her husband, assisted Iulius himself to the bed of the wagon. There he carefully laid himself down, showering the family with profuse thanks. The man introduced himself as Ahdred and their child as Mira.
   They rattled on the long rods, following the desert road as it wound across the empty stretches. For a long while Iulius was quiet. He passed in and out of consciousness, the darkness behind his eyelids mingling inextricably with the dark blue of the desert sky. He lost track of time, of how long it had been since he watched his battle die around him. Eventually the pain in his side growled again, waking him up. It was no longer dim and distant but rather painfully near. The dull throb had become instead an insistent reminder. He sat up.
   The wain was now on a path he did not recognize, winding through unfamiliar stony cliffs. “Ahdred,” he said, “This is not the way to Roventia.”
   “My apologies, Iulius.” The dark man answered, glancing over his shoulder. “We were not headed that way.”
    “Ah,” the Sergeant replied. “I don’t seem to recall this place, my friend; and I have been in most parts of the desert. Where exactly are we going?”
   “A little town to the south,” Lilit replied softly, saving Ahdred the trouble.
   “Ah,” Iulius repeated. “Well, best be on the lookout. I don’t think there are any patrols on these roads.”
   “Oh, there are,” Ahdred said with a chuckle. “But we probably won’t see them. They range up along the cliff tops to observe passers-by.”
   Iulius was silent for a moment. He thought, I don’t know of any patrols on cliffs like these. He dismissed the worry, because he was after all only a Centurio Sergeant, and they didn’t tell Sergeants everything. Perhaps he would find out about the patrols when he returned to Roventia and received his promotion.
   “Well,” he said at last, “be careful. There were soldiers dressed as bandits that ambushed me and my battle; things can be dangerous this far from civilization.”
   “I will keep my eyes out, Iulius,” Ahdred replied.
   “See that you do,” Iulius said with satisfaction. “Ever since we destroyed that blasted city back during the first Nimiyyan war, the borders have become tenuous…”
   “We?” Ahdred asked.
   “Yes. We. The Imperium – the Legio. Whatever you want to call it.” Iulius was reminded, due to those words, of the great buildings with the broken arches that shared the Grand Square in Veii. The Imperial Temple, buttressed and rising above the gleaming white of the Palatine Court, stood out in his mind. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t paying enough attention to Ahdred’s response.
   “Oh, we are not Imperials, Iulius. Lilit, Mira, and myself, we are from Nimiyya.”
   Not hearing it, Iulius went on. “And I’d say that those soldiers are damn clever. They spring up from nowhere and then…” Iulius trailed off as his ears caught up with his mouth. The pit of his stomach dropped out, leaving a sick nauseous feeling behind. This was no parable by Epimetrius! This was one of Syphis’ nightmares, a horror tale! If he were in the theaters on the Atria, the four stringed viol would begin to play those long cacophonous notes of building tension as the hero of the piece discovers a dark and terrible secret. “Not… not Imperials?”
   “Oh no,” Ahdred went on cheerfully. “In fact, we were heading towards Ibbus-ur, in the east, not Roventia in the south.”
   “But…” Iulius was beginning to feel as though the enemies that had so recently been laid low were now having their revenge – everyone in this damn desert, even the sand and the winds, was Nimiyyan! “But you saved me!”
   “To be honest,” Ahdred said, “We saved your armor. It is quite beautiful, and we are very poor.”
   That note hit home harder than all the rest. Iulius knew that his armor was battered beyond easy repair, and while it might fetch a few coins for scrap, without careful attention he would never get out of it alive. Skilled and quiet hands would be needed to remove the bits that had bent and stuck deep into his flesh – hands that were caring and would stop to squelch the flow of blood and to stitch up the holes where exposed bone and organ showed through. He did not believe this Ahdred possessed such hands. Perhaps his wife was a physician he fervently hoped, the sweat beading on his brow feeling chill like ice. But, hadn’t he heard that the Nimiyyans didn’t know medicine? The exquisite fear grew louder in his ears, the sound of distant viols accompanying the taste of sweat and bile.
   The cart passed on in quiet for a while, the only sounds the faint squeaking of the turning wheels, the chomping of the camel, and the rustling desert wind. And, of course, the phantom viols that Iulius could not help but imagine. From his prostrate position on the bed of the wagon he turned his head to look at the little girl walking alongside. Surely Ahdred’s words had not meant what it seemed like; with their little Mira nearby these people would certainly not commit murder. That argument rang false with him, as he knew that the Legio had killed women and children in their beds in Cartoum as revenge for the Nimiyyan raids on Imperial borders.
   Soon enough a little oasis appeared nestled in the rocks by the roadside. A few tall palms swayed in the breeze nearby, and a cluster of bushes grew all about the little spring. Ahdred pointed towards it and said, “Here we are!” Iulius felt lightheaded. This was no village, unless delirium was getting to him.
   It took him a moment to realize why they were stopping as Lilit and Mira went over to the oasis and Ahdred pulled the cart to the side of the road. The bearded man didn’t follow his wife and child, but instead stepped off of the drivers bench and walked around to the back of the cart. Iulius sat up, his limbs feeling cold, and saw that Ahdred had drawn a dagger. “Now,” Ahdred said, “this won’t take but a moment, and if you don’t squirm it won’t hurt either.”
   Horse-shit, Iulius thought, his right hand sinking down to grip the baton he was given for becoming a Centurio Sergeant. He had used it to kill before and, though his limbs were weak, this man was no soldier of Nimiyya. They might be on equal footing since Iulius’ wound undid what years of training had taught him in the academies. As Ahdred drew closer, Iulius coiled himself to spring. He wanted to see his wife again, to bathe with his father in their villa on the Atria – to sail a ship down the river to the sea and back again to Veii.
   His fears and hopes made his hand sweaty, but they also made his muscles strong. His grip was not all it could have been, so when Ahdred mounted the rear of the cart and Iulius swung, it did not strike the Nimiyyan in the head. Instead the full weight of the baton fell upon his neck, and Ahdred fell backwards onto the ground. Iulius heard him grunt, and then laborious struggled to his feet. With the last of his strength he jumped from the cart, landing fully on Ahdred’s shin. While such a jump might have caused him to fall and deprive him of his one chance of flight, the weight of his armor was enough that even if it did, Ahdred was certain to be incapacitated for a time. The Nimiyyan shrieked as Iulius’ armored boots landed on his legs. Then, with a staggering gait, Iulius began to walk away.
   His entire left side had gone numb and tingled from the movement. He could feel blood all round about his belly under his armor, and seeping down his crotch and his legs. He could hear the rasping of his sliced collarbone. None of these things mattered to him as he limped away from the cart. Behind him he heard Lilit cry out. He turned just in time to see her helping Ahdred to his feet, the knife still dangling in his fingers.
   “You are going to die anyway!” Ahdred spat angrily. “You would deprive us of the money we need to live? This has nothing to do with Nimiyya, or with the Imperium!”
   Iulius wasted his breath to gasp out a retort. “Lies! If you were Imperials, you would never dishonor me like this… I am a child…” huff puff “A child…” puff puff “…of Dionin! I will not suffer such… disgrace! To be stripped of my armor and…” huff “murdered for a Nimiyyan meal!”
   “This is no murder,” Ahdred said, slowly approaching the limping Sergeant. “You are the walking dead already. Perhaps you have not looked at yourself, but your intestines are held in only by that corset of steel!”
   Iulius saw that little Mira was up at the rear of the cart now too. He saw Ahdred, his dead, approaching him. He knew he could not walk back to Roventia, that he could not outrun Ahdred and his wagon (let alone run at all). But he could make the man a demon in front of his child – at least give me this, he prayed to Dionin. At least give your son this one victory. He grimaced and stopped staggering backwards. He held his ground, fingers tightening around the baton. He could feel blood sluicing down his right arm now, too, soaking the rod.
   “You are a killer,” he said. “If we had gone to Roventia I would have lived. Imperial chirugeons know how to heal wounds such as these! You wouldn’t know that, though, being a barbarous killer! You would have had a reward for turning me in there, and that could have fed your family. But no, instead you must feed them off of Imperial blood – suckle them on the juice of your fallen enemies.” He turned his gaze directly at Mira, then. “You see what your father is? He is a monster who kills for you to eat. He is a monster who would destroy life so that you may feast and grow fat on my corpse!”
   That angered Ahdred to no end. He yelled, and sprang at Iulius. Iulius was ready, though, banking on Ahdred’s outburst. The baton went up, and came down again, squarely on the Nimiyyans arm. Ahdred screamed in pain as the heavy weight bent his elbow back.
   Iulius grinned. He saw Mira’s face contort with angst and anguish. Yet, that had been the last of his strength. Ahdred had been right about one thing; the wound in his side was worse than he had let himself admit. He could feel the quickness, the mercurial vitality of life, seeping out of it and spilling on the ground. Then he saw Ahdred’s sandaled feet. “Iulius,” he heard him grunt, “this could have been painless.”
   Then, the dim grasp of death’s hand fled him in an instant. The slowly creeping darkness was replaced with wracking pain as he felt his innards begin to move. Iulius knew that Ahdred was ripping the battered plate from his side, exposing the awful wound. He also knew that little Mira was watching her father tear savagely into an Imperial breast. He muttered, “You’ve no right… I am a child of Dionin…” but it sounded weak and feeble, even to his ears. “I wanted to see the Atria again,” he said softly, “And my wife. My father is a Senator… I wanted to see my father…”
   Then the pain began to ease. He could feel his flesh being sliced, but it didn’t hurt. It was as if a butcher was cutting him venison for his dinner. It was happening to someone else, far away. He wondered if he’d won or if he’d lost. After all, he was dying; but the Nimiyyan had been forced to resort to the most gruesome of methods. Perhaps it had robbed the act of its supposed humanity and exposed little Mira to the horror of mankind that lie just underneath the surface. He felt a sharp tugging as the black armor was stripped away. He still had the baton curled in his fingers, and he was still a Sergeant of the Imperium, like it or no.
   As the last light of consciousness left him, he saw the waters of the Atria, and a little wooden barque rowed by servants. His father was there, and his wife. She was crying heavy tears into the river, and the lights of Veii were like stars behind her. He wanted to tell her not to cry, not to be sad, that he had won. Yet, he couldn’t speak or move; his throat was too weak to form words. Then, slowly, there was nothing. Even the last dim spark faded until it was just an ember… and then it was gone.

A Boy Like That

2006-05-23T22:17:54Z

A boy who kills cannot love!
A boy who kills has no heart!
And he's the boy
Who gets your love
and your heart!
Very smart, Maria
Very smart!

The Wheel Turns

2006-05-14T14:12:53Z

Beware, o West, for your hour of trial is surely upon you.

The Wheel turns, and those who where at it's peak will find themselves crushed beneath it's bulk.

Look to the Wheel and do all you may to prevent it from rocking and taking those lashed to it on another spin.

China rises in the East like a sleeping serpent, ready to destroy what has been the lifeblood of the West for centuries -- it will be them against us soon enough if these crisis are not resolved.

Iran supplies the two Giants of the East with oil, and we are threatening Iran. Soon there will be w recogning, and I will be on the winning side; why? Because I always play both sides, of course.

Wo wei shua idyar potonqhua -- I speak a little Mandarin.

Umberto

2006-05-13T23:52:46Z

As a purveyor of fine culture, I find myself unable to keep silent on the matter of the fairly new book of the great author Umberto Eco, The Myseterious Flame of Queen Loana. I will quote for you a passage, that you may go and read it.

Something must have happened in those nine months. I understand that when I went back to my granfathers study. Browsing at random as I drank a coffee, I pulled from the magazine pile a humorous weekly from the late thirties, Il Bertoldo. It was a 1937 issue, but I must have read it later than that, because at the time I would not have been able to appreciate those filiform drawings and that twisted sense of humor. But now I was reading a dialogue (one appeared each week in the little opening column on the left of the front page) that may well have caught my attention during those nine months of profound transformation:

Bertoldo walked past all those gentlement of the retinue and went at once to sit beside the Grand Duke Windbag, who, gentle in nature and fond of wit, began in that spirit to question him pleasantly.
Grand Duke: Good day, Bertoldo. How was the crusade?
Bertoldo: Noble.
Grand Duke: And the task?
Bertoldo: Lofty.
G.D.: And the impulse?
B.: Generous.
G.D.: And the surge of human solidarity?
B.: Moving.
G.D.: And the example?
B.: Enlightening.
G.D.: And the initiative?
B.: Courageous.
G.D.: And the offer?
B: Spontaneous.
G.D.: And the gesture?
B.: Exquisite.

If you want more, you mooching monkies, go buy the book!

Addendum

2006-05-05T00:06:58Z

"A Cultural Earthquake, The Razor's Edge of Global Chaos" is apparently a real place. When clicked, it will bring one to Google Maps. I wouldn't be surprised at what you find.

That Ol' Thrust-Bang-Boom

2006-05-05T00:05:23Z

May 4th - a day that will not lightly be forgotten.

Or rather, should not. I cannot fool myself into believing that everyone around me won't allow the moment to slip into unedifying memory. However, I will propound the excellence of this day as much as I can. There are those reading this, even now, who are asking "What exactly IS the meaning of today?"

Well, that's good. I've got you asking. Now, answer yourself this: "Can a day mean anything?" I realize that's a second question. You've got to stay on your toes when dealing with culturally complex subjects. The Dadaists where always on their toes. So where the Italian Futurists. And the French Surrealists. Of course, they have nothing on the post-WWII absurdists, of whom I consider myself a nominal fringe member.

That Ol' Thrust-Bang-Boom. What does it mean? Can it mean something?

Consider, for a moment: A day cannot mean something anymore than a tree can. The events of a day might mean something TO YOU, but that is not the day itself. The human brain has troubling grasping the concept of a day alone and seperated from it's events. What is it? The rotation of the earth? A set period of time?

Well, what is time? The pulse of a quartz crystal, so they say. It used to be the springing of a spring, but that's all outdated now. Besides, the wood would warp, and then the time wouldn't be accurate anymore. Weather and Time are therefore diametric opposites! As far as anything can be opposite.

You see, you wouldn't have thought that, would you? Light and Dark aren't the opposite. Light is the same as Dark, only Lighter -- for something to be the opposite, it can't just be "the absence of". The Opposite of the Universe is Television, because the opposite of everything is nothing. Hoho, a joke, but I'm starting to sound overly pretentious.

Stick with me.

Follow that Ol' Thrust-Bang-Boom.

Glassbough and Tarwick in: The Café

2006-04-12T04:31:27Z

Glassbough and Tarwick could not decide how long they had been waiting for the production to begin. Tarwick felt that it had been only fifteen minutes. "Ridiculous," responded Glassbough. "We've been here for hours!" The two were seated upon tall chairs, almost a foot and a half from the ground. Two cups of rather luckewarm coffee sat on the table before them. In front of the larger Glassbough a half-eaten crumb cake resided on a plate. It looked reddish in the dim lights of the café. The patterns on the cups were plain and bland, depicting pastel flowers. The table was of one reddish wood, the chairs of another, and the floor of a darker third. Glassbough took a sip from his coffee and, realizing it was no longer hot, made a disgusted face. "Augh," he grumbled, "where is the waiter?"

"I haven't seen one in a while," Tarwick said.

"In a while... was there ever a waiter?" Glassbough asked, twisting around to look at the dark recess of the café, as if willing a server to appear from the corners of the room.

“Of course there was," said Tarwick.

"How do you know?" Glassbough asked heatedly. "I don't remember one, and I don't seem to see one at all here..."

"He brought us our coffee, and your cake," Tar said benignly. "It musn't have been long ago. The coffee's still warm."

"It's vile," Glass snapped back. "But that's not the point! Do you actually remember this waiter you claim to have seen? Do you remember what he looked like?"

"Well he was... now then, he... I... Why! I don't recall!" Tar sputtered. A look of confusion spread across his face. Tar didn't like to dwell on such subjects, and Glassbough was making him uncomfortable with his complaining and his insistence.

"Aha!" Glass beamed with a wicked grin. "I knew it!"
Tar shifted in his seat and tried to redistribute his wait. "Well, where did the food come from then?" he asked miserably. Glass, however, was filled with righteous pride, nearly puffing off the chair and preparing to take a stroll around the café to find whatever errant waiter was meant to be serving the place. "Glass," Tar said, trying to get his attention. Then, Glass leapt down from the high seat, prowling about. "Glassbough!" Tar said in a panic, "Get back on the chair! You're walking on the stage! The show might start! You'll be in the way!"

"Show?" Glass echoed, "show? What show? Do you see one? There's no show here! We've been waiting for ours and hours, and still nothing. Besides! I'm not on stage! The stage is over there." And here Glassbough shot a finger towards the wall. Indeed there was what appeared to be a stage over in that corner, raised up from the floor. But! There was not a lip where the stage ended, but rather a ramp where it seamlessly joined with the floor.

Tarwick shook his head and pointed to the other side of the resteraunt. There, by the door, was a little drop. There was a tiny space of depressed ground that one, upon entering the café, must step up from. "It's over there," Tar said quietly. "The whole place is the stage."

"Why then, we're the show. We've come to watch each other, so get up and walk with me. We'll have to entertain ourselves, and to feed ourselves as well it seems!" Glass started to laugh but, upon second inspection of the café, stopped. There was a little glass counter by the door, yes, yes, with food beneath it glistening at their perches. An abandoned cash register stood hard by. There were track lights on low, giving the room a cozy feeling. Glassbough's eyes traveled across the room, taking in the doors to both men's and women's bathrooms and another with a gleaming plaque which read "Employee's Only!". There were also other tables and high chairs, some with coffees or bowls of fruit, or a frothy espresso. Yet! There was not anohter soul in the resteraunt. "Where've they gone?" Glass roared.

Tar furrowed his brow. "I can't recall. Wasn't there a couple sitting next to us?"

Glass grumbled wordlessly to himeslf. "I don't know. I thought it was a man in a beard!" Glass was getting angry, frusterated at the lack of service, respect, presence. "What about Chadoff?" He asked. "Wasn't he here? I thought Chadoff said he was coming with us."

"He was," said Tar, his eyes welling up with tears of desperation. "He was in the third chair here. Why didn't he order a coffee?"

"I didn't order a coffee either!" Glass grunted. "Because there was no waiter! The coffee's just... came!"

"He went to the bathroom..." Tar said to himself. "I thought! But if he did, where is he? Why is there no sign of him? He should've left his coat, his napkin," Tar here put his hand over the third chair at the table. "Some warmth..."

"I'm getting out of here!" Glass announced angrily.

Tar, tripping over himself, struggled to stand. Before Glass could leave the shop, his lithe friend had caught up with him. "Wait, wait! Wait for me!" he called. Glass waited for Tar to catch up to him and, when he did, pushed through the plate glass door that led outside.

The exterior of the café was fitting to the kind of place that it looked inside. Glass thought that it was fitting, anyway. He wasn’t certain why. It had a low roofline, covered with slate tiles that absorbed the light from the sun, which had just begun to peer through the clouds. It was the farthest building in the back of a cul de sac, set back from the road by a patch of grass and a single willow tree that draped over the doorway. The long branches cast a deep shadow over the doorway. Glass looked around the alleyway, his mind bubbling with possibility.

“Where did we come in from?” Glass asked. He was beginning to feel really and truly lost. The anger that had ulcerated in his stomach was fading and Glassbough was starting to experience true worry. Tarwick came out of the café after him and stopped dead in his tracks. Glass mumbled something unintelligible to himself in response to Tar’s reaction.

The cul de sac was made up of several brick buildings, set up in a semi-circle. Where the exit would have been, another building had apparently been erected. Tarwick’s mouth worked for a second before he began speaking. “Well,” he said. “That must be how we got here,” he said uselessly. He was looking at the space where the asphalt of the road ran straight into a building and, apparently, under it. Glass laughed in a manner that was not quite hysteria.

“That’s nonsense,” he said. “How could we have come in – Bah!” Glass exclaimed. “I don’t remember this at all. I don’t remember any of it. Was Chadoff even with us?”

Tarwick put his hands in his pockets, blowing out a big puff of air. “His things were in there. His seat was warm. He must have gone to the bathroom. Should we go in and look for him?”

Glassbough snorted. “He wasn’t with us. And even if he was – he’s gone now. That’s if he ever even existed, Tarwick. Do you realize that kind of trouble we are in? This isn’t about whether or not we’re going to see the next performance of Gogol’s Opera on Loidrill street tomorrow; this is serious! I don’t remember what we were coming here to see,or whether Chadoff is with us, or whether I ordered my food, and now there’s a building between us and the way out!”

Tar gulped. “We just forgot. Or, we, we ate something bad. We must’ve eaten something bad, or had something bad to drink. That’s it. We came through this way; we’ve just forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” Glass asked. “We haven’t forgotten anything! Do you remember what it was like before you were born? That’s what it’s like. We were never here, that’s what it’s like. We were never here.” Glass’s voice began to fade away. “We were never here.”

“We were...” Tarwick said hopelessly. “We were here. We had to have been. It doesn’t make sense otherwise. We must’ve been.”

“Were we? Were we ever here? Did we ever go to plays on Loidrill Street? Or did we just imagine it? Were we sitting in that café until just now, imagining everything?”

“We both remember Chadoff!” Tarwick complained.

“And we both remember Loidrill Street, and we both remember that we were coming to the café… the café…” Glass turned and looked at the low slate-roofed building, trying to discover a sign. When he saw nothing, no sign and no information, Glassbough threw his hands down and groaned. “You see my point! It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t stop it from being true!”

Tarwick sat down on the grass under the tree. He placed his head in his hands and began to hum to himself. It was a tune from Gogol’s Opera, which the dear Glassbough had so recently criticized; though likely, he wasn’t directly assaulting the Opera but rather the situation, because as Tarwick knew, Glassbough loved Gogol. He was one of the few authors that the rotund little man could actually stand. So, Tarwick hummed to make the trouble go away. He kept the music going so he could envision the dancers during the Nose’s song doing their pirouettes.

Glassbough, meanwhile, was exploring his surroundings. It seemed as though none of the buildings facing the inside of the cul de sac had no ground floor windows, nor did they appear to have doors facing the inside. For a few futile minutes he tossed stones at the casements higher up, but no one seemed to hear. It wasn’t long before Glass gave up on throwing rocks or calling for people inside the buildings.

He tightened his belt, adjusted his jacket, and brushed the dirt from his shiny shoes. He tapped the packet of cards in his jacket pocket and jingled his change. After a few moments of staring haplessly at the brick wall in front of him, he turned around to examine the café a second time. He saw Tarwick sitting on the grass, hanging his head and humming. He left him there, going into the café a second time – or a first, depending on whether or not they had actually walked inside. When he got inside, he sat down at the nearest table. There was a lukewarm cup of coffee there, and a half-eaten crumb cake. He took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and undid the corners. There was a faded poster for Gogol’s Opera on the front, which he placed face down on the table. He smoothed out the wrinkles with his open palm and removed a pen from his jacket pocket where it nestled next to his silk pocket-square. He shook it a few times, to get the ink flowing. Then, he started to write.

He could hear Tarwick humming to himself outside. That was his way of dealing with it. Glass knew that he had another way. First he was going to write, then he was going to get up and walk around, and try to see if there was anything else. He had no illusions about finding anyone else or of even finding a way out – he just wanted to see what there was. But he would write first, to help Tarwick understand. He couldn’t sit with his head up hiss ass for the rest of his life. He touched pen to paper and began to work.

The Filth Beneath the Hill

2006-04-04T17:54:11Z

To my executor, Aaron Lenbaum,

All of my correspondences are to be burned after you have overlooked them. Leave nothing! The prying mind might be able to make a great deal out of what I've left behind, and I desire nothing more than the things that I've found be forgotten from human record. I have dealt with what I discovered, and now the time has come to put an end to this horrifying and disgusting thing that I have called my life for so many years. I have done my part. I can only hope to the unrelenting stars that what I have seen is the only one of it's kind. Even the mad arab who I so recently worshipped with veneration did not believe such a thing existed on the face of this earth. Whatever it was, I am not so certain it came from the distant stars as I wish so fervently to believe, but rather through some arcane descendance was born, lived, and died all upon our terrestrial rock.

What horrors I have seen, Aaron, can never be told to the public eye. I give you alone permission to peruse this account and all of the awful corroborating evidence that I have left you, for you were my friend when no one else was near, my defender when no one else would speak with me. I am not mad! I have seen to the base of the known world and deeper, and it has left it's stain on me.

The journal is located in my bedroom safe, beneath the floor. Remember my will, Aaron: after you have read it all, burn it! Destroy what you have found!

Life is Wonderful

2006-04-01T17:12:28Z

There are two ways to appreciate life: To be ignorant, and believe everything is wonderful or to be intelligent and realize that nothing matters, so you might as well appreciate it and do what you want.

Isn't life wonderful?

Why, I do believe it is.

Forget the H-Bomb and the refreezing of the Soviet Balkans for a minute, because it doesn't matter. Forget the looming threat of Red China if you can, and look around you. When you are done enjoying yourself, THEN you can think of these things. But, if they don't make you happy, best not to. There are people who enjoy considering these topics all the time. Myself, for exmaple. Let those people do your thinking for you. They ARE smarter than you for the most part.

Sit back. Relax. Enjoy.

Life is wonderful.

The Island of The Sun, OR a Description of the Perfect World

2006-03-23T00:55:43Z

...[so] I came off of the waves of a great storm, still clinging to the wreckage of Cpt. Ragon’s ship, tossed by the seas. My addled-pated friend Monsieur de Lombard was with me as well, having survived the burning of the mast. He had been driven to the crow’s nest ‘pon the mutineering of the inconstant sailory who found their captains piloting unacceptable. Anyhow, as it were, we were floating upon the jetsam of the good Captain’s livelihood.
After several weeks of such floating, surviving only on deep sea bass and the occasional bit of pickled herring (as the ship’s stores would turn up from time to time to nourish us, borne adrift on the backs of the waves), we saw the Island before us. Gui de Lombard remarked upon it first, pointing and gesticulating madly. --Monsieur! Monsieur di Baron! Look!
Look I did. It was rising from the waters as like to a mushroom from the turf. This fungus of the sea, like some ancient and strange ‘shrooms of the deepest caverns, glowed also with a light all of it’s own. I remarked then to myself, This must be the Island of the Sun, for it shines like the sun with it’s own light and I have oft heard tales of it’s presence in this part of the ocean. So we endeavored to steer the feeble craft we had constructed of wood lashed together towards the Island. Within moments we were pulled into it’s grip, for the Island exerts such happiness that all things wish to be there upon seeing it.
Even Gui de Lombard was so enthralled, and he let go the raft and drowned in order to get closer to the sandy shores. I kept my head and hung for dear life to the rocking wood and rotting ropes. Contemplating the sad loss of my friend the Lombard, I watched as the island drew ever closer to me. Upon her shores where great towers of stone, fit with cannon that were fixed ‘gainst both the sea outwards, and the land inwards. To myself I wondered why the Island of the Sun, the happiest of all places, would need these vast and powerful culverins; those which faced outward, to repel invasion of this holy land, but inwards why?
I would soon find my answer. Almost at once I felt a jarring, and realized that my meager raft had reached the sandy shores surrounding the Island of the Sun. I clambered off, emptying my pockets of fish and other such comestibles, wanting only to bask in the Island’s glow and perhaps sample some of it’s foods and women.
Starting up the beach, I was at once halted by a loud voice. A fellow I had not seen approached me from over the sandy hills. He wore a uniform of bloody red and gold with a sash of silver over all. In one hand he held a long pole-arm with a wicked axe and in the other a pistol, loaded and prepared to fire. --Hold stranger!, he called, What is your purpose in this our land?
--Who are you? I asked, my questions as pointed as my beard. --I washed ashore here not too long ago, and it was my purpose to find food and drink!
--Ah, then you have come at a bad time, traveler, he warned me. For it is true that even now there is not enough food for the armies.
--Food for the armies? I asked. What need have you of armies in the land of eternal happiness?
--Have you not heard? he asked me. The parliament cannot decide what is the true way to peace and prosperity, and so each faction has made war ‘pon the other.
--Nonsense! I said. No one would let this come to pass!
--Whatever sense you like, he retorted, still it has!
So I followed my guide, whose name was Egald, onto the isle. Soon we had reached a vantage point that allowed me to overlook the entire place. From the high spot atop a rocky hill I saw the glittering city that lay at the Isle’s heart, the source of her luminous aura. I also saw that the land was divided into five, lines of fire, cannon, and stone making up the divisors. Flames licked the farmland, and the city was tarnished by the shadow of war.
--What are the factions that fight below? I asked.
--On one part you shall see the Gorgeundans, who think it best to behave in a matter which pleases the self. On another, the Ironshins, who think it best to be in a stark environment so that the temptations of flesh will not sully the soul. On a third, you will find the Strainorians, who believe that through work and self-sacrifice a man may be made happy. Yet another faction is the Perservists, who think that happiness must be made by nature and her pristineness. The fifth faction is the Battalion, the members of which think that strife engenders happiness and peace and thus enjoy going to war.
--And which faction are you part of? I asked him.
--Why, I am a member of the only faction that is right, of course. I am a guard in the employ of the Democritians, who believe that the world is harsh and cruel, and no one can ever be happy.
--Why would a democracy believe thusly?
--No, no, he said. Democritus is our master, he who said the universe comes only through the random actions of tiny matters.
I chuckled, for I knew that all great actions come from tiny matters. Then I was curious again. --Where is your faction, for I see only five divisions.
--Why, the city! he proclaimed. Why should we abandon it? It is eminently more fit for policy, though less defensible.
A smart people, I thought. Egald took me down the hillside and into the thick of it. Soon, men where dying on my left and on my right. I was horrified, but Egald was calm and rather at ease. As we passed he made crude jokes concerning those dying or dead while they were still within earshot. We watched as a man suffered a cannon wound to his nether regions, and Egald wondered aloud whether or not his last screw had been worth it.
The glittering city grew closer and closer through the mists of blood and pulped body parts. We slipped up and down the ropy remains of soldier’s intestines. Once, Egald found a half-digested bagel amidst the wreckage. --Too bad you didn’t save some of those fish, he moaned in jest, or we could have had a wonderful breakfast.
I began to grow accustomed to his casual attitude towards the crimes against man and man’s form committed next to us at every step. His jokes lacked a basic respect for humor and life. He picked up a shoe that he found in the ruins of a certain fellow wearing a green jacket and still clutching his rifle, emptied it of it’s contents (the fellow in the jacket), and gave it happily to a gentleman with no lower torso in a blue jacket who was screaming bloody murder against a garden wall.
After nearly five hours of such slogging, we saw the city again, through the fog. The blasted farmlands parted and revealed a place of such elegance that it was a shame corpses hung from the walls and bits of people where speared on the sharp points of nearby buildings. I began to wonder what sort of man had called this land the “Isle of Happiness”.
We found the parliament building easily enough. I had expected a government office besieged by crying widows and shrieking cripples made from the war. What we found instead was rather a pleasant plaza in which many sat or stood, talking and joking, making light of the war that raged around them. Egald grinned as my breath was taken away by the vast and tall building beyond where the parliament had once met. At the peak of it was a lighthouse that shone absolutely nothing. The beacon was out.
I followed Egald into the building, through war-torn corridors and over rat-eaten rugs. We walked through galleries of ancient busts and worn portraits. --Who are these people? I asked.
--I don’t know, rightly, replied Egald.
--Then why do you keep this hallway in their honor? Why put them so high on the walls, and keep their likenesses so clean?
--They look grave and venerable, he said with a solemn nod. Always good to keep a certain respect in the common man. Look at those magnificent beards and strong jaws, eh? Very estimable looking men, indeed.
I was taken aback. These things meant nothing to anyone, and yet they were placed in the position of supreme importance. My astonishment followed me all the way up to the Offices of the Presidents of the Democritian College. I was surprised again when I found them reading plays to each other, playing card games, and all of that nonsense that boys do in University. Some where old and some where young, some where fresh from schools of philosophy, and some where ancient scholars. All where unconcerned with the booming thunder of cannons below.
I was outraged. Egald introduced me, but I spoke over him, shouting --Why are you just sitting here?! You’ve a war to win, and happiness to restore to the land!
The eldest of the men folded his pruny hands and pouted his massive lips. --Why, my friend. We have discussed the war effort already today. We discussed it for twelve hours throughout the course of the night. We have taken into the account the angle of the enemy guns, and of our defenses on the hills. We have done all of these things, and we are finished with them.
--So now you will play with your toys?
A younger man harrumphed and said, --Sir, I advise you to hold your tongue for a moment. What difference does it make if we are at war or at peace? Save for the soldiers, who cares? We have worked very hard to make our men safe, and we should find a resolution to this infighting within the next week. However hard we pull our hair, nothing will change! And, well, once this war is over, there will be another anyhow. Better to live your life, don’t you think?
--But everything is so terrible!
--Pshaw! Only if you make it that way! Certainly, keep seeking for the truth and you will find only questions and horror! But, once you admit that the search itself is folly, you begin to understand that the state of the horrid world matters not one jot! Life is a grand joke, and the follies of men are there to be laughed at, even as we participate in them!
I frowned. I scowled. I beat my chest. I tore at my garments. --Why then is this called the Island of the Sun, the Island of Happiness?
--It is called the Island of the Sun on account of it’s glow. It is called the Island of Happiness, because it is just like the rest of the world - you can be happy here, if you know how. There are two roads! Ignorance, and our way - enlightenment and the realization of the truth about the truth - there is no truth!