Hey you small people, big people, those in between:

do you know what I mean?

Ellision of worlds ain't easy, and the microphone is useless when I'm voiceless or wheezy.

Who can doubt my double dare - who can stare at the pinhole eclipse, at the horse's hair and cry 'fair enough', or if dwarf and elf are made of gruffer stuff then why do I pass it off as fluff?

Hotbeds for the horny, stiff masts for the ancient and stormy. Uselessness essential, dementia serious subject for the sane. If the crazies could collude and dissect a dismal dullard, what shock and disbelief - what grandmother-grief! What sweet excuses and relief! Such sad tragedy - to have shipwrecked my schooner on such an ordinary reef.



Wherever she is is a lie, drowning all my thoughts in work. I'm an alcoholic for schism, there is the great grey wispy fog, that magic mochaed crowing smack. Smackusabout, and do not shout empty paternal volcanicisms.



Dig the new classification scheme on RHS, ie 'Cupcakes, by flavour'. I was always wondering about splitting this blog into different categories. Last month Blogger in Beta answered my prayers, so thanks guys for doing the dirty work. I've managed to classify almost half my archives by flavour. Lots to think about. Unfortunately, my life will change as of this week, and I seem to have lost the ability to post anything interesting on FIAC*. Previously I would have been distressed, but maybe I'm just supposed to accept another chapter closed and move on to different things.*

*reverse psychology


Second glass of wine

Have I told you how good you look? Reflection of the sun, you genie for life, grant me just one wish. Things never as they seem, the past four months - a neverending dream. Just today I had a break, perked up and made chili. Something gluey within me, something fluid finally, yet it just seems somehow silly.


I smell like chlorine

Swim on a Sunday afternoon, home to a broom, saunter past Boom and eat mac and cheese. I have nobody to see, just me and the fleas in my sneeze; the strawberry jam on toast with tea and - with the kitchen window open - the inevitable bees. Where is my wine? I haven't gone boozing for over a week; appetite been slack, like a dirty green potato in a dusty brown sack.

Gather your whimsy in a paper cone, call your mother on the telephone, she's up at the cottage, and the blood in your head collecting; take aspirin to lesson clottage, fear a stroke, by pen, blacklisting men make your life miserable with, punishment for whippersnappers so guilty of wit.

How did my job interview go so wrong? Maybe it was my tapdancing, or when I burst out in that song.

Backup plan? I have a hundred and ten. Fear not, as I do not, we live in the land of the donut, not the 'do' nut and I do not see a problem!

"I thank him not for his cordiality, but for his punctuality; his rhyme and sense of timing, that careful attention to grammatical hygiene. "

Or maybe it is autumn's approach that places the sun above reproach. Value what disappears, learn to love beauty after the years, he said "that's why I don't spend money on beer;" ah but so many people have wax in their ears.

For a half-hour, this is worth it, a moment in the ultimate, that I am so filled up with breath I must share, and so empty of nothing I don't dare.


Feedback Loopy

Can't sever myself in discrete chunks. Can't step out of time and figure out what happened. Can't analyze what's doing the analysis. Can't introspect, can't set a control group, graph the result. Nothing erased from this hard drive, it's all there, overheated and congealing. Attention involves a blind spot. Perception is fiction. Gestalt little happy faces. Can't see atoms, infrared, most of the E-M spectrum; don't believe my eyes, but fear the alternative - living in a cave - even more. Being and not being. Give me my cell within the Borg, an oar on a slaveship; can't handle being alone no more, so desperate to sell what's left of my personality.

I switched to Blogger beta, and it's way cool. One neato thing is the stats on post frequency by year and month. Seems something happened in August 2004 that took the fire out of me (heartbreak?). Then in July 2005 I attempted to retire (burnout); after my comeback I was never the same. Or maybe I just ran out of things to say. Whatever the case, each year I've posted approximately half of the previous year's totals. So 2007 will get only 50 posts, approx once per week. I hope they're good!


Marilyn and John Drink Their Faces Off

...a conversation b/w two people who won't admit they're in love

(read this only if you are drunk)

Marilyn: Pass the bottle. I’m doing my best fish
J: What’s your deal, why the drinkies?
M: You won’t believe the shitty day I had
J: Did it involve spandex?
M: No – that would have been much worse.
J: What happened?
M: Nothing. Everything.
J: This is something to do with Todd. Cut him loose like a chicken that won’t let go.
M: Chickens are rarely tenacious; this is more about the world and the people in it. I can’t see myself ever being happy.
J: You should learn how to whistle.
M: Whistle?
J: Yeah, some big-band jazz. Make your hips move like they should.
M: Huh?
J: Girlfriend you gots to let loose. I know this woman, she can peel a grape with her tongue. Man, she fine. I can set up an appointment.
M: John, why do men lie? And stop talking like an Oprah flunky.
J: Men lie because women force them to. Why do women set standards for behaviour? Oprah reminds me of delicious chocolate pudding, 5 feet tall but squawks like a feminist.
M: Seriously why do they lie? Today Todd said I look fabulous, but I know I've gained 2 pounds in the last three months.
J: Whoa Betty, your boobs are busting out!
M: Who’s Betty. Stop with that country twang. You aren’t Merle Haggard and I’m getting fat. Pass me the bottle.
J: Here, North Korean snake liquor. My cousin bought a bottle when he went there to get brainwashed.
M: That’s disgusting. Where’s the shot glass. North Korea? Is he a communist?
J: It’s buried in the folds of your neck. Two whole pounds? Holy crap. No wait, it’s on the edge of the chair.
M: Thanks. Now pour.
J: No he’s more of an international observer. Like Marvin the Martian. He went to Pyongyang to be like Kim Jong Il; to take credit for everything. Did you hear Kim Jong keeps winning the North Korean lottery? So damn lucky.
M: So this is made from snake’s blood? I’ll vomit within the hour.
J: Not from snake actually, just regular awful liquor. The snake adds danger: the venom seeps into the liquid. Too much could paralyse the drinker I'm told.
M: Ugh, I don’t do paralysis. Steve Irwin - he just died from a stingray.
J: Stingray?
M: Sting from a stingray stinger. Stingrays - that shit'll kill you. But let’s talk about you, John. You haven’t got a girlfriend. What’s wrong? You need tips from the expert.
J: Is it because I don't shave my pits? Also I don’t have a real job. Nonetheless, I need tips from you like a werewolf needs hair plugs.
M: Shave your pits, TeenWolf, then get a job.
J: Yes.
M: Isn’t that the 6th commandment?
J: What - Thou Shalt Lay Barren The Underarm?
M: Ha.
J: Moses shaved his pits, I guarantee it.
M: I thought Moses was a picker. You remember – from Seinfeld. I love the one with the Pick
J: "If we pick, do we not bleed?"
M: This Korean shit tastes awful. Snakes don’t do drinky. Tell your cousin I just swallowed Kim Jong Il’s urine.
J: Ok, I have a bottle of vodka, vintage LCBO. Kim Jong’s Ontario counterparts.
M: Got OJ? The throbbing in my soul needs booze.
J: Booze equals depressant. You’re sad because you're drinking
M: I’m sad cuz I’m fat and no one loves me.
J: You're not fat you idiot, and everyone loves you. Todd does, in his weird perverted way. Even though I hate him. Where's that vodka? Ah.
M: You hate Todd? I thought you loathed him.
J: Actually loathe is stronger than hate. I measured it on the Hitler scale. Ok... got it opened!
M: You can’t say 'Hitler', asshole - you just offended half the world.
J: Why not? Do you love him? Who are you – Mrs. Hitler?
M: You’re not Hitler, you’re Shitler. I'm gonna belt you in the nuts. Now pour.
J: A slow comfortable screw. Like in the movies.
M: Which movie?
J: Porky’s 5
M: You idiot.
J: Or is it from Raiders of the Lost Ark. A movie about Nazis coincidentally.
M: Shut up. So, Todd is an ass, but it's ok because I got the new Johnny Cash album.
J: Cash has been dead for three years. Now who’s being cruel?
M: This is posthumous; it’s called A Hundred Highways. Cash laid down the vocals and Rick Rubin’s musicians did the rest, except years later.
J: Any good?
M: Can’t go wrong with Cash. He’s better than real cash, as in dollar bills.
J: The man had skills. Maybe he'll teach you about love.
M: Don’t worry, he teaches me about my soul.
J: You have a soul? I thought you were a Turing automaton.
M: I have a soul.
J: Yes, and a horrendous body mass problem, according to you. But you’re still goodlooking. I’m surprised Todd isn’t ecstatic - two pounds more to love.
M: Shut up. How fat is Kim Jong Il?
J: Huh?
M: Well I figure most dictators are fat and lazy.
J: Not at all. I’ll confirm with my cousin, but apparently Kim works out religiously.
M: They’re communist, John - they don’t have religion. Ideology has taken the place of God.
J: Ain't politics a nutty thing.
M: What do you mean. This screwdriver ain't strong enough. You know what to do:
J: What?
M: Pour.
J: Pour? I mean politics influences our every breath.
M: Pour
J: Only if you say por favor
M: "Pour like a whore with an open door."
J: What?
M: My old bartending roommate used to say that: "Pour like a whore with an open door." Many stupid catchphrases get thought up at the end of a 2am shift. Doesn't make sense.
J: Bartending verbiage, nice. So when are you dumping Todd? I’ll move in on his turf like the Portuguese in Little Italy. You fine, plumpy.
M: Huh? That accent again.
J: You’re too good for him
M: Get a job and I’ll date you.
J: Get some self-confidence and I’ll hug you. If I can get my arms around those two extra pounds that is.
M: Go to hell.
J: I do love you of course
M: Why do we insult each other?
J: We’re bitter about missing the offramp to love.
M: Really. So where are we now?
J: Stuck in the express lane to lifelong loneliness. And you got into an accident at Mile 115 – at the massive Fattass Spinster Monument.
M: And how.
J: You’re locked into that monument with a hypnotic gaze.
M: That is disturbing.
J: We have so much pent-up resentment, alienation, all that shit caused by technology and the postmodern psychosis.
M: Now you’re talkin like wacked out North Korean philosophe.
J: And you’re shakin' like a bowlful of jelly. But I like the way your eyes shine when you smile.
M: That’s the nicest thing you ever-
J: Dammit I say nice things all the time. Just wish you’d listen. Not obsess about your goddamn navel
M: I haven’t even mentioned my navel!
J: You were about to. I could tell, you were massively perspiring. It’s a cry for attention.
M: What, being sweaty?
J: No, writing your navel.
M: Of course. I have to express all that is. The world will admire me for my personality and intellect.
J: The world will admire you more if you could push yourself away from the dessert cart. If we lived in the Age of Miracle Prosthetics I could buy you some longer arms.
M: Longer arms?
J: First I’d have to amputate the existing ones. You averse to gangrenous agents? Chemical Ali used em on the Kurds.
M: The Kurds?
Yeah the Kurds. Now there’s a crew that gums up the works. Feisty, admirable bunch.
M: What the hell does that mean?
J: Nothing as usual, now pour.

(to be continued)


Word Shouts

Tightass like swollen buttocks in a bottle
volatile gasflicker, cigarette-boat throttle
turkey-wattle blather, emotional motion detector, dictionary holler. Collar attention, rabid rottweiler, foaming froth, diasporic and discordant inkblotted fodder. Frown. You, word - weapon - double-edged sword, veil, wicked wife, knife, semantic slice to no avail.