FIAC team bios - Mona

About Mona, FIAC Schoolmistress

Education has always been a part of Mona's life. She wishes her enthusiasm on the masses. Mona's "vivacious passion for vibrancy" seeks its level in her grandiose whimsy. Mona once shook the hand of President Jimmy Carter; it was that moment that solidified her "extreme distaste for nature" and passion for politics. Mona describes her interest in teaching as a mothlike attraction to a towering blaze. "As bugs gravitate toward a torch, so do my students whirl around my instruction and scream out joyous twitterings."

Mona has a degree in All Things Extraordinary from the University of Utter Relevance. She worked for 86 minutes as firsthand attache to Winston Churchill's portrait artist's petticoat maker. While fastening a button to a sleeve, she was hit by a bus. That bus was not even a bus, but a cosmic insight that made Mona giggle and fart; a realization that her contributions to civic life would be effected only by joining our team.

Says Mona, "People think too much... about stupid things. Like amniotic fluid and Sega Dreamcast. I try to encourage that - by smashing wooden cupboards to bits and writing about ancient Celtic euphemisms for beer. Other times I am unconscious. It's a mystery." Indeed. "That's why I work here."



The miracle worker

(She pinched me on the bum
it was 2001
I didn't expect that
or what was to come)

There's a picture upon my dresser
letters for her
that need an addresser

she grows smiles in her eyes
transplants them on faces
hellos like embraces
discard the bitch mace
bigcity paranoia, cynicism
sequoias blocking
forest for the trees
she lives in Atlantis,
yes! So
I am led to believe.



We are dying. Lies make us. I die trying, fly high trying.

Great geese overhead in winter; fly to where? I can’t care, but know they go there, through air. Don’t shit on my hair. I’m stuck. Luck I earned, karma stashed from previous lives, love I got drunk on, and burned.

Collide. I scope a crash for colours. Rainbow wrecks and twisted rigid bones. Amen to the jigsaw in my brain, wipe shrapnel, go home. Here I am, babbling to the only person I love on ten thousand telephones.

I write love letters, sweetest she ever received. Envelope lick drop-in box delivers unfading memories and etchings you can believe. But these days - nobody can digest a megabite, or trace autumn leaves - that just ain't how folks get paid - and whistling? Disappears into the breeze.

Cataclysm! Ms. Rhythm gave me schizoschism, I trap her, keep her prisoned in a prism, ringing elision, illusion of darklife and deadweight confusion, refresh from fullness, sick to death of bullshit underwater nowheres - here, there and everywhere. I know it’s not fair, nothing is and everything is. But I'm so tired I don’t care.

Stuff a sock down my pants and call it country. I sang bluegrass in her kitchen and cracked like humpty dumpty. I was dared to hit a girl once, but anger’s a failure of intelligence; violence is so 20th century, like not voting’s worse than suicide. Governments and the afterlife - we get what we deserve.

Will I bomb you, Osama? What will calm you. The drama. You, on the desert dromedary, your derriere kicked by an ass donkey King Kong Bush still swatting at the consequence of that aerial ambush.

They made a war. Outlet for fate. Pent-up nihilism needs its place. Explode yourself on a bus, try to crush my luscious blush, your self-destruction doesn't wipe the smile from my face. Optimism. Relax. There’s a reason why people masturbate. Or if you’re that desperate for affection - ask your sister on a date. But don’t blow me up: it's my get-home bus, and I don't like being late.

Mass graves. Grave masses. Crusade Christians. Help the homeless and don’t throw stones. I live in a looking glass. I can move anywhere, but I live what I choose – wherever they got sweaty skins on tired bones; wherever they have eyeballs; wherever they got the jigsaw blues.


Marilyn and John peeling carrots

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

Marilyn: John, I’m not content.
John: Neither was Stalin.
M: Are you comparing me to Stalin?
J: Well your mustache is inferior.
M: You're obsessed with communist despots. And don't trash the 'stache.
J: 'Despot' implies a bad thing.
M: Why am I Stalin?
J: I reference him because of geopolitics, feminist theory, and these carrots we're peeling. It's hard to explain.
M: Huh?
J: I don't know.
M: You're nuts.
J: Ha, now I’m the one ‘stallin’...
M: My brain's wilting; stop. Can't we talk about life, love and inspiration?
J: These things matter to you?
M: Very much. My father’s uncle was a butcher. He taught me to get to the heart of the matter. That's what butchers do.
J: Nonsense.
M: No it isn't.
J: Well I agree, the quality of life depends on the liver.
M: Go to hell, John.
J: Zing.


Why pizza can save the ocean

(highly questionable philosophical musings...)

Pizza has the property of being adored by all nations. If the nations were polluting the waterways, and were offered pizza instead, they might stop their polluting. The waterways thus owe their existence to those with solutions that involve Italian treats. But only if the pizza were delicious enough to make men neglect their destructive and in some ways instinctive habits.

Let us turn to the domestic sphere:
Large fingers are often chopped off in the hinges of rusty doors. This is something Leonardo Da Vinci discovered when he taught his lectures. Those with longer fingers suffered more frequent breakages and those with hair that got caught in hinges were almost as plaintive. The lesson: be attentive and on guard, for the majority of accidents happen in the home.

The greatest philosophers had no idea what mustard, ketchup and other condiments would mean to the modern grocery store. Philosophers deal in truth, and truth alone. Those who deal in groceries are grocers, and yet they must be acquainted with the subtruth that imports upon their trade. For the rules of business are worldly, that cannot be argued; yet the philosopher also must cross realms and deal with physical needs, that also cannot be argued, unless the philosopher is purely vapour and spirit — and yet such entities are not achievable without contacting shades and sprites from beyond the grave and channeling their quintessence while denying the transubstantiation of said quintessence. The point is that hot dogs are metaphysically intangible but gastronomically indispensable.

A barbell suspended above a doorframe is an invitation to mischief. That is tautological. A dwarf who climbs a high ladder to reach the barbell to remove it from danger might not still not be able to reach it. In this way his good intentions are nullified by his stature, and so all in the gym will mock him. For dwarves have not achieved mainstream acceptance and the barbell could shatter the skull of the next person who enters. If that person is also a dwarf the barbell could actually be taller than that dwarf. For dwarves are not tall and barbells, when suspended are destructive.

A pickle taped to a dromedary’s buttocks has certain problematic vectors. More on this next week.


I will call you again

After two years,
everything you said is clear

people say what's the point
- ti trovo un posto

the first words I learned in your language were the most beautiful

first thing learned is last forgotten


come back and you won't get away
burned in me


Hounds of Love

I need a passport to get me into my next state of consciousness. Tired of ramming clich├ęs into a blender and everything coming out smoothie, a bit too digestible. Eco-conscious thoughts, are these sentiments neurodegradable or will they litter the thoughtscape for centuries? Packaging, I’m cutting down on packaging now.

“In the future…” My favourite way to start a sentence.

In the future will pork and beans be outlawed?

I did a hatchet job on myself.

Got soaked again. Can’t trick Mother Nature. Like a soccer commentator, uttering poignant things every tenth minute.

Leave me dice and a drawbridge for the night and I can be the knight in the moat with fight in his face and lice in his hair, dirty but unbowed and proud of his duty and serving the beauty of her name and eyes and the skies will be painted with her fair breath, so dress for Sunday and pluck the goat, the moment's tonight and the broken backs are upon the boat.

Pisces do unnerve me, they are fish with a tail, a dragon drinking ale and I’m a wiggin with the nail, this hammer of my finger does not linger for a moment in my mind so unwind the twine and unfurl limericks into mirth; it's a truth you can't escape the mind ready for rape and the ladies're atittering at their own selfastonishment.

Selfish it is to sell fish at all.


Flaming Hogs of Fishbait!

How did we meet - do you remember?

I was interested in your name. I was referred here by a friend, Ms. Kimberly Quock, a friend from the islands. Your name is Chloe? A good name, doesn't get my blood boiling, a fine name for friendly conversation. Chloe, where have you been all my life? You must forgive me, I have never, ever met someone with so large a forehead.

I have my fetishes: a voluminous forehead here, a well-manicured, even serrated toenail there; a fluffy pink bunny laid carefully above my doorframe. Everyone has some micropleasure, Chloe - what are yours? Perhaps dromedary limericks, or piping hot porcini mushroom pie - or is it blonde peach-fuzzed boys named Sven? Oh we'll get along fine, ma'am; I am a tolerant soul.

I don't go well with your brother, true. The exception proving the rule. That mango on his head - a custom from the island perhaps, or psychotherapeutic appendage. Such folly. A mango can't help your brother; noggin fruit doesn't help anything, Chloe. Your brother should give up his pet personalities. That bit of tropicalia is a stubborn ploy. 'MangoHead' be damned; it adds up to nothing but a rotting piece of fruit...

(the preceding serves no purpose at all. except practice)