Ten-sided

wasting away

between moments — 2006-06-17T22:47:35-07:00

Tristan’s frequency floods my consciousness now; twisted strains of orchestral anarchy ...

is that Jimmy fucking Buffett?

Man, T, you are one sick bastard.

Following the trail

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-17T22:07:23Z

Earlier this evening, I sat in the window seat of my cosy new home and watched the sun set. The sky was full of soft pinks and purples and I felt so content but, as the sun was sliding down behind the sea, the walls around me seemed to close in and I longed for fresh air.

As soon as I stepped outside, I noticed two lit candles nearby. Each had a lover’s knot tied around the base in red silk thread and I knew they were a sign from Jez. I began to search for further signs. There was a driftwood arrow pointing towards the beach and I crossed over the road and stood on the promenade, gazing out to sea. The strains of an orchestra playing “Margaritaville” drifted around me and, in the distance, I could see the waves washing up on the shore.

I walked down the steps on to the beach where I saw something glittering at my feet. It was a locket on a chain, the sort that you might win on a fairground; cheap metal but it looked like gold to me. I fastened it around my neck and looked for the next clue. I couldn’t miss it. Straight ahead was a huge heart drawn in the sand. There were pebbles in its centre, spelling out the letters J and T. And finally, a row of flickering red candles burned in the sand, leading me towards a boat where a dark silhouette waited. I knew it was Jez and I longed to take those final steps towards him but I was afraid. Afraid it was a dream and I would awaken to emptiness as I have so often lately.

“Toni,” he said, “Toni, it’s me.”

He held out his hand and I took one step forward. Only one step. And then I waited in the soft salt air.

“Jez, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He walked towards me, each step an eternity, until he held me in his arms.

“Everything’s going to be OK,” he said. And I knew it would be.

It is time

J-Meister — 2006-06-17T15:40:22Z

aah, my friends, it is nearly time. It is right. Toni has been leaving me clues too - little mementoes of our time together - notes, tokens, symbols, explanations, connections. This morning she left a little doll, its chest neatly sewn with red thread - a beating heart inside. I have it with me now - I can feel its syncopation, its comforting constant music.

I have been laying the final trail - candles, trinkets, arrows carved from driftwood - that will lead her to me. Tonight I will complete it - lay and light the last two candles nearest to her door - go back to my boat, and wait...

Pickytown

The Softest Person — 2006-06-16T19:58:21Z

I wanted to leave everyone behind, but everybody in this town looks familiar. Many of them are carrying what may be mangled dolls in their arms, scratching the heads of the genius children as they parade through town. The urban planning seems distinctly unamerican, more like Dresden than LA, more like rat poison than the colliseum. Nevertheless (or thusly) I always know what way to go.

Races

brims assemblage — 2006-06-15T21:29:00-07:00

Now that Mr. H and Fleur have taken a train to meet Denny, the King and I take the express to Picar. The expresses are big like Greyhound buses only they sport the logo of a rabbit on the side of their bright orange carriage. I think it’s good to be somewhere where the rabbits have a chance and so I have a smile on my face. Rabbit races are very popular here says the man sitting opposite to me on the bus. Expensive Pedigrees chase after stuffed Greyhounds and right now he tells me Picar central will be rammed because of the annual Beta-Carotene at the Super-bowl. It’s tradition to bring back silver plated rabbit droppings after each event and throw them into the waterfalls where they’re washed out down to the valleys and then picked up by fisherman who, in turn melt them down and sell the silver back to the city. I love these altruistic traditions.

We’d decided to take this journey to Picar for one because without the village the King however much he might have enjoyed the company of wanker’s and his tight pink jump suit found that fresh company had brought humiliation and it was time to move on. Secondly I had been brought to this place for a purpose that was not yet clear to me and short of clarity I decided on finding reason in the fortunes of the journey alone. Thirdly The first major performance of the Genius Child Orchestra, whose luck had dramatically changed due to a substantial and anonymous donation, were opening for the following days races and this seemed reason enough for our mountainous jaunt.

As we travelled on, a hawker made his way up and down the bus selling T-shirts and refreshments. His shirts were emblazoned with the words, ‘My family went all the way to Picar and all they brought back was this lousy T-shirt.’ The shirts came in four sizes, small, medium, large and hanging dreadfully. He was also selling CD’s and he just happened to have a copy of The Genius Child Orchestra’s first release. I bought a copy and listened to it on my player for the rest of the trip, sharing my phones with the king.

I thought of Pookie, Swim-Swim and bubbles, my fish back home in Camberwell, I thought of the Meister and Toni and I thought of The Softest Person and wondered again, as I often had if there was perhaps more significance to all things doll. I’d been feeling a bit plastic myself just recently and it really is a very difficult feeling to describe. I have an odd taste in my mouth for example and I think that I can make out these moulding marks that appear to run along the sides of my torso and then down the insides of my thighs. Also, and just sometimes, my eyes open when I sit up and then close again when I lie back down which is very irritating. I’ll have to go and see a doctor when I get to the city. I wondered why, what and if about all kinds of things and then I just started thinking about sex.

The king sleeps now on my shoulder, dribbling and I can see that we’re nearing our destination as we climb along the plateau’s edge. It’s an unbearable route for anyone fearful of heights and some of these roads don’t even seem to have a barricade. I’m no good with heights and so I close my eyes, recline my seat back and try to forget about falling while I listen to the tins and whistles, wails and crescendo’s of the orchestras Kinder maelstrom until I’m off to sleep too. ‘This shaker of salt makes me want to cry, this shaker of salt makes me wonder why, oh wieeeeee, oh wieeeeee are we the genius chillen chiklin orchestra woooeee, oh wieeeeee.’

A few more hours

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-06-15T18:27:42-07:00

Far away, on the island of Manhattan, tracks are being obscured. Contracts are being cross-shredded and records are being misplaced. Case files are being sewn tight, like a perineum after a difficult birth to a child of old grudges and new malice. Workers with gloves are re-arranging furniture and checking behind mirrors. A small, obscure corner of the city is being turned around and no one will ever notice.

Here in my room, my breathing gets thinner by the hour. I've left a last letter for whoever finds me, mostly as my roundabout way of apologizing for the inconvenience. In the meantime, I've taken to lying on my back and listening. The tide's come in, and I can hear the shushing of the waves from outside my window. It's a soothing sound, one that hints of letting go, and being enveloped, and being washed away.

Legs and Logs and Swampy Bogs

On the Lake by the Snacks — 2006-06-15T18:49:36Z

People here like to have their pants perfectly cylindrical. From the belt down to the cuff. The pockets can sag a little. I had spotted a few cases of this before, but most of the passengers waiting at the train station have stuffed their pants with decorative tissue. Some use a wire frame. And not stiff-legged, their joints work just fine.

We happened to be standing behind a professor in a vest who had a long baguette propped on his shoulder. He wore his pants without any infrastructure and kept his eyes closed, I gathered he was off somewhere else, postulating. Two kids ran up and sliced off the edge of his bread with a little serated boomerang, but Fleur chased after them and reprimanded them with a very mean, suffocating hug. She reached down the pants of the older boy and pulled out a styrofoam fish which had been puffing out his jeans' thigh. He jutted his arms out to reclaim it, but she adroitly knocked him on the head with it and he ran off ashamed.

"That's a strong woman," the professor said to me. "Can she swallow a sofa whole?" Fleur returned the missing cap from his loaf. He tried to balance it, but gave up. "My dear, can you swallow a sofa whole?" He chuckled and handed the roll to a toddler who had wandered up and was giggling and thrashing with a little serated (but plastic and child-safe) boomerang.

"Tell me. Are you usually this protective over bread?" he asked.

"I have a few brothers," she said. "Spoiling their fun is kind of my lifestyle." She tapped her chin with the styrofoam fish. The detail done on the scales was incredible. Someone out there is a fine craftsman!

I made a point to shake the man's hand. "Hello, I'm Pal." We shook hands and said nothing further. I made motions to start a few thoughts, but he was usually too busy searching the pockets of his vest or closing his eyes.

After awhile, he pulled out a cellular telephone and started surfing the web. Most of the time he spent reading about the Muppets on Wikipedia, but he also happened to visit Brim's blog! Something inside me shouted at the top of its lungs and I put my hand over his telephone screen before he could read any further.

Fleur pointed with the fish. "Train's boarding."

We sat next to a fellow with truly, truly puffy legs. But heavy. The kind log cabins are made of. Fleur went to put her seatbelt on, but the guy had crushed the latch to powder. She ended up sitting with the fish crossed from shoulder to hip.

The guy with the legs said, "Alright, Rabbit Internet!" He and his son turned on the computers the train gives you. They read rabbit blogs and downloaded rabbit files. He turned to us and said, "You guys want some Internet? It's rabbits only. And it's only on this train! You're missing all the news about the carrot crash!"

But he was wrong. We caught some of the news about the carrot crash. Yeah, sure, the carrot's having a hard time. Fleur and I looked at the train schedule and figured we should be arriving at Denny's house by tomorrow morning. We sang to each other very softly, the tale of the lost dogs and the tales of the swampy bogs. I looked out the window and missed my daughter.

Jez

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-15T16:38:34Z

You’re probably going to think I’m crazy but I’m convinced Jez is here, in this village. First of all, I was about to throw away the envelope from AP yesterday when I noticed, in the bottom right hand corner, Jez’s initials and a tiny heart. At the time, I thought it might be an old envelope from Jemima’s or AP making some sort of joke but then, this morning, outside the front door, I found a small carving of a narrowboat, like the one Jez had. It was about the size of the toys you get in Kinder Surprises. It was warm in my hand and all sorts of images of the weekend we spent on the boat came flooding into my mind, as though they had been compressed into this tiny little boat somehow.

I think he’s trying to send me the message that he’s here. I needed to find a way to contact him so I bought a postcard of Che Guevara from the souvenir shop (there’s a local link with Guevara but I’ll not go into that here). It looks like the painting that was on his narrowboat. I’ve left it next to the door step, held down by a heart shaped pebble I found on the beach. Dr Flingle was walking past and I thought he was going to tell me to take it away but he just shook his head and said, “Women!”

Back inside, I started thinking about the things I’ve done. Do I deserve to be with someone as nice as Jez? I’m not convinced that I do. But you can’t wipe out history. What I can do, and I’m going to do, is to use AP’s money for a good purpose. The other day, I heard some music. When I followed it up, I found it was being played by The Genius Child Orchestra and I overhead someone saying they were short of funds. So I’m going to give the money to support the work of The Genius Child Orchestra. Picar is a wonderful place but it is a little short of music.

Perhaps when all this tainted money is gone, I’ll be able to start afresh. I know that’s what I was doing three months ago when I started this blog – it didn’t work out but I’ve learnt so much on my journey, I’m much more prepared this time. And I might be able to make that fresh start with Jez, you never know.

Pushing the envelope

J-Meister — 2006-06-15T11:15:30Z

Toni is here. I have been watching her for a few days now, from my beautiful vantage point out on my beautiful boat. I can see all the life of the village from here, but nobody knows I'm watching. When I first saw her my heart turned over - I wanted to rush straight to her - but I need to know if I can trust her. So I am biding my time. Yesterday morning she was so close I could almost touch her - eating a fisherman's breakfast outside the fisherman's cafe as the fishermen gathered. She looked so vulnerable, so small - I wanted to take her in my arms, tell her everything would be alright.

I am leaving her clues. I have found where she is staying, and as she ate her hearty morning meal I slipped past without being seen, pushed the bulky envelope through the door. I don't know what it contains. I don't know if she will notice the initials I have written on the bottom right hand corner, the little heart pierced with a broken arrow...

The Call is Heard

My House Arrest — 2006-06-15T04:09:13Z

Lucy and I have heard the clarion call. Alicia and her Genius Child Orchestra have set up on the crowded streets of downtown Picar. Our radios picked us the first scratches of their strings, plaintively calling to us, pining for their "lost shaker of salt." I take this as the dollmaker accepting my invitation.

Led by Lucy, we are marching to the echoes of the rhythm section's drumbeats. We are marching through the back alleys and shantylands on the outskirts of Picar, the site of our glorious house arrest. We are beating a path to spot where the children are performing. The men with the Roman collars have been good enough to line the way, providing an escort to our encounter, our meeting with the Softest Person.

I never check to see if Lucy is still behind me, I can feel her hot breath on my neck.

Genius Child Orchestra

The Softest Person — 2006-06-14T19:21:43Z

Alicia tells me of her other friends.

She treats the Genius Child Orchestra as if they were a video game.

She wants them to play our song, which is "Margaritaville".

I hate that song, our song.

A Letter

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-14T16:24:56Z

I went for a long walk this morning, along the seafront. It was very early, even before the fisherman had gone out, although some of them were getting their boats ready. The sea air gave me an appetite and I stopped at the café for breakfast. I got chatting to the woman who runs it and she says she might have a job for me. Washing up again.

I ate my bacon and eggs outside, watching the boats bobbing off to the fishing grounds. It looks like a good life, being a fisherman. Living your life with the rhythm of the sea. Being a part of its ebb and flow. Like breathing but much much more.

When I got home to the cottage, there was a notice on the front door. “Dr Flingle’s surgery closed due to bereavement.” I unlocked the door and went in. There was a strong smell of licorice.

“Lock it,” a slurry voice said. It was Dr Flingle.

I locked it behind me and peered into his office. “Are you OK?” I asked.

“Hadbit toomuch ‘f thegreenfairy,” he slurred.

“Pardon?”

“The Green Fairy. Absinthe.” He lifted the bottle to show me.

“Has something happened?”

“She’s gone, gone. Run off with that efffffffff’ing Polemite Preacher.” He put his head down on the desk. “Left me for a bloody preacher.”

“But it says bereavement on the door.”

He lifted his head. “’S’right. She’s dead to me.” He picked up the bottle and poured another glass. “Dead and gone.”

“If there’s anything …”

“No, I’ll be fine. Fine. Fffffing fine.”

I turned to go.

“Oh,” he says, “Oh Tanya.”

“It’s Toni.”

“Oh yes, Toni. For you.”

He handed me an envelope, a bit sticky and stained from the absinthe but with my name clearly handwritten on it. I kept turning it over and over as I went up the stairs. Behind me I could hear Dr Flingle muttering, “Always said she was plastic. Always.”

Inside the envelope was a lot of money and a note:

Dear Toni

It worries me that you’re going to get yourself in too deep working for Morgan, especially as it was my idea. It’s tough, even for people like me and I can tell that you aren’t as strong as I am. I’m giving you this money in the hope it will encourage you to break free while you can. Take yourself back home to England and pay off those debts. Be a nurse again and help people instead of doing them harm.

When I told you this was an easy way to make money I was wrong. I realise that now. If I could get away from it I would but it’s too late for me. It’s not too late for you.

AP

It’s made me feel really guilty about AP. I know now I shouldn’t have accepted that extra job from Tristan. But it can’t be helped.

pink panther

between moments — 2006-06-13T21:44:10-07:00

Alright, you motherfucker.

You want me to face up to this, face into it, lie face down in it until it fucking drowns me?

Fine.

I was born of a clear cold night on an island that doesn’t exist, to a man with no woman and a woman with no man, and before I was born my mind split in two and Lucy took the other half.

I was raised in the moonlight on the edge of the tide on an island that doesn’t exist, and everything I ever needed was ripped away from me. My other half was gone.

But she doesn’t exist and neither do I.

She’s a fucking doll, Tristan.

And so am I.

And so is Aliss, who yes, clearly, was always Alicia. Alicia trying to give me a second chance. Alicia kicking tango with dear Lucy, fencing nearly fearless with my soul.

And you, old Tristan, are also a fucking doll. Made of stuffing and sawdust and buttons and rope. Not that it matters; we could be marrow and flesh and hair and we’d still be what we are.

But you wanted to be a fucking Pinocchio, Tristan. You wanted it more than any of the rest of us. Cut the strings, cut the strings, cut the strings.

There are no fucking strings, Tristan!

The strings are inside us, wound around our little rubber hearts, threaded through our arteries. Web of subcutaneous fiberglass fat that rides beneath our cotton skins.

You can’t make those strings shrivel up and die by flooding the system with poison, Tristan. Biker Joe, A.P. – you’re not going to get anywhere with that. They don’t know what you think they know, and even if they did they would die before they told you.

They would die, Tristan, before they told you. Because their little doll hearts beat blacker than yours, and each and every one of them wants to be the man in the pink jumpsuit.

Picar

brims assemblage — 2006-06-13T19:53:00-07:00

A richly vibrant, sometimes insanely paranoid and cruel palimpsest, Picar has been tightly woven over thousands of years into layers of progressive architectures. The lower levels of its structure are carved from the Plateau itself, whilst successive strata dilute the symbols of ancestor magic becoming ever more rational, dispassionate, frail, and cynical, the further one stood from its birth stone the brighter and cheaper its neon became.

Gangs of warrior monks dressed as Catholic priests and adorned with black gold kept check on the so-called radicals, peace seekers, punks and immigrants. The fundamentalist vigilantes struck for order. Outbreaks of civil unrest between the priests, who believe that true liberty is a pollution of the human spirit and the Polemites, secularists who believe that no true enlightenment can take place unless the sacred is re-marketed, has become more and more frequent.

On the outskirts of the city walls dispossessed ragamuffin’s and exiles slice at each others flesh for scraps of food filtered from the sewers that drain effluent into the Efflit river and on into the lakes. The landscape is dotted with small fires, nests for metal buckets that boil down discarded fish bones for the purposes of making sniffing glue, a vile, yellow residue of poor oblivion.

Once a month warrior monk outreach team’s venture into the slums to offer work instead of charity. Those that accept and there are many, march to the discipline of the hard chapters, brigades of highly skilled fighters that push into the Libertines, neutrals and Polomites. ‘Covert or overt, podium or sword,’ this is their cry.

Amongst the romance of the cafes, the neutrals sip coffee and keep the flames of Picars powerful oral traditions alight under the glow of Absinthe and whisky until the soporific effects of opium level excess and filter out fools. Certain whispers rouse excitement and debate; sometimes there is talk of an army or some mythic garrison of peace crusaders from the UN, but they laugh. There was never anyone coming, no aliens to save us, great truths or absolutes, that god forbid would snuff out the mysteries. We had all heard the stories before and we’d laughed then too. But still, talk was different now and the gossip had turned to something new, people were talking about ‘The Ten.’

My New Home

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-13T18:22:14Z

I’ve found somewhere to live. It’s only half a cottage, the upstairs rooms of a doctor’s surgery but it’s full of ‘original features’ and has a brilliant sea view. The walls are bumpy and whitewashed and the windows are leaded in a diamond pattern. There’s an open fireplace which the doctor tells me still works but I don’t need it just now. I think some of the furniture might be original too. It certainly looks old enough.

I spent this afternoon sitting in the window seat reading a book I found in the bottom of the wardrobe. “Easter Parade,” by Richard Yates. The sun was shining in and, behind me, I could hear the sea washing up on the shore. Sometimes, it seemed like it was saying, “Jez, Jez,” but then I’d get drawn back into the story and I wouldn’t be able to hear it any more.

Tomorrow I’m going to do some more practical things. Try to find a job. Contact Ann at home to ask her to put my house up for sale and then use the money to pay off my debts. That will be my commitment to staying here so I can truly settle. I think I can be happy here.

groin crotch

ezra kire — 2006-06-13T05:24:21Z

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

Phoenix

brims assemblage — 2006-06-12T22:05:00-07:00

Mr. H and Fleur said that they’d prefer it if I didn’t come with them to confront the preacher. I followed them anyway at a distance and after a short trek I was able to find some decent cover from which to view proceedings. A column of smoke billowed out from the small hamlet. All the inhabitants were placing their costumes, all that rubber, grease paint and ribbon on to a huge fire and as each individual threw their skin on to the flames they were given an instrument by the preacher himself. Each time he reached into a large box filled with violins, mouth organs, a large variety of brightly coloured Kazoos and an old standpipe that had been drilled with holes. There were also a large number of empty plastic containers that were handed out along with requisite tools for their rhythmical thrashing.

I watched as Mr. H and Fleur walked around the queuing villagers and through the rippling haze of burning costumes. When they reached the preacher I couldn’t hear what was being spoken from my inaudible vantage but watching carefully it was clear that the conversation was focused on the moustache problem. Mr. H angrily prodded the radish and then waggled his finger at the preacher. After H had finished making his case the preacher took a moment to think. Finally he spun about, bent down into the box that housed the instruments and spun back hitting Mr. H with a Tambourine in one hand and then artfully following up with a blow from a rubber chicken with the other. H reeled backwards as Fleur quickly came to his aid. She immediately tried to protect him, cursing the preacher man and lunging at him, swiping towards and missing his head in retaliation as two of the villagers rushed to restrain her. The preacher kept pointing to Mr. H’s top lip with a huge smile.

From what I could make out I think H sustained a small cut to his brow. At least I could see that the radish had gone. Fleur was gently let go and the village that had seemed content to patiently wait out the fracas that had momentarily halted proceedings once again turned to its endeavors with a shrug. My two new acquaintances left the smoke filled square as the preacher picked up a small round object and popped it into his mouth. It was the radish. Mr. H’s moustache was only hidden after all; the art of illusion comes easy to a preacher.

Suddenly, just as I was about to hurry back to the encampment I heard a branch snap behind me. I spun around. “Good morning!” A well-spoken male voice said in a whisper. The man didn’t look too threatening in a tight, pink jump suit. “And who are you?” I said whispering back.
“My name is Kallerakal and actually it’s not my name anymore its Marjorie or Marge for short if you like. I came up here a while ago after reading all these self help books and I thought ah, to hell with all this king stuff, I did used to be a king you know, that really was my name…” I nod. “Anyway so the thing is it didn’t take me too long to work out that all those cats down there are barking. So I refused all that doll get up and they made me look after the err…” He paused for a moment and pointed over to a small enclosure filled with old gentlemen in orange jump suits, “…to the err, to the wanker’s over there and…”
“Wanker’s, Who?” I interrupted perplexed.
“Ah, well, you see, some of the old men in the village get…some of them got caught cracking one off.”
“Cracking one off?”
“Yes, you know what I mean don’t you, shaking the fat-man, bashing the Bishop. Cracking one off for Christ’s sake, you must have heard of that?” He graphically articulated with his fist.
“What, so they lock up all the…” I laughed as I said it, “…the wanker’s”
“Well yes, anyone who gets caught of course.”
“And you get to do this job in a tight pink cat suit?”
“Yes.” He said, looking down and over his attire objectively, an excess of blood ruining an otherwise honest but pale complexion.
“Well if it was me old boy I think I would’ve taken the Barbie outfit.”

We both turned back to the village and to a chorus that one might hear from an orchestra pit before a performance. “What’s with all that I said?” pointing down towards a small, growing crowd hacking away at the production of polyrythmns and an attendant sea of grinding disharmony. “Wannabes, sycophants and madmen.” Said the redundant king.

The Genius Child Orchestra

The Softest Person — 2006-06-12T22:12:35Z

Nobody can play it like Alicia with her leg cut.

Floating still

J-Meister — 2006-06-12T16:38:19Z

I go out in the boat

I float

I come back to land

I breathe with the waves

I am alone, beautifully alone

I am the waves

I am the sea

I am me

Down b- La-e Tao

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-12T05:59:09Z

I’-e been sleeping down b- La-e Tao for the past few nights. I left the Golden Chain in the middle of the night, crept out so that -emima and AP wouldn’t -now. AP seemed to be ill, he was confined to his room and I saw -emima bustling in and out loo-ing worried. I had to lea-e. I couldn’t loo- -emima in the e-e after what Morgan as-ed me to do and, of course, I couldn’t let AP -now I was refusing m- mission. It’s all a bit scar- but, for some reason, I -now it’s going to turn out alright.

Before I go an- further, I’d better e-plain that I’m using a -e-board that onl- has nineteen letters so -ou’ll ha-e to be patient and a little proacti-e in reading this. The computer belongs to a -illage of dolls that is nearb- and, although the whole thing seems -er- strange, I’m not letting it worr- me. As long as it’s connected to the internet, I’m not going to let it worr- me. That’s the best thing around here. I saw a man with a radish on his lip –esterda-, but I’m not letting that worr- me either.

There’-e been a couple of times in the past three months when I’-e found m-self in Picar with nothing. The first was after m- impulsi-e -ourne- to Picar and the second was after m- une-pected return from New –or- when I was hoping to go to England. But I’-e planned this time. I’-e got a ruc-sac- pac-ed with clean clothes (lots of –nic-ers and soc-s, -ou can ne-er ha-e too man- -nic-ers or soc-s) and a debit card for m- Picardian ban- account which is stuffed with mone- from Morgan (he paid reall- well). Plus I bought a tent and a sleeping bag so I am -uite comfortable at the moment.

I ha-e a plan though. There’s a fishing -illage where I’m hoping to rent a cottage. It’s possibl- a bit too near to The Golden Chain but it’s a -er- close-lipped place. As
-ou’re entering the -illage, there’s a sign that sa-s, “What happens here, sta-s here,” and, fingers crossed, news of me being there shouldn’t get bac- to -emima (or an-one else for that matter.)

I don’t thin- I’ll be going bac- to England -et. I don’t thin- I can go bac- to England. This place won’t let me. I’m sad about that because -ez is there but I carr- him in m- heart and in m- head so at least I ha-e that. I’ll tr- to settle here, ma-be find a -ob in the -illage. Probabl- gutting fish, -nowing m- luc-.

There’s a rag doll here waiting to use the computer so I’d better go. “Important Polemite mission wor-,” she keeps sa-ing, “It can’t wait, it can’t wait.” I’ll let -ou
-now about the cottage.

Charles Offers an Invitation

My House Arrest — 2006-06-12T04:02:46Z

brokedown palace

between moments — 2006-06-11T20:31:55-07:00

Tristan's been watching me for days now. Not even trying to hide it. The frequency squawks straight through my skull; echoes of Lucy's laughter mixed in with the electromagnetic hum. Soon there won't be anything left of me.

Or her.

Or him.

They know this as well as I do, and yet I can hear in Lucy’s laughter that her abandon is true. Ironic that she inhabited a prison much more tangible than mine all these years, when I’m the one whose always been stuck. Frozen in fear.

That was the thing with Alicia – the reason I lost her. No -- the reason I never really had her. (As much as any force could ever possess an entity like Alicia.)

She could always smell my fear. And eventually she realized it was a permanent stench. Nothing she could give me, nothing she could show me, was going to take it away.

And Tristan smelled like freedom. Christ, Tristan smelled like Teen Spirit.

Hey asshole – thanks for stealing my girlfriend!

Heh. It’s funny because I know you can actually hear me. Like, I Actually Know. You can positively fucking hear me.

Maybe if I’d been able to feel like this sooner, under different circumstances, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. Or rather, the last. Manic laughter, finger on the button. End of the world in a fit of nitrous giggles. A blaze of numb, nihilist glory.

That’s what you want, I know. And nobody’s going to stop you. Not even K3.

The Recruitment Officer Pays a Visit

My House Arrest — 2006-06-12T01:46:12Z

I returned to the glory of my house arrest only to find a recruitment officer waiting in my living room. Lucy helped me take my shoe off and placed my feet on the ottoman. She said she would retire to her radios, and let us men speak alone.

Apparently, this finely groomed recruitment officer represented a group called The Genius Child Orchestra. He said they had discovered Alicia and were willing to offer her a first seat in the woodwind section of their paramilitary organization. Of course, before doing so, her guardian would need to sign a permission slip. It seems that Alicia offered up my name as guardian.

“Will I be implicated in the activities of this Genius Child Orchestra?”

“To as slight an extent as I can arrange,” the recruitment officer promised.

“Then I shall offer dear Alicia my permission, as long as holiday leave and summers under house arrest are assured by your organization.”

These things were promised and I signed gladly.

As the recruitment officer excused himself from my house arrest, he said, “The dollmaker will be pleased. You’ve allowed him to embark upon his newest and finest profession to date.”

The Softest Person is the conductor of this wonderful new orchestra. It pained me to realize that he could be behind such beauty and that he alone could bring forth the greatest of Alicia’s talents.

Lucy returned from the attic with a radio tucked under one arm and my missing shoe in her other hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had it all along.”

She put on my shoes on and we stepped back outside. “No matter how exquisite the genius children sound in unison,” she said. “We’ve got to retrieve Alicia, and restore the peace of your house arrest.”

purgatory

ezra kire — 2006-06-11T21:13:58Z

i'm in purgatory

i was in heaven

i was in hell

now i am in purgatory

this is fun

i want to scream, 'this is fun!'

i'm riding a bicycle in purgatory

i want to do a front-flip over a wide river

i am in purgatory

Friends on the Net

The Softest Person — 2006-06-11T15:48:50Z

http://myhousearrest.blogspot.com/

I have discovered that my old friend who I feared had gone crazy has his own blog too. He still lives in a world of hallucination and illusion. It's true that I received various tweaked message from Alicia, but I haven't kidnapped her. Last thing I heard she cutting her leg open in a motel.

Poor, friend, his ties to the world have all but collapsed. I am a "mediocre doll-maker"? I am a lot of things, but never mediocre. Perhaps I will make him a final doll. It will be called The Final Doll.

unreliable source

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-06-11T08:46:02-07:00

I had held out hope that the illness was a temporary coincidence, but of course it isn't. Even with my periods of lucidity, the fever is getting worse. I've stayed in my room at the inn for much of the past week. Jemima asked me if I want her to call a doctor but I just smile and say I'll be okay; there's nothing a doctor could do for me now.

It's only a matter of time before the envelope is delivered. In some ways it's such a small thing, but my employers will consider it a betrayal anyway. Although it's foolish of me, I've stopped caring; loyalty has been an alien idea for some time now.

When it's bad, when the fever fills me and my breathing becomes shallow, I lay in bed with my head craned back and I imagine things. Cameras behind mirrors, microphones in desk drawers. People standing over me in dark robes in the night. I can't know what I'm actually seeing. I'm an unreliable source now, to myself as well as to anybody else.

But when the fever subsides, I sit up in bed sipping tea, and I watch the waves roll in over the shore outside my window. It's strange. Every hour, the infection spreads deeper into my bloodstream. But there are times when I feel more serene than I ever thought possible.

Strangers on the Net

The Softest Person — 2006-06-11T15:38:23Z

I have discovered that several of my customers have been depicting their struggles online.

For example this man:

http://brimsassemblage.blogspot.com/

It's hard to see how I can be blamed for leaving the doll-brains in the little dumb-dumb village. Their heads are stuffed like the head of deer.

Video Games

The Softest Person — 2006-06-11T15:30:54Z

Instead of dolls I have decided to make use of my college training as a computer programmer.

My first game is called "The Genius Child Orchestra." The players each take on a character from The Genius Child Orchestra. The object of the game is to assasinate famous political leaders of the 20th century. So for example, there is one scene in which you infiltrate President Johnson's farm and try to drown him in the pool. In another one you try to sneak some arsenic in Chairman Mao's beer.

The second game is going to be a whodunnit. You collect evidence in a Museum of Natural History. You are a taxidermist. Also, the murder has to do with plagiarism. You have to learn how to forge things. I'm not quite sure yet, as I'm still working on the Genius Child Orchestra.

Also, I'm planning a game that kills your computer.

Tashtastic

brims assemblage — 2006-06-10T23:53:00-07:00

Mr. H has been having trouble with his face furniture since those proceedings inside the church yesterday. I only know this from what little I overheard whilst resting, comfortable in my arboreal nest of branches that’s agreeable enough for even the humblest Bonobo. What kind of ceremony would do that sort of damage to facial hair?

Fleur had been trying to help:
“It just keeps fanning F.” Said H, exasperated.
“Well look, just…look do this.” Said Fleur gesticulating and moving towards him but he dodged away from her.
“Let me do it.” H said, twisting. He tweaked and pulled while bending over, tempting gravity into the fray whilst Fleur just stood and watched patiently, bemused. “What are you doing now H?”
He stood upright in response to her but then suddenly he seemed to shrink, giving up.
“I might never get it straight.” He said, hopelessly stamping his foot into the ground.
“Come here sausage.” She said comfortingly, drawing him into her and holding him tight. H’s shoulders began to shake a little as tears of bewilderment broke loose. “I…” H began in vain, questioningly, but it was all over.
“Sssh.” Comforted Fleur and together they rocked slowly from side to side until H, exhausted, fell asleep in her arms.

Morning arrived and Mr. H awoke to find that his tash had become a radish. In resignation to fate he said nothing but sat at the waters edge, his knees drawn up whilst he looked out towards the village; a morning call to prayer melodiously crafted from wineglasses variably filled with water, broadcast from the porcelain prayer tower above.

I climbed down from my tree and greeted H but he ignored me, so I lay down on my back and enthusiastically rendered a sand angel with my arms and legs. That’ll cheer him up I thought.
“Look.” I said jumping up, smiling all over the place and pointing to the angelic silhouette in the sand. “It’s a sand angel!” He looked over at the shape disinterested. “The tash?” I said surprised, noticing the small but obvious red irritant.
“It’s a fucking…” He began angrily. H stopped, composed himself, cleared his throat and started again, “Sorry, it’s a radish.” He said and then, “…like an engorged tick in fear of a hot fag.”
“Ok. Maybe it’ll go down in a few days, what do you think?” I belched unconvincingly.
“I think…” He began, “…that I have a Radish on my top lip.” Ah, sarcasm I thought, “…and when I sniff…” He continued again slowly, “…it plugs my right nostril. And…” He went on, “…I’ve tried to pull it off but I think it’ll rip my lip off with it.”
“Shit.” I said, useless. “Well then we’ll just have to go back to the church, find the guru and ask him to reverse things to make it hairy again.” I rattled.
“Yes.” Said H changing his tune and jumping up. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.” Excitedly he marched over to where Fleur was still sleeping and gave her a gentle nudge with his bare foot to wake her.
“I’m going to the village.” He said emphatically.
“A…a…and me.” I said, stuttering.
“We’re going back to the village.” H said, punching the air.
Fleur stretched her arms out over her head and seeing H properly she sat up suddenly. “H.” She said surprised and then lowering her voice with seriousness. “H…” again almost baritone, “…you’ve a…”
“A Radish, yes, I know.” He preempted.
“On your top lip.” she said after a short pause.
“And were going back to the village to sort it out.” I said jumping up and down a little too enthusiastically. They both looked at me.
“What?” I said.

hell

ezra kire — 2006-06-09T14:02:57Z

i'm in hell

i was in heaven

now i'm in hell

i said, 'this place is stupid

jesus christ said, 'say that again'

i said, 'this place is stupid'

jesus christ said, 'say that again'

i said, 'this place is stupid'

now i'm in hell

i'm walking around

i'm in hell

i'm walking

For a Day I Believe

On the Lake by the Snacks — 2006-06-08T16:13:23Z

You should see the religion they have down here. I don't know if your attention spans can bear it. There are definitely too many details to spring upon you, since you probably need to get going by next line break. I wish it could be summed up in a quiz. Which Desparate Housewife Are You? And you click on it and you are met with an animation of two rabbits grooming a radish. That might do it.

Stark sober before you, I say this is exactly what we faced at the steeple near the inlet between the Efflift River and the Touleres Bay. Four of our rag doll friends had really taken an aggressive stance in preaching to us, all of them raised as Polemites, well-versed in the books of Herman Melville and bred with a most acute vindictiveness. They take a very compassionate stance on mariners which I feel is lacking in modern times. Fleur hates seafood, but doesn't seem to begrudge its captors. We agreed to attend church with them, for which they would trade us a backpack full of tuna and six train tickets. Fleur is okay with tuna, I am okay with tuna.

The chapel was very bright and lovely, sculpted in a porcelain, similar to the faces of the worshippers. A dark pearl lining crossed under our feet. The curtains were thin and translucent. It was small, there was only seating for ten meager, aside from the throne, where laid a very large radish. At his side, each with a very piercing gaze which went well past the boundaries of this country, two tall rabbits methodically stroked at the radish flesh with sponges strapped to their hands. They wore brown work trousers and black boots, with belts and laces left undone.

The dolls gave me a sense of heaving from behind and I felt that I shouldn't sit, but make acquaintance first. I approached the throne and noticed on the desk a nameplate which read "Leo." My position gave me a central perspective, where I noticed not only the great quantity of skin which had been wiped from the radish, but also the cameras mounted on all corners of the room. Not video cameras, but mounted chassis and lens engaged in periodically taking flash photography. This gave the illusion of the presence of an attentive press. But the Polemite dolls responded contrarywise and seemed stricken by awe and reverence at the wonder of the sudden blinding lights.

I began to speak but one of the rabbits quickly swiveled the nameplate to face the radish. "No, you are Leo," he said, in scolding tone. This slender rabbit (to the left) had a darker black fur and I felt instantly that he was controlling my mind or deceiving the world or dispatching thieves with great subtlety.

I've often wondered how I would address royalty and I felt this moment was now upon me. I chose a very warm and informal voice. "Yes, thankyou, well. I am so glad to be among the Polemite friends and I feel very shaped by your traditions. There's no question that I'm a changed man and that I now have loftier aims than ever before. No, don't esteem me like you would a seaman. I have no harpoon. But I mimick his movements on land. I do the things he would do if he were here."

I looked at the radish and his attendants for some reciprocation. They were still. Although the lighter rabbit (to the right) broke character for a moment to coax me, "Give him a minute. And the dolls will translate. Just..." He made a quick little comforting circle with his paw.

I dipped my head and laid wait. Sure enough, the stench in the room began to rise. The influence of the odor was so great that I began to feel the vast power of the root and a very poignant, sincere gratitude for the cameras which watched over me. The dolls chimed in, chanting, "My death / Your feet / My bread / Your counting / Your numbers / Your death."

"Mmmnn," I shook my head. "Thankyou, that's... adequate. That's great. There is so much to learn here." The smell was hairsplitting. Fleur says my moustache was all fanned out. "I am not marooned. I sail on the earth. I cast off from my bed. You're right. For sure, I see it now."

Fleur and I left, feeling great ease coupled with great astonishment. We both swore that should be ever print counterfeit bills again, the visage of the radish and his keepers would grace the centermost oval without question.

I can't

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-08T06:25:36Z

Details of my next mission arrived this morning from Morgan.

I can’t do that. Not to Jemima.

A Continuance Granted

My House Arrest — 2006-06-08T03:20:29Z

Lucy called the whole thing off. She interrupted my demise at its most divine moment, by yelling “Cut!” The gorilla camera crew hit ‘pause’ and the Soviet warhead was left suspended in the low atmosphere above Picar. The folks around town have taken to calling it their “civic mobile.” There’s talk of bringing the Anglo-artist Helium to town, to have him judge whether Picar’s frozen warhead compares with his own installations and happenings. I assure he’ll say it surpasses his complete oeuvre.

Despite the lost art of my expiration, it really was for the best that Lucy saved me, as I can’t bear to imagine that my last moments were to be spent free from house arrest.

She stopped the proceedings because her “plans had gone horribly awry.” Apparently, for weeks now, Alicia had been tweaking the transistors at night, casting messages to The Softest Person, an old trading partner of mine, if my atrophying memory serves correctly. And now that Alicia had complete possession of the mollydoll she had left the house arrest to find this mediocre dollmaker.

If Alicia remains missing, it’s doubtful our center will hold.

Lucy says she can find my missing shoe, my brother’s shoe. Then I can move on from the spot, the locus of my aborted demise, and help her return our Alicia to our house arrest.

on the road to pundit stardom

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-06-07T18:17:25-07:00

Yesterday I had my MSNBC debut, don't know if you saw it, but I was interviewed for just about two minutes on mobile, and video convergence, and of course how that translates into which companies have sensible multiples. Even in two minutes they managed to bring up the iPod video. Everybody brings it up, but my position has been for some time that Apple is not a serious player in the long-term. You can email me if you feel like getting into a healthy disagreement. But no, I can't get you on cable, that pundit spot is mine! Mine I tell you.

Has anybody else noticed how the weather recently is just wreaking (sp?) havok with party planning? It's hot, it's cold, it's dry, it's wet ... I've been to more than one event in the past week where you can tell somebody had to scramble last minute to get the food inside, or take away the tent, or God knows what. And don't even get me started on the clothing situation. Sometimes I think I wouldn't mind living in the Arabian desert, as long as I knew it was going to be the same temperature all day long.

My New House

The Softest Person — 2006-06-07T17:46:10Z

I have a Victorian mansion. A dollhouse, said a crackhead who walked by on the sidewalk as I stood outside looking at the house.

No, not a dollhouse, I replied. A human house.

He wanted to tell me all about his own house. He was moving it "out of the ghetto" because his father-in-law was giving him trouble. Move it all the way out in the country.

Right now I'm sitting upstairs, tilting like the house. An ice-cream truck is jingle-jangling its song down the street.

The reason I'm quitting dolls is that I'm sick of having to deal with children. And the worst part are the other doll-makers with their Napoleon complexes and Melville complexes and oral fixations.

Floating

J-Meister — 2006-06-07T08:42:09Z

I've gone so far out of myself that I've come full circle. I feel alive again, strong, more complete than I've felt in my whole life. I've survived. I'm a survivor - not just a dull ordinary bloke from a dull ordinary town. I'm Jez. The J-Meister. I'm me.

And Ii've almost come full circle in my wanderings, my following-my-nose, my putting-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. I recognise this place. Its not far from where i set out. Not far from Jemima's. Not far from Toni. I know she's back. It scares me, but I'm strong now. I can do anything.

Just before I got here I found AP too. Almost stepped on him as I was wandering along in my own little world. He didn't say much - seemed in his own world too. I thought he might know where we were, but he knew even less than me. He gave me something to give to Toni. A big fat envelope. I didn;t want to take it. Didn't want that link with her - but also wanted it like crazy. I took it and I left him there. That seemed to be what he wanted.

I'm not going back yet. Not ready to close the circle. I'm staying in a little fishing village - the next village along from Jemima's. There's a guy here who goes out most days in his fishing boat - says I can come along with him. If I prove useful, he might even pay me (hopefully in something more than fish). I can sleep on the boat at night, in the harbour. The envelope is safe for now in the bottom of my rucksack. Maybe it will stay there. Maybe it will find its way out to sea...

off-mission

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-06-05T17:39:02-07:00

I've seen T. twice since landing back here, but for some reason I was unable to broach the subject. Something's changing, and maybe at this point I have only myself to blame but honestly I can't remember. I've lost track of all the ways in which we do things. My legs feel heavy like rags. My eyes darken like the shadow of a cave.

After the first two times, she slipped away. I wandered outside, unsure of what I was looking for. I was trying not to think of home, of discoveries and plans being made in my absence. I sat down, back against a tree looking out across a broad lake, trying not to vomit, trying to remember if this is what it tastes like to be afraid. It had been some time.

I was trying to think of all the ways things could end up right. Not of Andrew Phi slipping a colorless, odorless powder into A.'s fruit punch. Or Alice Phillips squeezing until she feels the snap of bones in T.'s throat. Alan Peck puncturing the tubes in B.'s apparatus. Alex Parque sharpening her knives on the stone teeth of a handmade doll.

When I woke up, J. was walking down a stone path. I don't know if he recognized me or not, my face was starting to slip a bit by then. I asked him if he knew where T. was, and he said no, and seemed to be telling the truth. He asked if this was the lake, and I said "There's nothing here." My delirium was making me impatient.

I pushed the envelope into his hands and told him to give it to T. He stared at for a while, trying to figure out why it was so bulky, but I just reminded him that it was for T. Then I made my way back to the room. Rest is the only thing I can do for now.

ass

ezra kire — 2006-06-05T21:21:14Z

i never saw my ass

my ass is behind me

other people see my ass

i don't see my ass

my ass is my behind

i see other people's asses all the time

PS

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-05T12:14:10Z

Nearly forgot to tell you. AP’s here. He keeps trying to talk to me but I keep telling him I’m busy. I don’t like the look in his eye. I don’t think I want to hear what he wants to say.

Cochrech Industries

Smooth Blue — 2006-06-05T12:13:20Z

I paid Tristan a visit this morning at Cochrech Industries. It was what Morgan wanted me to do and, as I’d had a card from Tristan asking me to call him, the two combined very nicely.

CI is up near Parallex Point. I asked Jemima the best way to get there without actually telling her I was visiting CI. She suggested a taxi because it can be difficult to get there on foot. I’d expected Tristan to be an uptight businessman but he was much more relaxed. Like an aging hippy with long hair and sandals. He took me into his office and then went to find us some coffee; his secretary is off sick. As he left the room, another door in the office swung open – it must not have been properly closed. I went to close it, but as I neared, I saw inside. It was full of television monitors, all with names underneath: Jez, Leo, Lucy, Brim and AP are the names I can remember but there were lots of others. My name wasn't there thank goodness.

Only two monitors were turned on. One was Leo’s. It showed Leo in a open air sort of place but, although there was green grass and sunshine, it didn’t seem to be outdoors. Do you remember that film, The Truman Show? Well, it was like that, all natural looking but with huge lights hanging high above. Leo looked so lost.

Charles’ monitor showed the scene I saw when I arrived. The film crew and a barefoot man. But it wasn’t the gorilla footage that was showing, it was the image of the crew and the man who, now I think about it, must be Horace’s brother.

I tried to turn Jez’s monitor on but the switches were too high up and I couldn’t reach. Then I heard Tristan whistling as he returned with the coffee. When we’d settled down in the comfy chairs in the corner of his office, he asked me to keep an eye out for Horace. That’s all. Keep an eye out for Horace. So I said I would, although I don’t think I’ll see him.

As soon as I got back here I sent off the information to Morgan. I’ll not bore you with the details of how I do that, but it’s a complicated process I can tell you. I got a message back saying he’ll send me my next mission. It should arrive on Thursday.

Goodbye Alicia (and the rest of your hooligans)!

The Softest Person — 2006-06-05T01:38:24Z

I'm moving north. I'm writing this from a Days Inn. A kid is sitting next to me in the computer lab, playing a game that seems to involve gouging. Tomorrow I will be in a new town and the only way you will ever hear from me is through this makeshift "blog."

I've had it with the doll subculture. A bunch of nerds sitting around trying to recreate childhood or the first time they read Keats. I will continue to sell my merchandize but I will have nothing to do with those silly buffoons. My next line of dolls will be the gouging line. That or the kid-on-the -computer-next-to-me line.

Still moving...

J-Meister — 2006-06-04T16:16:53Z

I haven't found it - the lake place. I keep asking people and they say its not far (that's the ones that actually give me an answer, rather than staring at me blankly or looking straight through me, like I'm dirt) - they say its just a bit further up that road, along that track, round the next corner. But I keep not getting there. The road goes on and on, the track ends in a blur of brambles, the next corner reveals nothing. I've been eating out of bins (god, what have I come to?) . One night when I was curled up in some bushes this old lady found me - she took me home, let me get cleaned up, fed me real food. She was so kind. I could hardly speak. I seem to have lost the power of conversation, I;ve slipped so far out of myself. I grunted my thanks - hoped she could see it in my eyes. She might have wanted me to stay there, but I slipped out from the cool soft sheets of her son's bed early the next morning, really early, and was gone up the road before she could get coffee on the boil and make me not want to leave. I have to keep moving - I don't really know why. Its this strange pull - towards something that feels like home calling me, but it isn't England. It isn't Tim and my mother and a decent cup of tea. Its something more primeval, like the memory of smoke.

Toni has suddenly entered my dreams. She seems so real in them, I've woken up calling her name, expecting to find her there beside me. Maybe this would all make more sense somehow if she was. But I know she's thousands of miles away from me - in body, in heart, in mind. I have to stop thinking about her. Think about anything else. Anything.

eternal sunshine of the waterslide

between moments — 2006-06-03T15:26:37-07:00

This place is clearly not on Picar.

And yet, it so clearly is. There’s that whispering in my ears, above and below the thwum-thwum of the machinery: the saline shhhh, shhhh of the seashell. And just a minute (hour? day?) ago, I caught the unmistakable whiff of Lucy. Lemon and licorice, thunderstorm ozone. All my little hairs stood on end.

My vision is clearing, but only slightly. A glowy gauze remains. Sounds are becoming more crisp, though still elusive around the edges. I think I might be a bit cold.

The funny thing is, I feel okay. Like a decade of tension has been drained from me. I suspect I may be under the influence of some force that has been intentionally designed to make me feel this way, and perhaps I should be wary of such an attempt to lower my defenses. But the effect has been so comprehensive as to render me completely unperturbed by this notion. I feel good – I don’t give a shit what happens next.

And I can see it all unfolding, like a stone rolling downhill. Green grass, sunshine and gravity. I’m not precisely sure of the details, but I’m heading toward the lake. I’m walking. This is where I’m supposed to be.

red hook

ezra kire — 2006-06-03T21:30:14Z

i played a show in red hook once

i don't remember the venue

i played a show somewhere else in brooklyn

the venue was a library i think

red hook had large houses around it

i felt confused

here is jesus

'jesus,' i say

'ezra kire,' jesus says

'jesus christ,' i say

jesus walks away

beyond suspicion

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-06-03T10:58:08-07:00

Biker Joe disappeared from the hospital yesterday. As far as I know it had nothing to do with us. The redhead from my college days is gone too, from what I've heard from the grapevine, M. tells me we weren't involved in that. But of course there's no reason for M. to ever tell me more than I need to know. And besides it was years since he and I had even spoken, so what do I care?

Morgan was impressed the other day with T., and I've been trying to get him to ease up but he never eases up on anything. He gets what he wants, and I should be lucky to be working alongside him. T. has a natural curiosity and is the sort of personality who's naturally beyond suspicion so of course Morgan is intrigued, but the whole thing leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. I've been thinking about anxious pigs stuck in small pens, jumping with fright every time the barn door slams.

There's a plane that leaves tonight, it'll take me to Picar. I'm honestly not sure if I can get away with going, but I think I have to anyway.

That's -uite the Rag People

On the Lake by the Snacks — 2006-06-02T02:03:46Z

Now it turns out I'm -uite a bit more lost than m- daughter. But at least I'-e got Internet. Fleur and I (and Brim, when he's around and not off dissol-ing between the High & Low Cities,) too- occassion to stop and camp along the Memor- Ban-s of the Efflift Ri-er. A little -illage of dolls was camping there. The- weren't real dolls, the- were people dressed li-e dolls, I'm sure -ou'-e seen them in other neighborhoods, their houses were real dollhouses. Their wee computers onl- ha-e nineteen letters, though, I'll as- -ou to fill-in the dashes. Most were dressed as Helping Dolls. Their bonnets loo-ed a bit more rustic than the street -ind.

We got to tal-ing with these -oung and gentle. The- had a dialect which was a bit hard to hear. Fleur pointed a flashlight at their mouths. That helped. We discerned that the- had a map in their possession and soon enough the whole thing unfolded right in our hands. It was a chec-erboard pattern, blac- being the Burroughs --A Supercomputer. Green being the dense flora/fauna.

The oldest doll girl, Chiffn-, her face a porcelain -arnish, cried remembering s-uare E-2 of the map, she said, "A- -u-- -- f-- ---n-'- -- ---t -h- ---a-a-!" Which I too- to mean that she harbored a great sadness for the loss of her homeland there in that s-uare.

"What happened to the Land of ---n-'- -- ---t?" I as-ed.

One compatriot, a -oung Ebbl- TeeFee Buttrespouts- said, "-t- o--- -- I --f ---au- -? O, -- - f-f- -o--!"

Fleur as-ed, "So, I don't understand -uite right. If that's all, can't she -ust go home? I mean reall-. Loo- at her." And Chiffn- went on somberl- a-blubberin, despite the comforts of her lace collar. While Ebbl- T.F.B. e-pounded the great distance we were from Chiffn-'s growing-up -ears (E-2 on the map) and, be-ond that, an- other coordinate on the grid. She said e-en the long leg of a great mountainous robot born on the moon couldn't stretch to where we were at -ust then in that little ri-er -alle-.

"What's the map good for then?" I said.

"-- ----?" as-ed Ebbl- T.F.B.

Fleur and I pu--led at that, but Fleur caught on first. "Ohhh, ah -a-. We're at unmappable coordinates." She held the flashlight up to her own mouth. "And this map's the proof."

through the looking glass

between moments — 2006-05-31T20:23:40-07:00

I’m not really here.

That is to say, I am not where I should be.

And where I am ... I don’t think this place really exists.

It’s like an upside-down inside-out underground. Everything is kind of blurry. There’s this constant thwum-thwum humming like machinery. A computer. A giant computer.

Am I inside a computer?

But no, this place is organic. There’s pink. There’s a voice or two floating around, unmistakably human -- though currently indecipherable. Has my hearing gone blurry too?

I can smell lake water. Incongruous, I know – but I’d recognize that smell anywhere. Damp black earth, rich and crumbly. Green leaves that rustle; pine needles falling with silent grace. Absolutely – there’s a lake nearby.

Unless my sense of smell has been compromised as well?

No – the lake is in my soul. On this I am not deceived.

But where the fuck am I?

A Beautiful Demise

My House Arrest — 2006-05-31T14:49:10Z

The gorilla camera crew has begged me not to move. They said that if I remain in place, mapless and shoeless, it will result in the most wonderful of disasters. An explosion is slated to occur on this very spot in not very long. If they get it on tape, they will win the Grand Jury Prize for World Peace and get a three movie contract from a big studio. Also, the Soviets will be given a permanent seat in the League of Nations for ridding the world of the number one purveyor of anti-feline crime. And me? What do I get? The gorilla camera crew said I would die a free man, away from my house arrest.

I know I don’t want that.

intercontinental ballistic missile

ezra kire — 2006-05-31T01:41:54Z

an intercontinental ballistic missile is an ICBM

it flies in the air like an airplane

it flies for hours

then it falls on a different continent

it can go from africa to north america

or australia to south america

or asia to antarctica

it flies in the air like an airplane

it is very calm and good while flying in the air

it flies alone and no humans sit inside of it

it flies alone and it is very calm and good

fractured

between moments — 2006-05-29T12:59:17-07:00

The circle is masked to me. This is a first. The eyes that stare out from those deep wells of obscurity are hostile, unfamiliar. The energy is blocked. No flow.

Something has gone horribly wrong.

Biker Joe

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-05-28T11:51:47-07:00

Biker Joe's turned up, unexpectedly. He was admitted to emergency at Cabrini Medical Center sometime in the week, and is now there, apparently lapsing in and out of consciousness. I only find out about this today since he was admitted as a John Doe and it took a while for us to make an ID. It's hard to say if he's there because somebody wants him there, but he did always live pretty fast. The crash report looks plausible to me.

I'm not certain how to get to him--he's most likely being monitored, and it's not safe for me to get so involved this close to home. P. and I have to do some brainstorming, I think.

To the lake

J-Meister — 2006-05-28T14:01:20Z

Toni thinks I'm back in England, but I'm not. I've let her think that - told her so in emails - it felt too dangerous to tell her the truth. Maybe I'm just getting paranoid. Am I getting paranoid, dear reader? Are you still out there? Are you reading me? I need to know. Need to know i'm not going mad. I saved up coins for a few days (found some on the street too) and rang Tim, just to check that I was still alive - still real, and not dreaming all this. His voice was just the same - it was so great to hear it - he said everything back home is just as I left it. Nothings changed (except that all the cars have little England flags flying from their back windows - football or something, he said) - it was so good to hear. Good old England. Good old stupid grey dull and never changing England. God I miss it.

I've been making my way gradually north (I think) - hitching, walking, sleeping rough sometimes. The beach is a good place to sleep - I've hooked up with some good people along the way - building big fires, sharing what food we have. I'm almost out of money. I feel stripped away - the last few vestiges of my old life, my life before, my identity are all leaving me. I am lighter, thinner, freer than I've ever been in my whole life. I almost feel like I could step off the ground and fly, like a lost balloon- high high into the air - coming to land in some far off country - or maybe not coming to land at all...

I've heard there's a good place not far from here - with a big lake and trees and kind people - a place I could stay and maybe get some work - get some money - some proper food - clean clothes - a shower. I'm going to keep going till I find it - keep putting one foot in front of the other

Strange Messages

The Softest Person — 2006-05-28T01:08:49Z

I've been receiving your messages, Alicia, but I can't understand them.

Who's barefoot? What does it have to do with me?

You haven't contacted me for days and then this?

New York is an island, too

keeping up with A.P. — 2006-05-27T11:47:28-07:00

Yesterday morning, M. dropped a case on my desk, and as I was reading through the particulars I was surprised to find that I knew one of the secondary subjects. An ex-boyfriend, somebody I'd dated in college. He had pale, freckled skin and red hair, and back then he was really slender. We spent the first few weeks basically just rolling around in bed and wrestling and laughing a lot. He had a really short attention span, and this devilish smile that he'd give me in almost any situation. He knew how cute he was.

I spent a few minutes perusing the preliminaries. There was a photo of him, he'd filled out a bit but still looked the same. It's funny, that wasn't even that long ago but now it feels like a different life. I asked M. to give me a different case. The ex isn't a primary subject, so he'll probably be fine.

Apparently Toni's visiting New York for a little while and has insisted on meeting with me ... it's completely against protocol for her to dictate this but what the hell. I have a feeling she wants to get to the bottom of it all, or something, I may have to tell her that there's no bottom at all. I've learned so much over the past few years but I don't really feel like I know anything. Maybe Morgan can be more convincing on this point than I am, who's to say.

And on rereading the email I sent back to Toni I realized I mentioned a cookout -- what was I thinking? It's a bit like a tic at this point. After last Saturday, it might be a while before I feel like doing that again.

Ears

On the Lake by the Snacks — 2006-05-26T23:59:21Z

We've made fast friends with Brim. However, there is a down side to this. He doesn't like us very much at all.

And yet, he follows us around with a curious kind of attachment. "Where are you taking me?" for example. But we're just wandering, too, and maybe he knows this. "Any of you got a pen or anything?" asks he. And then, "Curtains? Curtains in a forest?"

They're all great questions and he has a very abrupt way, which is nice, we don't have to wait for him to turn on. Like that electrical hum coming from Nels which crackles but never pops. You know, the other day, Nels says, "Okay, bye now, off to work." And this is at 9 o'clock, breakfast time. We get busy hanging up some new echidna posters and classic squid cutaways. Noon rolls around. We watch Turkish football. Finally, Fleur and I take a break, for which we strike out to the park.

And there's Nels, sitting there in his van. His hands were on the wheel. Back of his head. Looking straight. Glasses. Ears. Great posture! He hadn't budged.

Brim's well ahead of us. And rising. We look and he's way up in a tree. "Hey, where you off to, little man?" Fleur said that. He looked like a little wind-up duck pinned in the sky. Now how are we going to get him down?

But you don't ever have to get Brim down. It's a principle. He stayed up there long after dark, so we slept under the moist canopy and listened to his far off voice talking all about how to rig the Olympics and what sorts of places there are to hide money. For some reason, I always think of potted plants. But it turns out that rolled up socks are the way.

My Bearings

My House Arrest — 2006-05-26T19:27:50Z

I wish I could locate a map. Picar is teeming with geography, especially for such a seemingly bucolic resort town.

I wish I had my brother's shoe back. Barefoot, I can't move.

And the gorilla camera crew has also left my house arrest to document my current predicament, on the empty streets of Picar.

Without a map and a shoe, this town is as good as a prison.

the geometry of darkness

between moments — 2006-05-26T11:04:53-07:00

I had an uncle once – my father’s twin. Twins, twins – dig back far enough and I spect this family is prlly full of em.

Fair twin, dark twin. Twin of innocence; twin of crime. Poles and counterpoles.

But this is not true, not at all. None of us are innocent.

And what about the triplets? Do they whirl around in circles, looking for weighted circumstance to give meaning to their lives?

I digress.

Picar leads me northeast this night, along the curving western coastline. The tides are slack and silent; the inlets sparkle in the moonlight. I could stand in the dry darkness of the caves and make them echo.

But not tonight.

Tonight I head around the bend to Parallax Point, which you will never find for as long as you search. You must simply walk in its direction, and if you are meant to make discovery, you will.

If you should find the Point you will know it by these things: a flickering fire; a circle of shadowy figures. And they will chant from beneath their hooded robes just to scare you; to bring you into that wavery nightmarish place of hot sparks and uncertainty in the inky blackness of night vision ruptured by flame. The chant means nothing; the robes are mere costume. Ritual and illusion: remember this. You will only fall if it is your desire.

And tonight, again, at long last, it my desire.

My need.

gorilla-proof

between moments — 2006-05-25T20:44:10-07:00

This island is not that small. The eco-tourists who have the balls to come here think they can hike n bike the circumference in a week’s time, and are invariably surprised when they’re still hundreds of miles from their final destination on the day they’re due to fly out. Fly home; back to the civilized world where topography plays by cartography’s rules.

Because Picar on the map looks like your average ordinary week-long adventure island. A couple hundred miles of gorgeous coastline; crescent beaches and sea cliffs and switchback trails. Sun, sand and surf.

But Picar on the ground is a whole different story. It doesn’t matter how expensive your compass or detailed your atlas, you won’t find your way unless the island says you will. Unless yours stars and moons are right.

And there’s hazard in that, too -- because chances are you still won’t end up where you intended.

But there’s nothing to be done about that. It’s out the window I go, in the pale light of half-past midnight. Slippers, robe, old red backpack filled with things we never understand.

K3 is calling again.

blink 182

ezra kire — 2006-05-25T19:10:09Z

i'm thinking about when i was alive

in leftover crack we played those chords from that blink 182 song

during '500 channels'

i'm thinking about that

'500 channels' has the lyrics

'with my credit and my bank my mind will draw a blank'

'i'll block out history and stare at my tv'

'for me there is no way'

'500 channels waste my life away'

i'm bored

leaky boats sink fast

between moments — 2006-05-25T11:36:47-07:00

The problem with Jemima (or one of them, anyway) is that she talks too much. Way too much. Does not understand the weight of silence, and how it can hold things down that need to be kept in place.

Flight has become necessary. Something I should have realized days ago. Those who wish to help can only harm, themselves and others. Possibly me as well.

Jesus! That woman …

Nocturnes

My House Arrest — 2006-05-25T11:52:09Z

I’ve been on the streets of Kallarackel's deserted kingdom all night, pacing them beside my brother Horace. For the first hour or two he was not aware of my presence. Finally, he stopped and said, “Charles, let’s be serious. Give me my shoe.”

And, with that, never once looking at my eye, or my face at all, he bent down and untied the shoe. Gently he removed it. Then - he walked on. Barefoot, I was stranded alone on the hushed streets of Kallarackel. This was certainly not the host country of my crimes or those who arrested me. I had been sent far – farther than I deserved, I thought.

I watched Horace disappear down a lane, the morning mist beginning to seep in from the seaside. I screamed for Lucy. I yelled for Alicia. I received no answer. I assume they’re still captives of my once and glorious house arrest.

On The Outside

My House Arrest — 2006-05-22T16:37:49Z

The streets are lined with cobbles and the salt spray is palpable if not confirmed. I still haven’t seen any actual shoreline. But what I did see was my brother, Horace. He was busy searching, very busy. I tapped my toe (clad in his old shoe) twice on the window pane, and he did not so much as turn his head. He seemed preoccupied, overturning pillows, dumping out drawers, and conspiring with a tired-looking maid.

So I’ve departed my house arrest. I’m out on the streets.

It might really be best for everyone, if I simply returned.

Collar Poisonings

On the Lake by the Snacks — 2006-05-22T06:32:36Z

We lugged up Brim and hung him up high where we could let the water drip down. On a hat rack in the motel. We let him air out a few days. Poor waterlogged joints. His knees especially, but mostly his face.

Yeah, let's see: you've got the lake and the motel and the trading shack and the sausage stand and the book mausoleum. That's it.

Saturday morning, Fleur and I came down and sat on the circular green rug just near Brim's feet. Both of us were wearing sky blue.

"So?" he said.

We nodded. We were sitting back to back. Arms folded, with sunglasses.

"So really? This is it?"
Fleur said, "What?"
"The inside of my washing machine?"
"Could be."
"It definitely is."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"That you're sure."
"Am I dry yet?"
"In a bit. You are sure then?"
"No."
"But."
"Exactly, but I can remember the sensation of the soles of my feet scraping against the linoleum of the kitchen."
"You must think you're pretty important."
"Well, somebody's trying to kill me."
"How's that?"
"With a car."
"No, how is that?"
"I'll show ya when my elbow moves again."

Fleur stopped a moment, a most expert pause, and I breathed in and then gave my explanation of the crisis he has contrived, how it places him at the center of existence while everything else folds outward.

"Am I gonna get a cramp up here?" And he also complained of itching and swelling in the collar. "What's that disease that travels on the hook?"

I told him cholera is intestinal, that he would feel a tremendous force in his stomach. This calmed him. I hit him hard with a common relaxation technique: I explained a few of the hundreds of words which Eskimos have for snow. This was certainly a grave embellishment, but we did take the hangman down after that.

Gone

J-Meister — 2006-05-21T11:15:39Z

I'll have to be quick, dear reader. I'm having to pay for this internet connection, and I need to save what little cash I've got left.

I've done it, I've got away. It was really starting to feel that bad - like I needed to escape. I felt like Toni was watching my every move, checking everything I did - quizzing me about who I'd spoken to in the guesthouse, out in the street. Every night she would sit up late poring over sheets of numbers and funny squiggles. If i tried to distract her or something, she'd snap my head off - even if I flashed my puppy eyes at her or gave her my best come-to-bed smile, it wouldn't work. Some days she'd brighten up, her eyes shining, and be all attentive and nice with me - but I think that was just the days when she'd managed to work something out - get her code-breaking fix, or whatever the hell it is.

Last night it just all got too much. She didn't come home and I had no idea where she was. I couldn't sleep - kept tossing and turning - slipping in and out of more wierd and scary dreams (there are bears now too - bears dressed as people, people dressed as gorillas, giant children with wild staring eyes and horrible mocking laughter). God, enough of that... Anyway, I just got up out of bed, threw my stuff in my bag and set off. I left a note for Toni - can't even remember what I put on it now. Something garbled about needing some space I think. I walked out of town and up on to the main road - managed to get a lift from the first truck that went past. And now I'm somewhere else - don't even know where. The trucker dropped me here - said it had good coffee. Its just a big shack really - but at least I can get somethign to eat and get this message out. Don't know where I'm going to go next. I couldn't find my passport when I left. I hope to god Toni hasn't done something stupid with it.

Toni, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I know you'll be upset, but I didn't know what else to do. Please look after yourself. Whatever you're getting into, and I don;t want to know what it is - think about it. Think about it before it's too late. Remember what happened with the gambling. That felt good for awhile but look where it led. You're too wonderful a person to get messed up in something bad - don't lose yourself again. I care about you. I really do.

Please don't try to follow me.