Saturday, June 17 2006

wasting away

Posted by between moments at 10:47 PM

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

Posted by Smooth Blue at 10:07 PM

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

Posted by J-Meister at 03:40 PM

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...

Friday, June 16 2006


Posted by The Softest Person at 07:58 PM

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.

Thursday, June 15 2006


Posted by brims assemblage at 09:29 PM

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

Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 06:27 PM

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

Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 06:49 PM

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.


Posted by Smooth Blue at 04:38 PM

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

Posted by J-Meister at 11:15 AM

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

Posted by My House Arrest at 04:09 AM

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.

Wednesday, June 14 2006

Genius Child Orchestra

Posted by The Softest Person at 07:21 PM

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

Posted by Smooth Blue at 04:24 PM

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.


“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.


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.

Tuesday, June 13 2006

pink panther

Posted by between moments at 09:44 PM

Alright, you motherfucker.

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


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.


Posted by brims assemblage at 07:53 PM

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

Posted by Smooth Blue at 06:22 PM

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

Posted by ezra kire at 05:24 AM

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

groin crotch

Monday, June 12 2006


Posted by brims assemblage at 10:05 PM

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

Posted by The Softest Person at 10:12 PM

Nobody can play it like Alicia with her leg cut.

Floating still

Posted by J-Meister at 04:38 PM

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

Posted by Smooth Blue at 05:59 AM

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

Posted by My House Arrest at 04:02 AM

Sunday, June 11 2006

brokedown palace

Posted by between moments at 08:31 PM

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.

Monday, June 12 2006

The Recruitment Officer Pays a Visit

Posted by My House Arrest at 01:46 AM

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.”

Sunday, June 11 2006


Posted by ezra kire at 09:13 PM

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

Posted by The Softest Person at 03:48 PM

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

Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 08:46 AM

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

Posted by The Softest Person at 03:38 PM

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

For example this man:

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

Posted by The Softest Person at 03:30 PM

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.

Saturday, June 10 2006


Posted by brims assemblage at 11:53 PM

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.

Friday, June 09 2006


Posted by ezra kire at 02:02 PM

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

Thursday, June 08 2006

For a Day I Believe

Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 04:13 PM

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

Posted by Smooth Blue at 06:25 AM

Details of my next mission arrived this morning from Morgan.

I can’t do that. Not to Jemima.

A Continuance Granted

Posted by My House Arrest at 03:20 AM

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.

Wednesday, June 07 2006

on the road to pundit stardom

Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 06:17 PM

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

Posted by The Softest Person at 05:46 PM

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.


Posted by J-Meister at 08:42 AM

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...

Monday, June 05 2006


Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 05:39 PM

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.


Posted by ezra kire at 09:21 PM

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


Posted by Smooth Blue at 12:14 PM

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

Posted by Smooth Blue at 12:13 PM

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)!

Posted by The Softest Person at 01:38 AM

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.

Sunday, June 04 2006

Still moving...

Posted by J-Meister at 04:16 PM

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.

Saturday, June 03 2006

eternal sunshine of the waterslide

Posted by between moments at 03:26 PM

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

Posted by ezra kire at 09:30 PM

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

Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 10:58 AM

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.

Friday, June 02 2006

That's -uite the Rag People

Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 02:03 AM

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."

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