Okeee Dokeee!

This one, instead of the best thing you've ever written, is written right here for this thread. You can work on it all you want in Starbucks or when you're trying to get to sleep... but it's gotta be new and its gotta be typed here, before anywhere else.

I bit my tongue in my sleep Friday night. Maybe early Saturday morning; how would I know? I didn't bite part of it off or anything, but I awoke Saturday morning with a pretty damaged tongue. It bled.

I thought that our brains were supposed to protect us from that sort of thing -- like falling out of bed! My wife's friend is a psychiatric nurse. She told me that severe nocturnal tongue biting is one of the things most tightly correlated with the onset of certain types of schizophrenia. Here's what I said:

"Finally, something to look forward to."

And meant it.

Ak, from the Bank tribe flew in a long spiraling curve from the heights of the bank building. He had heard a screech on the black road and was curious to see if it had produced breakfast. He came in fast and low over the road to the crossing and saw near the center a crumple form. Ah, nut eater, tree climber, chatterer. Much better than the night skulker, faker of death.

As he circled back for a landing, Skree’ak, a scout for the Clock Tower tribe flashed past, a black blur. Skree’ak pounced and pecked, crying his glee between mouthfuls.

“Mine!”, said Ak.
“Mine!” replied Skree’ak, “Early bird gets the worm.”
“You followed” said Ak.
“Yes, I followed”, said Skree’ak “Share?”
“OK, I’ll share. Where is Krench? I haven’t seen him in a long time.”, said Ak
“Gone” Skree’ak cackled, “Gone, maybe dead. Many have died. More die.”
“Yes. In our tribe too. Little seed eaters die. Fish eaters, and the Many-ones too. Even them.” Said Ak.
“Soon Cold comes. No young. We will die. Why does this happen?” said Skree’ak.
“Don’t know. Time to go, loud one comes.” Said Ak.

A loud one came and smashed the nut eater under itself.

Want biscuit.
You just had a biscuit.
Want biscuit.
No, you want *another* biscuit.
No, no want nother, want biscuit.
Be quiet, I’m trying to write here.
Mad? Mad? Good dog.
Yes, yes, I know you’re good, it’s okay.
No mad, good dog.
No, I’m not mad, yes you are good, but you have to be quiet. I can’t think while you’re talking.
No mad?
Not mad.
Want kiss.
Okay, there ya go, okay, now lie down and be good, be quiet, okay?
Okay. Good dog?
Good dog.
Whumph.......grrrmmrowlll.....*sigh*.....want biscuit.

Excellent, Stripes!

And Doggo!

This is gonna be great!

Just off the plane. Twenty-two hours from Singapore. Somewhere in another dimension I'm still sitting in 57A, knees aching and guts churning as I wonder how long I can go before waking up the sleeping woman beside me so that I can make my way to the bathroom.
Walking to the office I pass The Hole, where once was the Borders where I ate lunch and passed time book browsing.
A man sings God Bless America with hand on heart as I pass him next to the chain link fence that surrounds the site. He falters and I pipe in with: "and the valleys" as I look up at the sign displaying 9-11 Heroes. They are heroes because they died? Sure there were heroes there but isn't it worse that most were just people going about their lives? That they weren't larger than life, just life-sized?
I note that Brooks Brothers is still there. Watching it on TV, I felt the whole thing hit home when someone said they were using Brooks Brothers as a temporary morgue. My best suit came from that store.
Pieces of stairway and chunks of girder still dot the site but the impression is one of space where none is expected.
My first trip to New York was a week after the first WTC bombing. As the bus from Newark passed a building scorched and scarred for seven stories or so, I realized this was the place where a bomb had gone off. Weighing it up, that was more of a shock than what I saw this morning. This time, I see what I expect to see -- nothing.

Suddenly, Charles was in love. Very suddenly. He'd met this girl two hours ago and now as they kissed it seemed they were only learning to kiss as a new hatch learns to fly. And it was more like flying than kissing. You could read minds through this warm kiss. Somehow there was no doubt what the other felt -- her name was Sarah and she seemed a Sarah and there was no other life in the universe except Sarah. Sarah had brown eyes. Sarah smelled of coconut, like a fourteen year-old girl's tanning oil, but Sarah was twenty-eight. Two hours.

Charles felt Sarah's fingernails brush the back of his neck as they ended the kiss. He had trouble opening his eyes, as if they weren't ready to give up the kiss. Only the promise to again look at Sarah brought them slowly open. Sarah was getting something out of her purse. A PDA.

"I've just installed an execution module at the base of your brainstem. Charles Gaines, you stand accused of Pod Blocking under Chapter 9.22 of The Professor's conduct code. I'm linking to Tantric Sector One Court now. I'm obliged by the court to inform you that your death will be painless and that your remains will be handled with dignity."

How could this be Sarah? Where did my world go?

"What? But you... you... I love you. I'm innocent. Please don't kill me. Why do you joke like this?"

Sarah's expression had changed completely. She now looked at Charles as if she were a civil servant and he were applying for a trash permit.

"No joke, Mr. Gaines. I assure you. Pod Blocking is a very serious offense. You knew that... whaaaaa... what's that..."

Sarah's right hand, operating the PDA, became translucent. She could see right through her goddamned hand!

"What's happening?"

Charles saw it too, but he hadn't yet understood the events of the last 40 seconds since they were kissing. Since they were in love. He certainly didn't understand this. Then it happened again, only this time instead of just a part of Sarah disolving, the whole scene faded. It didn't become transparent, because there seemed nothing to see-through to. The area just lost contrast. Then, it came back to full view.

Charles got it now.

"Okay, I get it. This is a dream. You're a dream and now I'm waking up." He laughed a little.

Sarah watched her body fade again.

"A dream? No wait, you bastard! I'm a real person. I've lived twenty-eight years. I have a Mother and a Father and two older Brothers! I went to university and I've got an advanced degree. Every Friday, I meet friends at a pub for drinks and I've been meeting those same friends every Friday for years. Way before I even knew you existed! That's a lot of trouble to go through just to be part of your dream! No way!"

Charles savored the pure, thick revenge of the moment. He'd loved this woman!

"Well, get used to the idea because you're going away now. You're no more! I'm waking up."

Sarah saw that it was true. She was going fast.

"Please... aahhhhhhhhhhhh..."

She was gone.

Charles sat up in bed. What a fuckedup dream. But that felt good. God he'd loved her. Why can't I have a kiss like that? He looked around his bedroom.

"Pod Blocking? What the fuck is Pod Blocking?"

In the dream, he seemed to know what Pod Blocking was. It had made some sense. He'd known he was innocent of it, but he did understand the charge.

"....ummmmmm.... Honey?"

His wife, beside him in bed. She had blue eyes. Her name was Karen. He bent and kissed her cheek. He got up out of bed and headed for the bathroom to shower. Golf this morning.

On his way to the bathroom, he stopped. Charles turned and looked at his wife, sleeping again now, for the first time in nine years of being married to her -- with just a tint of suspicion.

Come on. Write something!

If we can't read a new William Gibson novel right now, something written by his most avid readers might be the next best thing.

I looked through all the new fiction available at Borders yesterday evening. What crap. Ended up buying a new pocket dictionary. That's like going to a bordello to get a Coke from their pop machine.

It's summer in Kansas. This means heat. Soemtimes dry, sometimes wet, but always there. You step outside and it wraps around you like a gymnastic lover, touching every inch of you in a moment. And just like a good session with a lover, you break a sweat. Everyone is hot and tired, and the whole world is bleached out blue from the glare of the sun. This was when I met Dot.

I still refuse to call her Dorothy. I never liked that name. To many Oz jokes maybe. Besides, she was just Dot. Petite, blond, with anime girl eyes. Definitley not the type I usually go for, but I was hooked from the first moment.

She seemed to find me amusing I think. It was odd being with her. Like there was some joke at my expense that only she knew. It was really unnerving. This constant dance of wills, figuring out where I stood on a constantly shifting plane, with no markers and unable to stand still.

"It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, upon waking, you will tell yourself that it is only a dream. It is said the world we live in is not a bit different than this." - Yamamoto Tsunemoto

Something.

MAN!

THAT was something!

ME: Like my Daddy told Me, Son, if you must marry, marry Kirsten Dunst.

MY SON: Dad, I'd marry lots of other girls before Kirsten Dunst.

ME: Are you gay? Look at them titties!

MY SON: She's older than I am. Like four years older.

ME: Did you see her in INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE? You should have married her then!

Zerek fell into a sort of trance as his instincts took over. He was skimming along in a remodeled cruiser on his way back from California after taking a much needed vacation. Even if he drove his parents nuts showing up for dinner unannounced, he really didn't give a shit.

The sky was a gradient of silver dimming quickly to black. The horizon looked as if it would devour him. The lighting created a strobe-light effect in the cab. Shadows danced in chaos. Bending pillars of electricity skipped across the horizon seeming to thread the blanket of clouds closer to the hard desert ground.

The steamy smell of cool rain massaging the hot greasy road below penetrated the air conditioner and filled the cab. Zerek pushed a button on the steering wheel, and gently pulled back. The sound of wet tires grinding asphalt was replaced by the quiet hum of the hydrogen fuel tanks pushing him up off the ground.

He punched in the coordinates, selected some appropriate music, and leaned back in his seat. It'd be four hours until he was home in Cleveland. For the first time in months, his mind was cleansed of all the stress that his job had dirtied it with. Right now, it seemed, the future was an empty journal.

Maybe he would resign when he got back into the office on Monday.

At a Manhattan Cocktail Party

"Sooo...you folks are Lakota, huh? How long you been in New York? Oh...I'm Bernie."

"Born here. My wife, too. I am called Uses The Wrong Fork."

"You don't say....Is that your wife over there? The taller one?"

"Yes. That is my wife, Stands In A Mink."

"Yowza! You can't possibly have any kids?"

"Three. I have a....here, from left to right: Spoiled By His Grandparents, Whines For The Bimmer, and Britney."

"Britney??"

"She's...we wanted her to...you know."

"Oh. Yeah."

That is a total crackup!

Trogdor, if you keep on about Kirsten Dunst that way to your son, you will drive him to homosexuality, even if he never considered it before. Good grief, man!

bass filled the room like a slow smoke cloud. my heart shaking in its cage as it dominated everything else for that moment. i check my ear plugs are in well enough. and just then the sound turns to layers of noise. i look back to the japanese girl standing in front of me, i've seen her so many times before, but this is the first time we have spoken. so to speak. her fingers flicker, tracing complex motions and symbols. conscious of the tattoo on her wrist with each motion, conscious of it's connotations, and the affiliations it stands for. she is not part of my organisation, but we have an understanding.

"you got the disc and passed it on?" her fingers ask.
"yeah" i sign back, "gabriel got it, he know's what to do"
she nods at that. a tight smile playing across her lips, a response to a small success.

she flicks her head, glancing around the club to make sure we aren't drawing too much attention. the flames licks through the dark strands flashing with the motion. she turns back, her dark eyes pools that absorb the strobing pulses from the dance floor like a black hole. her t-shirt is black and sheer, sleeveless, blending straight into the tight trousers she is wearing. neither have pockets, to cope with this she has a pouch strapped round her upper arm, into which she is reaching now. her hand comes forward with the disk that she has removed from there. an MD, orange plastic, in a clear case. i take it from her. i slide it into the pocket on the inside of my jacket.

"you know what to do next?" her fingers flicker, touches against each other and off her palm.
"decode, and extend" with the left hand, "pass on to next member" with the right.
"who is next member?" she asks, and i know its a trick question.
"whoever the signs say" is my reply.

she seems happy with that. rests her hand on mine for a moment, looks into my eyes, then turns and leaves me standing there. i finish my drink now that she has gone. give her time to get out the building, and then i leave as well. checking the weight of the disc in my pocket.

PTR

it's a re:mote world after all

~~~ Trogdor, if you keep on about Kirsten Dunst that way to your son, you will drive him to homosexuality ~~~

I was just trying to get him to aim high, like writers do. You never hear of writers dumping their pre-rich-and-famous wives for a new one once they've made it (ala many many actors). Writers marry way above themselves BEFORE they're rich and famous.

Mean Old Man, in college, they called me "Dances With Pigs".

not really

"Writers marry way above themselves BEFORE they're rich and famous."

Tell that one to Arthur Miller.

Or Hemingway! You got me. I did say "never".

Definitely not a rule, is it?

I finally found my cat, in the haystack. It lay in a small hollow, head propped at an awkward angle. Eyes of glass.

I sat down.

Jane Russell, in the hay.

Hollywood trumps trauma.

---
Made from an extremely authentic tough shiny blue nylon, every detail is matched to the original spec. The real mouton sheepskin collar is just sumptuous, and their reproduction of the Crown zipper is stunning.