Where is the Soul Recycling Center? Do souls of corrugated cardboard wait together in a specially labeled dumpster, separate from fragile ones made of glass? Are sturdy but time-rusted ones unloaded into a spiritual scrap-metal heap? Do those radioactive or toxic with rage come pre-packaged in orange bags stamped with "danger!" signs? And when are they relegated to the Cosmic Landfill, being unsuited to further recycling?
According to rumor, the Soul Landfill near Andromeda is nearly full, and due to close soon. The whole universe knows that used-up souls must be dumped somewhere, but the NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) Syndrome keeps any galaxy from taking on the responsibility. Heaps of used-up souls grow higher and wider; clearly, the universe will stink for a long time.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
inspiration
Clatter. Tinkle. Hum. The buzz as a million thoughts flee the skulls that had imprisoned them; they squeeze through pores and wriggle out nostrils. Those with glittering wings recognize other dragonfly-thoughts and rush forward, swarming upward in a silver cloud. Firefly thoughts meet firefly thoughts in a convocation of fireflies - a firefly-concept of blinking gold.
One of the humans feels a thought squeeze out his nose, then sees it hop and alight on his finger before it scampers away towards others of its kind. "I wasn't the only person with grasshopper thoughts," he mutters in amazement to himself. "I believed that I was the only one with such ideas and feelings, and that only one thought of such appearance and character existed. But....there were hundreds, thousands of thoughts just like mine; my thought was just one in a common species."
Another human inhales deeply, sucking pollen, oxygen atoms and tiny dragonfly thoughts deeply into his lungs. "What a wonderful, fantastical idea!", he thinks, and prides himself on his brilliance. He has breathed deeply, and is enthralled by inspiration.
One of the humans feels a thought squeeze out his nose, then sees it hop and alight on his finger before it scampers away towards others of its kind. "I wasn't the only person with grasshopper thoughts," he mutters in amazement to himself. "I believed that I was the only one with such ideas and feelings, and that only one thought of such appearance and character existed. But....there were hundreds, thousands of thoughts just like mine; my thought was just one in a common species."
Another human inhales deeply, sucking pollen, oxygen atoms and tiny dragonfly thoughts deeply into his lungs. "What a wonderful, fantastical idea!", he thinks, and prides himself on his brilliance. He has breathed deeply, and is enthralled by inspiration.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Crock pot of love
Some people fall in love with humans. Some fall in love with dogs and cats. Some fall in love with the flowers that symbolize love. I fell in love with a pile of peppers.
They were miniature peppers, each creased and walnut-sized, in a tumble of delicate yellow, ember orange, luxuriating crimson and fragile green on a dark turquoise cloth. I could paint them, honor them by trying to preserve their beauty forever on canvas, but my work could never approach the artistry of nature; my colors would never vibrate with such inner radiance, my shapes wouldn't twist and turn with such intricate elegance. To try duplicating their beauty so lamely seemed like sacrilege.
I could eat them; they were on sale as food. But eating them would require biting into their glowing skin, destroying and desecrating their beauty; to eat them seemed like sacrilege.
I couldn't keep them forever. I needed to eat; eventually, they'd rot. At home, I threw my beloveds into the pot and watched them boil.
They were miniature peppers, each creased and walnut-sized, in a tumble of delicate yellow, ember orange, luxuriating crimson and fragile green on a dark turquoise cloth. I could paint them, honor them by trying to preserve their beauty forever on canvas, but my work could never approach the artistry of nature; my colors would never vibrate with such inner radiance, my shapes wouldn't twist and turn with such intricate elegance. To try duplicating their beauty so lamely seemed like sacrilege.
I could eat them; they were on sale as food. But eating them would require biting into their glowing skin, destroying and desecrating their beauty; to eat them seemed like sacrilege.
I couldn't keep them forever. I needed to eat; eventually, they'd rot. At home, I threw my beloveds into the pot and watched them boil.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Prodigious
Prodigious
(as told by "Steve", a genetically-modified, super-smart monkey)
While the double-wide was parked just outside Dallas, Mark took Arabella to see Dr. Elmore Wonder, the greatest neurologist in Texas. Outside his office, Arabella jabbed my side with a fountain pen and kicked me with the shiny red shoes bought especially for the appointment. Mark hissed for her to "Behave!", then pointed to the brass plaque on the door: M.D., Ph.D. in neuroscience, PhD. in Psychology, Ph.D. in Xenobiology, Diplomate of the American board of Neurology, licensed therapist and clinical counselor, Professor Emeritus of exotic neurodegenerative diseases, certified developmental specialist, Fellow of the Transatlantic Academy of Neuropsychologists; the plaque was almost as tall as me and the string of small letters, capitals, commas and periods after his name advertised his expertise.
"She used to be smart, an infant Leonardo," Mark explained to the doctor, "Now she's not even average, not even ordinary."
Arabella stared blankly at the two men; I shrieked, clapped and bounced up and down on my tip-toes.
"Oh, we don't usually allow pets in here." The doctor scowled at me.
"Oh Steve?," Mark hastened to explain. "He's not a pet, he's Arabella's special companion. She doesn't go anywhere without him."
Arabella reached for a magazine and tried to hurl it at me; i dodged aside and it landed, pages crumbled, on the floor behind the doctor's desk. I darted behind her and pinched her butt while she wailed "Smart ass monkey, smart as monkey, smart ass monkey!" until the doctor silenced her with a lollipop jammed in her mouth.
"So she used to be special? But is no longer extraordinary?" The doctor flicked pages in the open textbook on his desk, leafing past pictures of sliced brain and swollen neurons. "In here,' he mused, nodding towards his book, "We have pictures of tragedy, extraordinary tragedy. Children with rare genetic diseases whose neurons started swelling with fat and exploding before they were six. Children who met the wrong virus and had brains full of holes, like sponges, by age eight. But your daughter?" The doctor shrugged, then raised both palms by his upper arms in an "oh, well!" gesture.
"My daughter's a unique case,"Mark protested, and began tugging out the photographs and news clippings he'd stashed in his pockets.
"Of course," the doctor soothed in the voice of a trained peace-keeper. "She's unique, I'm unique, the ape's unique; we're all genetically different, and so, unique. You'd be surprised how many mothers come in here, convinced that their kids are geniuses, there's an epidemic of misunderstood geniuses in the world today. If the kid turns out average, the mother claims that he used to be brilliant, a prodigy traumatized by the environment, and wants me to restore the kid to his old state. Maybe your daughter's a little slow at reading or has trouble with her times tables; maybe you, being a proud father, thought she was brighter than this. Those are just little glitches. I deal only with exceptional cases; you'd be better off spending your money and time elsewhere."
Arabella, finished with her lollipop, spat the tacky white stick onto the floor and glared.
"Steve's not an ape, he's a monkey," Mark snapped, then dumped a pile of cut-out, yellowed news articles on the doctor's desk. One drifted to the floor; I snatched it up before Arabella could crush it under her grimy soles. "You want proof, here's proof!"
The doctor picked up the clipping closest to him, leaned back, and began to nonchalantly read aloud:
"Arabella Gorman, daughter of Mark Merlin-the-Magnificent Gorman, is only one, but she's no mere pretty babe; when she recited the English, Greek, hebrew and Cyrillic alphabets before an astonished full house at our very own Theater on the Green, she showed all the makings of a future scholar. 'She just sucks up knowledge, sticks her nose in a book and sniffs in information,' her father, a professional magician, commented, 'I don't know how she got the gift; neither of her parents even like to read. I forget everything a minute after I finish the book, so why bother? But she's already reading magazines and can recite a few poems by Longfellow; she didn't do that tonight, because she has stage fright'. When asked about the prodigy's mother, Mark said that she had 'vanished, done another disappearing act, was probably spending his money somewhere in Mexico.' "
The doctor pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the clipping.
"The photo doesn't look much like her," he observed. "Those rows of ribbons and those puffs of lace are hardly slimming. But, even taking the dress into account, this is the fattest baby I've ever seen."
Mark nodded.
"We tried putting her on diets, but nothing worked. She ate more than a sumo wrestler, and always figured out how to open the locks on the refrigerator." Mark sighed. "She lost the weight at the same time as she lost her smarts. Maybe, all along, the fat in her belly was thinking, not her brain."
"Things don't work that way, Mr. Gorman; fat cells don't think." The doctor smiled wryly. "You're a circus man, aren't you?"
Mark nodded. Not just a circus man, he was a magician. Modern magicians had lost many of the powers taught in the secret schools of the alchemists, but they retained the ancients' reverence for mystery. The world was not always how it seemed; sometimes, we saw only facades and reflections of our own delusions. Sometimes, lead was not merely lead; sometimes, fat cells were not merely storage sacks for lard. If a Celtic sorcerer could talk the trees into mid-winter blooming, if an old world witch could convince a prince to transform into a frog, maybe ordinary fat cells could fuse into a lumpy, pulsating mass greater than all its ingredients - an organism that thought and remembered and wondered; a mouthless, limbless organism that communicated its thoughts to its host, who had a mouth to speak and arms with which to implement the ideas in the real world.
Wasn't the brain composed largely of fat? Maybe Americans were wrong to revile fat; perhaps, instead, they should view it with awe, set up societies for the protection of cogitating blubber.
(as told by "Steve", a genetically-modified, super-smart monkey)
While the double-wide was parked just outside Dallas, Mark took Arabella to see Dr. Elmore Wonder, the greatest neurologist in Texas. Outside his office, Arabella jabbed my side with a fountain pen and kicked me with the shiny red shoes bought especially for the appointment. Mark hissed for her to "Behave!", then pointed to the brass plaque on the door: M.D., Ph.D. in neuroscience, PhD. in Psychology, Ph.D. in Xenobiology, Diplomate of the American board of Neurology, licensed therapist and clinical counselor, Professor Emeritus of exotic neurodegenerative diseases, certified developmental specialist, Fellow of the Transatlantic Academy of Neuropsychologists; the plaque was almost as tall as me and the string of small letters, capitals, commas and periods after his name advertised his expertise.
"She used to be smart, an infant Leonardo," Mark explained to the doctor, "Now she's not even average, not even ordinary."
Arabella stared blankly at the two men; I shrieked, clapped and bounced up and down on my tip-toes.
"Oh, we don't usually allow pets in here." The doctor scowled at me.
"Oh Steve?," Mark hastened to explain. "He's not a pet, he's Arabella's special companion. She doesn't go anywhere without him."
Arabella reached for a magazine and tried to hurl it at me; i dodged aside and it landed, pages crumbled, on the floor behind the doctor's desk. I darted behind her and pinched her butt while she wailed "Smart ass monkey, smart as monkey, smart ass monkey!" until the doctor silenced her with a lollipop jammed in her mouth.
"So she used to be special? But is no longer extraordinary?" The doctor flicked pages in the open textbook on his desk, leafing past pictures of sliced brain and swollen neurons. "In here,' he mused, nodding towards his book, "We have pictures of tragedy, extraordinary tragedy. Children with rare genetic diseases whose neurons started swelling with fat and exploding before they were six. Children who met the wrong virus and had brains full of holes, like sponges, by age eight. But your daughter?" The doctor shrugged, then raised both palms by his upper arms in an "oh, well!" gesture.
"My daughter's a unique case,"Mark protested, and began tugging out the photographs and news clippings he'd stashed in his pockets.
"Of course," the doctor soothed in the voice of a trained peace-keeper. "She's unique, I'm unique, the ape's unique; we're all genetically different, and so, unique. You'd be surprised how many mothers come in here, convinced that their kids are geniuses, there's an epidemic of misunderstood geniuses in the world today. If the kid turns out average, the mother claims that he used to be brilliant, a prodigy traumatized by the environment, and wants me to restore the kid to his old state. Maybe your daughter's a little slow at reading or has trouble with her times tables; maybe you, being a proud father, thought she was brighter than this. Those are just little glitches. I deal only with exceptional cases; you'd be better off spending your money and time elsewhere."
Arabella, finished with her lollipop, spat the tacky white stick onto the floor and glared.
"Steve's not an ape, he's a monkey," Mark snapped, then dumped a pile of cut-out, yellowed news articles on the doctor's desk. One drifted to the floor; I snatched it up before Arabella could crush it under her grimy soles. "You want proof, here's proof!"
The doctor picked up the clipping closest to him, leaned back, and began to nonchalantly read aloud:
"Arabella Gorman, daughter of Mark Merlin-the-Magnificent Gorman, is only one, but she's no mere pretty babe; when she recited the English, Greek, hebrew and Cyrillic alphabets before an astonished full house at our very own Theater on the Green, she showed all the makings of a future scholar. 'She just sucks up knowledge, sticks her nose in a book and sniffs in information,' her father, a professional magician, commented, 'I don't know how she got the gift; neither of her parents even like to read. I forget everything a minute after I finish the book, so why bother? But she's already reading magazines and can recite a few poems by Longfellow; she didn't do that tonight, because she has stage fright'. When asked about the prodigy's mother, Mark said that she had 'vanished, done another disappearing act, was probably spending his money somewhere in Mexico.' "
The doctor pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the clipping.
"The photo doesn't look much like her," he observed. "Those rows of ribbons and those puffs of lace are hardly slimming. But, even taking the dress into account, this is the fattest baby I've ever seen."
Mark nodded.
"We tried putting her on diets, but nothing worked. She ate more than a sumo wrestler, and always figured out how to open the locks on the refrigerator." Mark sighed. "She lost the weight at the same time as she lost her smarts. Maybe, all along, the fat in her belly was thinking, not her brain."
"Things don't work that way, Mr. Gorman; fat cells don't think." The doctor smiled wryly. "You're a circus man, aren't you?"
Mark nodded. Not just a circus man, he was a magician. Modern magicians had lost many of the powers taught in the secret schools of the alchemists, but they retained the ancients' reverence for mystery. The world was not always how it seemed; sometimes, we saw only facades and reflections of our own delusions. Sometimes, lead was not merely lead; sometimes, fat cells were not merely storage sacks for lard. If a Celtic sorcerer could talk the trees into mid-winter blooming, if an old world witch could convince a prince to transform into a frog, maybe ordinary fat cells could fuse into a lumpy, pulsating mass greater than all its ingredients - an organism that thought and remembered and wondered; a mouthless, limbless organism that communicated its thoughts to its host, who had a mouth to speak and arms with which to implement the ideas in the real world.
Wasn't the brain composed largely of fat? Maybe Americans were wrong to revile fat; perhaps, instead, they should view it with awe, set up societies for the protection of cogitating blubber.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Cupid's Heart Attack
Like a heavy boot stomping his chest. Like a boulder crushing his flesh. Not the shrill, focused pain of an arrowhead this time; this time, the pain throbbed in duller but more insistent waves of destruction. Cupid, at least 2000 years old but with the perpetual grin and body of a three year old, wondered if cherubs could suffer myocardial infarctions and if he, himself, could die of a broken heart.
Does a Brick Shit-House Protect You Against the Fall-Out from Blonde Bomb-shells?
"She's built like a brick shit house."
I've never seen a brick shit house, have no idea how one's constructed. I've glimpsed fertilizer silos, stinking of manure, but these have been wooden or concrete - shit houses, perhaps, but not brick. I've seen other storage facilities - large windowless buildings with electrified steel fences, to keep intruders out or keep the inventory (usually dusty boxes with factory-stamped labels) from bolting for freedom; sometimes, old windows are boarded-up and barred, to keep burglars out and escape-artists in.
Perhaps, a brick shit-house refers to an outhouse, more sturdily constructed than the average. The usual outhouse is a shoddily built shed - made from planks of left-over wood held together by rusty nails, or plastic that dents, then cracks, when enough falling twigs have thumped against it. A hurricane would tear away the planks, suck apart the plastic fragments, and the shit would go flying; a brick shit-house could better withstand the storm.
So how would a woman who's "built like a brick shit house" look? She'd be of large girth, voluminous to contain all the precious wares; she'd show an imposing facade of impenetrability. Barbed wire gouges flesh; protective brick walls crash only when attacked by a crew of demolition experts. To know her innards, one must destroy her and endanger oneself. The curious know to move on; they will burgle another, less formidable, building to explore its heart and soul.
Or maybe, she'd stand alone, a strong independent exiled due to the stench emanating from her core. Flies are drawn to her, as they are to carrion and rot and all that humans would deny; people approach warily and only when they must, gagging and creasing their noses in disgust.
The brick shit house of lusty dreams would be an armored Valkyrie, enigmatic and controlling, or a rural isolate, avoided because she reminds all of that which they'd rather forget.
Next: The devastation wrought when a blond bombshell is detonated and explodes.
I've never seen a brick shit house, have no idea how one's constructed. I've glimpsed fertilizer silos, stinking of manure, but these have been wooden or concrete - shit houses, perhaps, but not brick. I've seen other storage facilities - large windowless buildings with electrified steel fences, to keep intruders out or keep the inventory (usually dusty boxes with factory-stamped labels) from bolting for freedom; sometimes, old windows are boarded-up and barred, to keep burglars out and escape-artists in.
Perhaps, a brick shit-house refers to an outhouse, more sturdily constructed than the average. The usual outhouse is a shoddily built shed - made from planks of left-over wood held together by rusty nails, or plastic that dents, then cracks, when enough falling twigs have thumped against it. A hurricane would tear away the planks, suck apart the plastic fragments, and the shit would go flying; a brick shit-house could better withstand the storm.
So how would a woman who's "built like a brick shit house" look? She'd be of large girth, voluminous to contain all the precious wares; she'd show an imposing facade of impenetrability. Barbed wire gouges flesh; protective brick walls crash only when attacked by a crew of demolition experts. To know her innards, one must destroy her and endanger oneself. The curious know to move on; they will burgle another, less formidable, building to explore its heart and soul.
Or maybe, she'd stand alone, a strong independent exiled due to the stench emanating from her core. Flies are drawn to her, as they are to carrion and rot and all that humans would deny; people approach warily and only when they must, gagging and creasing their noses in disgust.
The brick shit house of lusty dreams would be an armored Valkyrie, enigmatic and controlling, or a rural isolate, avoided because she reminds all of that which they'd rather forget.
Next: The devastation wrought when a blond bombshell is detonated and explodes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
