The collision of galaxies appears to us as the greatest light show in the universe. Millions of billions of stars approaching, merging. The fire of countless suns is a crucible, sometimes forging new creations and sometimes snuffing everything out.
To The Cat, it is two balls of string, one batted into the other.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Hmm
Two posts in and all I'm talking about is death and violence.
Today I'd better write something about kittens.
Today I'd better write something about kittens.
They didn't even want anything.
Theft, Tommy could understand. He hadn't much to take, but the banged-up cellphone would go for ten dollars, and his shoes at least thirty. Others would have stolen them and pretty much left him alone.
Four blows in, each one sending him stumbling, and they hadn't asked for anything.
The fifth shattered his glasses and his nose; he fell back against rusting chain-link, blinking glass and breathing blood. The biggest kid loomed in triplicate, three clones hazing in and out of one another, and Tommy watched three size-nine feet wind back to kick.
"Hold it."
Tommy looked toward the voice. She sat on the edge of the basketball court and looked smaller than him, swimming in a grey sweatshirt face half hidden by the hood. Her chest, in faded black letters, read BLAM. "He's mine."
"Sam--" whined the biggest kid, foot still poised.
"Mine!"
The court clattered with the sound of running feet and he was alone with the girl who terrified the biggest kid.
The helping hand up to his feet was therefore a bit unexpected.
Theft, Tommy could understand. He hadn't much to take, but the banged-up cellphone would go for ten dollars, and his shoes at least thirty. Others would have stolen them and pretty much left him alone.
Four blows in, each one sending him stumbling, and they hadn't asked for anything.
The fifth shattered his glasses and his nose; he fell back against rusting chain-link, blinking glass and breathing blood. The biggest kid loomed in triplicate, three clones hazing in and out of one another, and Tommy watched three size-nine feet wind back to kick.
"Hold it."
Tommy looked toward the voice. She sat on the edge of the basketball court and looked smaller than him, swimming in a grey sweatshirt face half hidden by the hood. Her chest, in faded black letters, read BLAM. "He's mine."
"Sam--" whined the biggest kid, foot still poised.
"Mine!"
The court clattered with the sound of running feet and he was alone with the girl who terrified the biggest kid.
The helping hand up to his feet was therefore a bit unexpected.
Monday, May 11, 2009
And we're back
Roger Albarn died alone at approximately 3:07 AM in a trailer that wasn’t even his, hunched over a shotgun and clad in a pair of black briefs. A self-inflicted 20-gauge blast traveled through the roof of his mouth and exploded the top of his head, killing him instantly and ruining the trailer owner’s carefully appointed rear wall. Said owner, a distant cousin, paid the cleanup company with Roger Albarn’s Mastercard, maxing it out. The bank responded by freezing Albarn’s total assets ($16.02 minus an unrelated overage charge) well before it was informed of its client’s death.
Roger Albarn died quickly, sadly, lonely. Above all, he died messily.
This last part was foremost in David Roe’s mind as he tried, vainly, to suture together the splayed back of Roger Albarn’s empty head. Three major flaps of scalp just would not fit together, straining the sutures. Roe watched one flap stretch and ultimately tear, flapping for the fourth time against the relatively undamaged side of what was once Albarn’s receding hairline. It gave a sad little splat and rested there, flakes of dead skin fogging the air around it.
David Roe broke for lunch.
Halfway through his sandwich, a maze of salami and swiss that showered his apron with every bite, he looked up to see Anna darkening his day with her sunny disposition. She smiled, leaning in over the breakroom table.
“Working hard on Albarn, I see.” The lilt in her tone suggested this statement was funny.
“You may as well bury him in a baseball cap.”
Anna prodded his forehead with one green-tipped finger. He flinched away, but his glower didn’t seem to bother her. “I don’t think Mrs. Albarn would appreciate that,” she said.
Roe’s eyebrows left their usual unhappy knot and momentarily quirked. “He was married?”
“Sort of. Wife lives in Reno, but she’s coming in for the funeral.”
Roe shrugged and looked back into his sandwich. “Tell her he was a Cubs fan.”
Roger Albarn died quickly, sadly, lonely. Above all, he died messily.
This last part was foremost in David Roe’s mind as he tried, vainly, to suture together the splayed back of Roger Albarn’s empty head. Three major flaps of scalp just would not fit together, straining the sutures. Roe watched one flap stretch and ultimately tear, flapping for the fourth time against the relatively undamaged side of what was once Albarn’s receding hairline. It gave a sad little splat and rested there, flakes of dead skin fogging the air around it.
David Roe broke for lunch.
Halfway through his sandwich, a maze of salami and swiss that showered his apron with every bite, he looked up to see Anna darkening his day with her sunny disposition. She smiled, leaning in over the breakroom table.
“Working hard on Albarn, I see.” The lilt in her tone suggested this statement was funny.
“You may as well bury him in a baseball cap.”
Anna prodded his forehead with one green-tipped finger. He flinched away, but his glower didn’t seem to bother her. “I don’t think Mrs. Albarn would appreciate that,” she said.
Roe’s eyebrows left their usual unhappy knot and momentarily quirked. “He was married?”
“Sort of. Wife lives in Reno, but she’s coming in for the funeral.”
Roe shrugged and looked back into his sandwich. “Tell her he was a Cubs fan.”
Monday, July 28, 2008
Your Daily Hiatus
I am David Hasslehoff struggling to eat an In-N-Out Burger.
I am Robert Downey Jr. in Less Than Zero begging yet again for money.
I am that guy who misses every recital and swears never to do it again, then finds himself racing through traffic trying not to miss the latest one.
Put it this way: I am an unreliable writer, constantly slugging from the bottle of Occasional Updates and saying "Guysh, guysh, just one more week, one more week guysh." Now, I haven't been spending my time boozing or smoking, I've been grinding out a living at a coffee shop, but when writing is supposed to be your Real Thing and you keep failing to do any, you clearly need to take some action.
My action is to halt this blog until I can update the Goddamn thing more than once a month. More than once a week. I may start a different blog, one that fits my schedule and abilities, or I may just quietly resume updating.
In the meantime, I'm gonna work out a real, grown-up schedule and stick to it. Once I know I can do that, I can go back to thirsting for attention on the internets.
Wish me luck, and see you around.
I am Robert Downey Jr. in Less Than Zero begging yet again for money.
I am that guy who misses every recital and swears never to do it again, then finds himself racing through traffic trying not to miss the latest one.
Put it this way: I am an unreliable writer, constantly slugging from the bottle of Occasional Updates and saying "Guysh, guysh, just one more week, one more week guysh." Now, I haven't been spending my time boozing or smoking, I've been grinding out a living at a coffee shop, but when writing is supposed to be your Real Thing and you keep failing to do any, you clearly need to take some action.
My action is to halt this blog until I can update the Goddamn thing more than once a month. More than once a week. I may start a different blog, one that fits my schedule and abilities, or I may just quietly resume updating.
In the meantime, I'm gonna work out a real, grown-up schedule and stick to it. Once I know I can do that, I can go back to thirsting for attention on the internets.
Wish me luck, and see you around.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Terminology
"So you're basically leaking."
"What? No. I'm bleeding."
"Which means you're leaking blood."
"OUT OF A BULLET HOLE!"
"Yes, yes, the blood--normally contained within your body, a mostly-sealed unit, is now leaking out of a hole in that unit."
"Because I was shot!"
"Because you were shot. You're leaking."
"You asshole."
"Hey, man, I'm not the one who refuses to acknowledge--"
"You colossal asshole! You total fuckup! This is why I wanted to take an ambulance, this is why--"
"--and here I'm letting you leak all over the leather in my new car, all because you--"
"I'M NOT LEAKING!"
At that moment, the engine died.
"Uh."
"You king of douchebags."
"I bet it's the alternator. There's been some bleeding in the engine, and--"
"Oh, so the engine bleeds?!"
"It's a mechanical term!"
"IT'S A BIOLOGICAL TERM!"
"We have to walk."
"I've been shot! In the chest!"
"Your shoulder."
"I'm not walking!"
"Well, clearly, you're just sitting there bleeding. The hospital's like a block away, you didn't get shot in the legs, come on."
"Emperor of assholery..."
"Lean on me. We'll be there in a second, god, don't--leak on my suit, would you?"
"What? No. I'm bleeding."
"Which means you're leaking blood."
"OUT OF A BULLET HOLE!"
"Yes, yes, the blood--normally contained within your body, a mostly-sealed unit, is now leaking out of a hole in that unit."
"Because I was shot!"
"Because you were shot. You're leaking."
"You asshole."
"Hey, man, I'm not the one who refuses to acknowledge--"
"You colossal asshole! You total fuckup! This is why I wanted to take an ambulance, this is why--"
"--and here I'm letting you leak all over the leather in my new car, all because you--"
"I'M NOT LEAKING!"
At that moment, the engine died.
"Uh."
"You king of douchebags."
"I bet it's the alternator. There's been some bleeding in the engine, and--"
"Oh, so the engine bleeds?!"
"It's a mechanical term!"
"IT'S A BIOLOGICAL TERM!"
"We have to walk."
"I've been shot! In the chest!"
"Your shoulder."
"I'm not walking!"
"Well, clearly, you're just sitting there bleeding. The hospital's like a block away, you didn't get shot in the legs, come on."
"Emperor of assholery..."
"Lean on me. We'll be there in a second, god, don't--leak on my suit, would you?"
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Perfect Moments
A rainbow.
Right out of a storybook, rising from the rumblings of an unwanted storm on a wedding day. It rained just long enough to merit the brilliant arc above our heads, looming intangible and achingly beautiful just above the Mississippi River. I looked through it, to the treetops of my own state; looked behind me, to the reception inside; beside me, to the pretty girl who, thanks to the concrete bench, was for once smiling down at me.
I rose in my tux shoes to kiss her on tiptoes, tears stinging my eyes, smiling so hard it hurt. Around us, the world turned so pleasant and happy it seemed to be applauding.
Congratulations, James and Christine Gregory.
----
God, the thought of holding him was terrifying. A brand-new, screaming, above-all fragile inductee into the human race, held above me by his father (my brother) who sternly lectures on the proper way to cradle a newborn. My exhausted sister-in-law smiling with that wary look in her eye; we all know I'm the klutz, but he is my nephew and, yes, I must hold him once.
I take this bundle into my arms, and he is so warm, and he is so light. 7 pounds 15 ounces is nothing, and at the same time everything, my arms struggling to be powerful and gentle at the same time. There is no more screaming; there is only soft, almost inaudible breath, the invisible rise and fall of a baby's little chest. And the pride, so thick in my throat that I must swallow, so fierce I must give the baby back.
Michael Fitzgerald Smylie, born June 8th, 2008. Welcome to your life. I am so happy to be in it.
Right out of a storybook, rising from the rumblings of an unwanted storm on a wedding day. It rained just long enough to merit the brilliant arc above our heads, looming intangible and achingly beautiful just above the Mississippi River. I looked through it, to the treetops of my own state; looked behind me, to the reception inside; beside me, to the pretty girl who, thanks to the concrete bench, was for once smiling down at me.
I rose in my tux shoes to kiss her on tiptoes, tears stinging my eyes, smiling so hard it hurt. Around us, the world turned so pleasant and happy it seemed to be applauding.
Congratulations, James and Christine Gregory.
----
God, the thought of holding him was terrifying. A brand-new, screaming, above-all fragile inductee into the human race, held above me by his father (my brother) who sternly lectures on the proper way to cradle a newborn. My exhausted sister-in-law smiling with that wary look in her eye; we all know I'm the klutz, but he is my nephew and, yes, I must hold him once.
I take this bundle into my arms, and he is so warm, and he is so light. 7 pounds 15 ounces is nothing, and at the same time everything, my arms struggling to be powerful and gentle at the same time. There is no more screaming; there is only soft, almost inaudible breath, the invisible rise and fall of a baby's little chest. And the pride, so thick in my throat that I must swallow, so fierce I must give the baby back.
Michael Fitzgerald Smylie, born June 8th, 2008. Welcome to your life. I am so happy to be in it.
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