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Perfection
destiny :: Jo

Sometimes I conclude that it’s all perfect the way it is.

    TAGS:  perfection, destiny


fig :: 'mouse

You know the goddess in charge is pleased with you when she blesses you with one perfect black fig, ripe-to-falling-off-the-tree and yet untouched by ants and birds.

    TAGS:  birds, ants, perfection, blessings, figs, goddess, ripe


Game On! :: 'mouse

For those who missed it in the comments down below, the assignment is one sentence, exactly 500 words.

    TAGS:  perfection, scrine games


She sat on the train to work listening to a terrible throw-back to the early 80s and, terrible though the Nolan Sisters were, she sat in a quite perky way, bopping her head and tapping her feet happily in time to the music, trying all the time not to notice just how much she was annoying the person next to her, when she realised that she seemed to be the only vaguely happy person on the train – she just did not understand it, I mean, sure, she was not always happy herself and, yes, it was an early ‘off to work we go’ sort of train and, yes, this didn’t exactly thrill her to her toes, but surely amongst this multitude of people there was one other person in existence that felt just a glimmer of happiness or good cheer, I mean, just look at them, with their mobile phones, their books, their Gameboys, their iPods, their well-fed and well-clothed bodies, their ‘better lives’, surely just this material wealth alone would lend them to sniggering or sneering in some sort of a “I’ve got more than you” way - exactly why was it that they seemed to be so utterly, entirely, exclusively, without exception, wretchedly miserable, was the end of the world nigh and she’d missed it in the news or was it more personal than that and maybe she was dying and everyone on the train knew that and no-one was willing to tell her, but that couldn’t be true, I mean how would they even know, it’s not like she had it tattooed on her forehead, or maybe that was it, maybe it was something physical, maybe there was something wrong with her, maybe that saying about bliss (how did that go, was it something like blissfully unaware or, no, that’s it “ignorance is bliss”), that was it, the only possible way that she could be sitting here as happy as a bear with his head stuck in a pot of honey, would be because she didn’t know what it was that was causing all this misery in everyone else, there was some ‘big thing’ that she was totally unaware of and that’s why, every morning, day after day, week after week, people sat around her looking almost suicidal; because they knew the ‘big thing’ and she didn’t, I mean, let’s face it they were probably all secretly laughing at her for being so naive and so unbelievably, pathetically cheerful, god they probably hated her, all of them, everyone on the train, sitting there, looking at her and thinking to themselves “hah, of course she’s happy, she doesn’t know, it’s easy to be happy when you don’t even know”; but the thing is, how would she find out and, more importantly, did she want to find out, I mean, if ignorance is bliss, why break it, why try fix something that doesn’t need breaking- no wonder they all hated her, god, she was miserable.

    TAGS:  loneliness, commuting, perfection, consumerism, miserable


It might have been the sound of the breaking surf or the cry of the gulls, it may have been the hot sun beating down on him burning with the most intense heat he had ever experienced in his life, it may have been the agony of the fine salt spray which was drifting down and settling into the deep cuts that covered his back, arms, face and legs, or it may have just been that something deep in the reptile-core of his brain that wasn’t ready to die and knew he would die right there on the beach if he didn’t move and move soon, but whatever it was, it caused him to take a breath of the burning air, feebly spit out a mouthful of gritty sand (or was it crushed teeth?) and open one swollen eye which he quickly shut again as a wave of nausea overtook him and the events of last night flickered through his brain like disjointed images from an old black and white film: The glorious weeks spent sailing on the 42-foot antique wooden sailboat which he had lovingly restored as his life’s dream work, hand rubbing the teak until it glowed from within, applying coat after coat of varnish, and polishing the brasswork to a shine which showed more than pride of ownership – it showed that the work had purified his soul, taking him away from his old life of hustle and bustle into a completely different universe which measured time in seasons and the movements of the stars and reached back over thousands of years of sailing ships, all reflected in the shape and the rocking of the compass and the creak of the wheel; then, flick, images of the nights he had spent in Monaco, partying with famous people – one night standing on Paul Allen’s 175-foot motoryacht listening to a group of people who were looking down at his sailboat, ice clinking in their drinks, discussing the beauty of the person, the soul, who had the time and freedom to maintain such a glorious antique and dreaming their own dreams of taking such a boat round-the-world; flick, the woman in the red dress who moved from party reveling to small-boat sailing with instinctive grace, naturally joining him as he steered toward Madagascar, his next stop; flick, the lovely days and nights spent slowly sailing south along the Coast of Africa, mooring, sometimes for a week at a time where the fishing was good “just because,” no agenda, nothing but the smoke from the hibachi and the gentle rocking of the boat and the two of them, soulmates at peace with the world; flick, that night in the doldrums, with the moon overhead and the sea glowing with green phosphorescence, flick, the black looming oil tanker which came suddenly from nowhere in the silent night, destroyed everything, and continued on never noticing the carnage; flick, days on the ocean clinging to a piece of shattered wood, mourning for the loss of his love, wishing he could let go and sink into the blackness; flick, sinking into the blackness; and now this, the hot beach, his battered body and yet, the sense that somehow, this beach was where he was meant to be, the next phase of his life – then, as it always did at this time, the cry of the gulls changed, becoming the shattering ring of his alarm clock demanding he get up and make his way downtown to the office where the model sailboat next to the fax machine might keep his spirit from dying for one more day.

    TAGS:  perfection


“This looks like a quiet little place for a set of sheets to slip into for an ice-cold beer,” thought the folded sheets, who’d slipped from Henry’s linen closet several months earlier without Henry’s knowledge, and had hidden away in the coat closet, nearest the back door of the house, lying quietly behind a pair of bowling ball carrying cases (hadn’t Susan taken her bowling ball when she moved out? thought the sheets, but not for long, since it only brought up the whole painful business of being left behind, which wasn’t something that the folded sheets was anxious to explore, lying there in the dark, at least not something it’d want to think about while hidden behind a couple of bowling balls, which smelled of cigarette smoke (no doubt second-hand smoke from the bowling alley (the folded sheets tried to breathe shallowly, which was hard to do, considering the excitement of having escaped the linen closet and the very idea that they were on their way somewhere - who knew where! - and hoped that when they got there - wherever that might be! - that the smoky smell wouldn’t have soaked in too deeply, certainly not more than a decent washing and refolding wouldn’t take care of)), while it’d waited for both the courage and the right moment to slip out of the house unnoticed, which had been only this afternoon, and which two bus rides and a short walk later, had brought them to the front door of the quiet-looking little tavern which the sheets now passed through, just in time to catch a glimpse of the surprise on Henry’s face (which the folded sheets mistook as surprise at seeing his own missing sheets show up at the very bar he happened to be at during working hours, but was, in fact, the lingering surprise of having watched a woman pull an AK47 from somewhere out of her bra), the final flash of the cocktail waitress’ bra before her shirt snapped back into place (which was rather nicely crisp and freshly pressed, thought the folded sheets), and finally the site of the assault rifle being fired (an AK47, the folded sheets observed, having seen one in action on more than one occasion while watching movies on the bedroom television), but not the sound of it being fired (since folded sheets, as everyone knows, have no ears), which might have forewarned the sheets (might, I say here, because as everyone also knows, sheets, in spite of what they might bear witness to in the bedroom, still remain rather unworldly and naive) of the inherent danger, nay, the foolishness, of walking into a small bar in the middle of the afternoon while an assault rifle is being fired, but which of course, being earless, the folded sheets didn’t hear, causing them to walk straight into the path of a single stray bullet, which ripped through several layers of crisp folds, dropping the sheets to the floor in an undignified heap.

    TAGS:  Henry, perfection, sheets


Some of the consolations she’d found were difficult to explain to others, such as the shape of trees and their constant vigilance over night, day, traffic, holidays, over any and all things that came their way while they stood rooted sentinal with the kind of loyalty so extremely rare in people; specifically, she thought, that waitress she had come to know who had the biggest chest she’d ever experienced, and while this was not necessarily a good thing and she felt sorry for the way the waitress had become not so much a person with wants, needs, desires, hopes and fears, but rather a walking rack for Large Breasts in the abstract sense, that waitress who was the most loyal friend she’d ever had up to and including the day she’d finally pulled the automatic weapon from its spot nestled between the hills of her prodigious pearl-white breatal zone, when she snapped and finally, it seemed, the years of sheet-folding and drink-hauling, all the leering glances and insensitive comments, all of it conspired in a whirling fog until her anger pierced redhot and fullblown over the top; despite all that loyalty, thought the treelover, that waitress was not as steadfast as even the smallest whippet of a tree, whose commitment to the seasons and attempts at movement and life had to be among the most incredible phenomena on this earth, though among the most common.

    TAGS:  breasts, perfection, trees, waitress


All we really want, ever, in all the world, to solve all our problems for all time, is a perfect ______.

    TAGS:  perfection, want


Is it really so much to ask that after having fun at Coney Island all day- after riding the Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone, drinking beer, eating hotdogs, listening to the Scissor Sisters and The Stills, dancing for three hours- that I should be able to get onto the F train and not be laughed at to my face for ten minutes just because there is absolutely no way in hell you will ever see the living definition of perfection which is my breasts?

    TAGS:  breasts, perfection, nasty, teasing


Bakerina’s rules:500 words, minimum. No maximum, but no bonus points for longer sentences, either—we want sentences to be correct in both form and content. Colons, semicolons, comma comma comma play, ellipses and dashes are all acceptable. Endlessly repeated single words (i.e. “dorky dorky dorky dorky!”, a la Kotzwinkle) are verboten. Magical punctuation (i.e. “ZOUNDS!————!—————!”, a la Laurence Sterne) is similarly verboten. I recuse myself from judging or establishing deadlines, but will gladly donate prizes.That’s it. Stir it up, little darlings, stir it up.Edit: Oh, yes. Sweating heavily and breathing like a hard-ridden horse are both mandatory.[Keith, feel free to box this up, pretty it up, de-sticky it, take my name off it or whatever… -‘mouse]

    TAGS:  perfection


500 Words :: Jo

It happened one day in the full light of afternoon, on the day before Johnny’s birthday party, as she carefully adhered all the ears on all the Styrofoam mice laid out in front of her on the table, as she mused over the perfection of the day to come, and wondered if her husband would make it back from Iceland on time, given the vicissitudes of the weather as well as the pilot’s strike, when who should appear at the door dressed like a UPS man but her former lover, Juan Francisco, whom she could not help but imagine dressed much like the mice she worked on so minutely and blindingly, and savagely she took him in her arms, planting a juicy tongue-kiss on his well-turned lips, as he stood dumbfounded because truth be told his name was Pete and his twin brother Juan now lived in a West Virginia suburb thousands of miles away, and this incident only cemented his conviction that yes, he was gay, as if he didn’t know already what with the boyfriends and the furtive encounters in off hours with other like-minded drivers, and yes, he needed more than anything else to get the hell out of his current job; it was hell on so many levels, including the driving of the damn truck which was so large and unwieldy, and the shorts, the shorts, the terrible ill-fitting shorts which now comprised half his wardrobe at least, and sometimes alone in the truck he cried out, “Horrible horrible shorts, how I hate thee!” very poetically, because after all he had a Ph.D. in Classic Literature from a prestigious university in Florida; but suddenly he was aware that the kiss had not yet stopped, but rather he had forgotten about it in his reverie, so he pushed the woman away and asked her what the hell she was doing, and she said, Juan, I remember you Juan, and he said No, it’s not me at all, I mean, I’m me, but I’m Pete, and Juan is my twin brother who lives in West Virginia in the suburbs, and can I use your phone because I need to (he trailed off as he entered the house to look for the phone) and Kate yelled that the phone was in the kitchen and he was welcome to it; that’s when she went into her own reverie about her magical romance with Juan, who had been by far the best lover she’d ever had over to her small room during college; they would lie for hours in her bed and he poetically described the angle of the light playing on her body, which of course was all she needed to take up their happy lovemaking again, but wait, she was brought up short, how could she want him when her husband was on his way back from Rekyavik, and how did you spell Rekyavik anyway, and what happened to that driver, she thought quickly, and that was all.

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


The man-Friday stood sweating heavily and breathing like a hard-ridden horse, his mind spinning out of control on its own flashbacks and tangents as his benefactor—the master-baker who was wearing her new, crisp, starched-and-ironed, strawberry-print apron she’d received from a secret admirer/Internet correspondent (who was really the man-Friday himself pretending to be a 300-pound Samoan man living in his mother’s basement not-too-successfully pretending to be a teenage lesbian nymphomanic blogger by the AOL IM name of “hotJessica15”), droned on and on about possible ingredients (cinnamon from Madagascar—where once the man had made a two-year expedition seeking undiscovered orchids, only to nearly die from a rare form of dengue fever that left him weak and feverish in a bush hospital run by an Australian doctor and his defrocked priest lover; nutmeg from Indonesia—he’d lost months of his life there, nursed slowly back to health by seventeen Buddhist monks who treated him with noxious jungle herbs and 24-hour-a-day chanting to cure the rabies he’d contracted from a monkey bite—another orchid-related accident—he really was unlucky in his search for those accursed flowers; vanilla from the island of Taha’a in French Polynesia - he’d never been there, but he’d have to put it on his list, since where vanilla (which is a form of orchid) grows there should be other orchids to discover; 147 other spices and aromatics carefully arranged in alphabetical order by the man, and labeled in impeccable calligraphy which he drew using an antique Chinese camel-hair brush; and, at the end of the 14-or-so feet of spice-shelf, the baker’s very favorite ingredient, black cocoa from King Arthur Flour Company—which when brought off the shelf always triggered a lively discussion not only about the relative merits of dutch-process cocoa, regular cocoa and that king of cocoa, King Arthur black, but also inevitably led to stories of the Baker’s training at King Arthur where she’d first learned the secrets of ganache, eggs, gluten and so much more), recipes which she was forever talking about, scribbling on milk-stained post-it pads, tweaking and rushing off to try, and most important— suddenly piercing his molasses-and-rum-raisin soaked consciousness—the critical subject of the day: What they were going to bake this very afternoon, when and if they managed to break their respective food- and orchid-based reveries, and then the Baker made her pronouncement, “Tollhouse chocolate-chip cookies, but not just any Tollhouse cookies, these are going to be made from 1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, gently pliant to the touch, 3/4 cup granulated sugar, 3/4 cup light brown sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 2 large eggs, 1 teaspoon almond extract, 1 teaspoon instant espresso powder, 1 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in 1 teaspoon hot water, 2 cups (measured by dip-and-sweep method, about 11 ounces) all-purpose flour, 1/4 cup (about 2 ounces) Dutch-processed cocoa powder (or better, 2 tablespoons “plain” Dutch cocoa and 2 tablespoons black cocoa from King Arthur Flour, and 1 pound of cappuccino chips, which you, man-Friday, (and you, dear-reader), shall make and enjoy with a cup of fresh-pressed espresso-roast, Kona-bean cappuccino.”

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


500 words :: heather

I awoke from my long and scary nightmare, sweaty and breathing like a hard ridden horse, in the early dawn of that fateful day in late October, the day that would live forever in my mind as the oddest and yet the very best day of my life, in which I actually Found My True Calling (that is as long as one believes, as I did at the time, that working for a living setting up clunky bowling pins to be again and again knocked down by chubby hairy drunken middle aged men while they leer at you and spill beer and make lewd comments to one another about your boobs is not exactly worthy of being considered one’s true calling) as the Girl Who Brushes Sweat off of Hard Ridden Horses, feeds them, mucks out their stalls and whispers in their perky ears all the while flirting with the little gay jockeys (wondering all the while if having sex with a jockey is quite like the time she got laid by that midget during her brief but extremely interesting stint as a carnie in the course of the summer of her junior year at Brown before she got her degree in Public Engineering and Policy Administration which prepared her in no way whatsoever as to how to rid oneself of a profoundly horny and rather heartsick –but fabulous in bed- midget who turned rather suddenly and threateningly into creepy stalker guy) as they pranced about the stables (the jockeys, not the horses) in their teeny tiny little breeches and complained how “hungry” they were and jumped on and off of their scales and vomited up their teeny tiny little lunches which were comprised of a few pale limp lettuce leaves and no dressing at all leaving the poor horses with not a soul to brush off their sweat, once hard ridden, and muck the smelly piles of poop out of their cramped wooden stalls and whisper in their perky ears when THEY are the poor creatures that have to do the sweating and hard riding and carrying of the anorexic teeny tiny little men around the dusty race track while chubby hairy drunken middle aged men cheer and shout at them and spill their beer and make bets on who will finish first (and second and third) on this racetrack that I stumbled upon accidentally when I took a wrong turn on my way to the podiatrist where I was to have some large and quite painful (not to mention unsightly) verrucas removed from the bottom of my left foot, had a scary but not injurious (to either person or property) fender bender with a bookie who instructed me to follow him to the parking lot of a nearby track to exchange insurance information and identification (just in case of any problems that may arise in the future) as a result of the accident, and I saw the lovely horses in their stalls, and I Found My True Calling.

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


bit of a bugger :: boot

I note the 500 word competition with some regret, as it comes to my attention on a day when the most official course of action available to me could be summed up thusly; “can’t be stuffed”.

    TAGS:  Australia, perfection, cant-be-stuffed


becky dreams :: boot

In the little bed the young girl slept fitfully, her eyelids seeming to twitch, and she seemed racked with pain, seeming almost to cry silent tears as she slept, and as the camera of the story’s eye swirled around the spartan room, and through her hazel eye, we found her dreams and we found her standing alone, alone in a big red land; and as Becky stood in the middle of the scorched, dying, red, red desert she pivoted slowly around, her eyes flitting over the rocks and rock wallabies, watching this land die, but looking for signs of moisture, some sort of droplet, a little sign of life, just the merest hint of rain, but all she found was dust, flames, rock hard and lifeless ground and ashes, but she couldn’t give up, this land was hers and she wouldn’t let it die, so she spread her arms wide as she continued to turn and as she did so the searing air began to shimmer and curl, seeming to split and fly away in ribbons, each ribbon a shade of blue, a blue like the ocean, a blue of a young girl’s eyes, the blues from a bowerbird’s collection, a blue of the late night sky, and as each ribbon curled away into the sky, it became a tornado of blue, swirling higher and higher above Becky’s head until she was at the centre of a psychedelic storm and with each movement that she made, the storm grew and spread, reaching out across the scorched and scarred land, going up towards the centre and the red, red shores, spreading to the right and roaring through its deep green valleys, reaching further down through the myriad of lands, all the way to the bottom to its crisp white lines, swirling in larger and larger circles around the land, sweeping up the dust and the ashes and the pain, sweeping up the burnt carcasses and broken hearts, but leaving in its wake a river of gentle blue, a caress that called out to the people of the land, made them leave their hovels, exit their homes, come out into the street and dance under the blurred stars, so blurred because of the water falling from the sky, the moisture filling the air and filling their hearts, rain that, as it fell on their heads, caused their papery, dry and dusty limbs to cease crackling, a rain that started their brains to spark and their hearts to beat, a rain so gentle and long lived that they would speak of it for decades to come, yet it was not a rain of damage and torment, it was not in all the wrong places, it did not roar out of the sky ripping out trees and flooding roads, it just came and stayed and stayed until it was not needed anymore, it came when it was called and it was as blue and as beautiful as the Earth itself.

    TAGS:  dreams, rain, drought, Becky the Harlequin, harlequin, 500 words, life, perfection, caress, feeling - the emotion


Bakerina’s Challenge :: Joan of Argghh!

The thought of a sentence with five hundred words seemed to her like a river that would overflow its banks and flood the plain and simple truth of the landscape that surrounded her mind’s ebb-and-flow of temporal reaity—if reality could be the word for what went coursing through her waking moments—and really, she longed for constraint and discipline like an out-of-control woman needing a good spanking; her own thoughts being difficult and unruly, childish in one moment, soaring and esoteric the next, or else given to a deep melancholy that threatened her tenuous grip on the fact that her life wasn’t going exactly as planned…she chided herself inwardly for that weak thought, then cursed that bad habit of self-criticism—still, the thrill of something bigger and stronger, a Rule, that would take all the roaring and rushing torrent of words and make them BEHAVE in a demure, desirable form of womanhood…well, that was a challenge that she’d have to take on, if only to delight in the steadfast firmness of something, anything, that would be unchanging, solid in her gypsy imagination; five hundred words seemed almost too easy if she just wanted to prattle on, but the constraint of one.single.sentence. was just another in a long series of dares she felt compelled to take on, as though working two jobs and writing a stupid blog (oh, she needed the writing outlet and would likely kill the child in its crib before long, but as it was, the care and feeding of the damn thing seemed just one more task she compulsively took on, knowing full well that when she invited that desire into her bed, she would loathe the child of such a union and fear it would grow into a miscreant aberration of embarrassing self-revelations about family dysfunction—or worse—devolve into a whiny teenager that was never going to decide on a career path or do anything to further itself) wasn’t enough for her insatiable appetite for creative output; no, she was determined to completely alienate any chance for something remotely normal even if it meant the indescribably lonely feeling one has when they realize their obsessions have taken them places they probably shouldn’t be, but were irresistible nonetheless…places where the ego wants to expand and vaunt itself to dizzying heights just because the fear of heights was so viscerally implanted in her psyche to a point of danger, and there it was: the reason she simply could not resist the temptation of the challenge of five hundred words in one sentence was the possibility of abject failure or abiding achievement as the result of disciplining the thousands of synapses into one cohesive (and hopefully, coherent) phrase of meaning; an accomplishment that she knew she would enjoy rewinding (now there’s a new anachronism!) and replaying in her stupid blog just as soon as she posted it here in this amazing forum, concluding the deed with a sigh of almost sultry satisfaction and lighting an imaginary cigarette.

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


As she began her tome, she anxiously searched for a topic of import that would capture the readers’ attentions and simultaneously lend enough material on which to expound; she could address the circumstances of coming by her peculiar nickname, she could extol the virtues and challenges of her favorite hobby (of which she had been boring other members on the chat line vociferously), she could delight the group with tales of her career mishaps (the boss who, when he traveled, and found it irritating to read his emails on his Blackberry device [which he frequently called his Blueberry] would require that his emails be printed out and faxed to him each morning [Scott Adams of Dilbert found this all too amusing]), but it all felt a little bourgeois; she also contemplated writing a piece de resistance in stream of consciousness, sure that her slightly bizarre train of thought would amuse her and her compatriots, but that seemed a little quotidian, too overdone; so she gathered her thoughts and sat with her laptop (a warm, heavy weight in her lap not unlike the heavy weight upon her shoulders) and chewed her lip nervously, hoping that she could pass this five hundred word test while simultaneously revealing a bit of her creative spark, her sarcastic sense of humor and her desire to belong to a group so utterly dedicated to the preservation of the word and the non sequitur; already she was addicted to turning her daily realizations into witticisms for others to read and comment upon (at this point it should be noted that she seriously debated the use of a preposition to end that last phrase, but upon finding neither a suitable replacement or the inclination to rewrite her work thus far, so she heaved a great sigh and carried on) and to fill the archives that would later be consulted by novice Scriners facing this same challenge; she stopped briefly to consider her next thoughts carefully, absentmindedly picking up the sock she was knitting and completing a few brief rounds in soft orchid-hued wool, smiling to herself and feeling the tension slowly ease out of her muscles with every stitch she knit; her thoughts drifted to the major life changes she would face in the upcoming months: the potential move to a new city, the beginning of a cohabitation with her betrothed, the change in her work situation and whether or not relocation would come to pass and necessitate a new job; if money were no object she would open a yarn store, but there was her career to think of and she dared not tempt the fates by mixing work and pleasure for fear it would result in her having to find both a new hobby and a new field in which to work; these thoughts swam in her brain, echoed by the dull drone of the television, the occasional sounds of cars passing in the distance, the faint murmurs of the child in the apartment next door.

    TAGS:  perfection


As Melissa lit the last of the candles, she again uttered her prayer at her own private alter, and if you listened closely you could just hear the words “... and please let me be perfect at everything I do…”

    TAGS:  alter, perfection


and we’re halfway there :: littledevilworks

On the eve of November 14, the Scriners waited with delicious anticipation - they were halfway to their goal of 1,000 posts and so far only one small turtle had been injured in the process.

    TAGS:  anticipation, perfection, delicious, no animals harmed


Catalyst Truths :: darksteve

The distraction I felt was clearly obvious to all, culminating in an intervention almost, with a coworker concernedly asking me why, recently moreso than ever, and the answer was so simple yet at the same time, its simplicity seemed to increase its complexity and it occurred to me to say “do you know what it’s like to lack feeling, not just feel apathetic for a time, but really, consciously stop feeling to avoid pain, not mental anguish, but physical pain, and you don’t realise that the pain you avoid isn’t all you stop feeling and the longer it goes on, the easier it is not to realise - I mean you know something is missing but you couldn’t put your finger on what it is - but then something happens, something wonderful which you could not have hoped to set out to achieve, was furthest from your mind really as from where you were you would not have been able to comprehend this sensation,” and it is at this point that I would have paused, uncertain as to what I would say next because whatever it is, when considered, must happen to others somewhere everyday, though I wonder if it does, and if it did, it wouldn’t necessarily be the same surely, indeed couldn’t be the same as for me, couldn’t be found where I found it and although two people, or two million, could come upon my catalyst, it would not be a key for them and they would pass it by with only a cursory, superficial acknowledgement, if even that, and this loss wouldn’t be felt, not by them anyway, and it occurs to me that that had been me and I never knew, so I could not expect them to understand; nevertheless I would feel obliged to continue, in part to appear as though I had actually been considering what it was that was distracting me rather than allowing it to flow through me unchecked - not unremarked just unhindered by active thought - but also to discover if this person too had experienced this marvel and recognised it in me, and so I would resume “this sensation which pulses like a beacon, guiding you from somewhere to somewhere else although you can’t distinguish either place until you get where you’re going at which point you can’t really recall the journey, it has absorbed that from you and, although unfortunate as it means you can’t learn how a journey of this nature is made, also means you should find it harder to return, at least via the same path, and further, makes it so much easier to leave the dark past where it belongs allowing you to look forward unsullied by such burdens and with a renewed capacity to feel; do you know what that’s like?” though I suspect at this point it would be clear that they did not and it wouldn’t matter to me if they did and so I say “I was thinking about a girl.”

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


500 and an extra 1 for my homies :: You can call me, 'Sir'

‘Have patience and endure’, said Ovid, many long years ago, certainly before my birth in January 1973, during the first in a long line of trials punishing people for hubris, both theirs and Nixon’s, and while I don’t believe in such a thing as coincidence (everything happens for a reason, let’s not kid ourselves, even that nappy-headed ho, Wittgenstein, believed this, depending on one’s interpretation of his writing, of course), I find it hard to comprehend the possibility that I might have had something to do with the way Watergate ended, for my own ego has been dragged through the mud enough to know better than to make such haughty claims to playing important historical rolls, but I digress, where was I, oh yes, Ovid and his blessed little remark, patience and endurance truly are worthy virtues, along with perseverance, hope, and decent hygiene, but the particular idea behind being able to sit quietly and wait on the God of your choice or Fortuna’s fickle wheel and to not give up, to never give up (thank you, Winston), this takes real courage, the kind Atticus Finch had when he fought the good fight knowing it was a losing battle, thanks to the townspeople’s relentless pursuit of ignorance, and Boo Radley, thank heavens for Boo Radley (did you know that Boo Radley was played by a very young Robert Duvall in that flick, I mean seriously, Robert-friekin’-Duval played a slightly dim-witted introvert, a stretch I’d say) and his willingness to rise above his so-called ‘station’ and beat the sweet living bejeezus out of the drunk bigot that successfully broke Jem’s arm and was intent on killing Scout, who was dressed like a ham at the time, long story, don’t ask, and actually I recall that Boo killed that dude, but the sheriff and Atticus decided to let things go, there had been enough destruction of innocence for one book and, oh that Harper Lee, herself an introvert of sorts, barely ever agreeing to interviews, but how can one blame her, I myself rarely want to be seen or heard by the mass of humanity and their sheep-like b-a-a-a-ing at whatever spicy little tidbit the media serves up, but…wait a minute, how the hell did I get here, this is nowhere near my point, let me quickly recap, um, Ovid, blah blah blah, endure with patience, etc., so if I ever have children (God help us all), I will sit them down and Ovid’s words will echo through the ages and I will make them read Kipling’s exceptional poem ‘If’ and memorize its lines about ‘forcing [their] heart and nerve and sinew to serve [their] turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in [them] except the will which says to them: “Hold on!”’, and in doing so endeavor to plant in their heart(s) the truth that as long as they never give up on themselves, the opinion of the world will matter not in the least.

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


Another 500 because I said so :: You can call me, 'Sir'

I sometimes stop what I’m doing and try to make sense of what it is I’m putting off in exchange for the stuff I’m doing and it reminds me of how ridiculous it is to not do one thing in order to do something else, I mean, seriously, unless you’re delivering a baby or playing racketball, anyone can multitask the living shit out of life, a person’s brain being spongy for a reason, malleable to a specific end, because, for instance, and I’m speaking from experience here (at least to a certain degree), even flying a plane barely requires the firing a whole lot of synapses anymore, what with the level of automation these days, hell it’s possible to punch in coordinates and let the computer and the GPS arm-wrestle their way to Albequerque and to be honest, I worked harder flying little single-engine puddle jumpers in Alaska, always worried about the combination of mountain turbulence, weather, and those motherfuckin’ flying monkeys unleashed by that wicked witch that lives somewhere in the ass crack of that one mountain (you know the one; it has the snow on it) at random intervals during the seemingly unending winter darkness that falls upon the entire state over the course of roughly eight months and what the hell is with all these people that move to Alaska and then have such a hard time dealing with the long cold winters and dark days and nights, give me a break, is it a surprise that ALSASKA gets cold and dark for long stretches of time, is it some kind of Old Testament miracle that in the depth of winter, the sun may show itself just long enough to flip you the bird as it skirts the horizon, because the earth, you see, it sits upon this AXIS that TILTS and wait, before I delve into the murky depths of astronomy and physics and the complicated workings of EARTH AXIS DYNAMICS 101 allow me to get back to why I’m writing this long and convoluted effort in futility, which is because it has been too long (TOO LONG, I SAY) since I’ve spent any significant amount of time here and it pains me to think that I lack the motivation required for a sentence, one measley sentence, especially when I think back to those times not long ago when I pooped them out somewhat regularly and rejoiced in the outlet of words and punctuation long pent up in a brain that so desperately needed relief from itself, so why then, have I ceased recently, surely it has nothing to do with my current vocation, please, a sentence is a sentence and happens regardless of what else goes on during the course of memorizing how someone metabolizes glucose or the genetic machinery involved in making sure a person can throw a dart, so in the end there is no excuse and all that’s left is to regurgitate all the drivel that’s built up for far too long.

    TAGS:  500 words, perfection


Land Of The Lost :: OhNo789

What if the world opened up just under my room, with a thunderclap on a spring day like today - bright, warm, cool, not expecting and naïve - flash of light, thunder rolling over these small mountains, like a god, in a manner that would make Thor put down his hammer, and I then tumbled into that chasm alone, with only that cup from the ice cream I didn’t take down to the sink, those primary color legos which I used to love so much, my collection of old, discarded forever to a shelf, mementos - the combined life’s work of a hoarding crazy like myself, and I would tumble into that chasm alone if it chose to come today, now even, back through a sci-fi fissure in time and relative dimensions in space, down the rabbit hole with a roll on the tympani and all of those early monster movie, twilight zone vamps, then there would be silence as I’d wake up in a land of lost things, a land that time forgot, and as I would stand up to survey my surroundings something like an old Geocentric model, complete with charts and graphs, would drift across my consciousness, a hair metal song would begin, I would look around and see forever if an infinity or two of just stuff weren’t in the way, the bones of artists like myself who’d never made their mark on their craft, and the years and years of history which was lost, because those who won the battles, also at my feet, burned it like plague bodies and the great library of Alexandria, both of which I assume are buried somewhere in that place, under all of the stuff, but why would the fissure, cheesy sound effects and early cg take me? that is not where I belong, because if it takes me soon, I’ll have a family and friends, surely I would not belong, but what if they were things simply forgot or never learnt by me? then I would belong, because somewhere in my head is a space where I do not exist anymore, and I am boiled down to my basest elements and compulsions, carbon, water, pumping heart, rattling breaths, a liver getting over someone’s, maybe my, madness the night before, and if that is so, if somewhere I have lost me between the job and school and mate-seeking, pre-primal lust, then I damn myself to that place when the time comes, “open up and rid the forgotten, lost and lonely things from this earth,” because maybe that is what it takes, maybe all the thunder and lightning strikes that can possibly smite a being are not enough, maybe the world will open up just under my room tomorrow, and somewhere after the disaster, after stumbling to my feet to take a gander at all of the things that have fallen forever by the wayside, some with viable reason, yet most, like myself, the reason is completely and utterly ineffable.

    TAGS:  perfection, ineffable, lost things


Perfection :: 'mouse

Some days are so beautiful that the miracle of life makes it hard to breathe.

    TAGS:  beautiful, perfection, miracle of life


Messing w/perfection :: Br. Ezra

Each time Dr. Hansen heard that a woman had a breast reduction he died a little inside and, he worried, that somewhere out there one of his former patient’s might be submitting his excellent and sublime work to the scalpel of some lesser talented philistine; why they couldn’t leave his perfecting of nature alone was a question he despaired of ever answering.

    TAGS:  perfection, breast agumentation, Philistines


Long Story - 500 :: 'mouse

Do you ever get that feeling on a late summer day at the end of a long summer when it has hardly been summer at all when suddenly you’re hit by that special gentle feeling like spring has just sprung, when you can finally walk the dog early in the morning without wearing a windbreaker and you can just about feel the buds bursting and things growing, and it didn’t matter it wasn’t really spring since the feeling in the air reminds you of those dozen or so days that stick with you which like scent-memory which are triggered by a certain temperature and breeze and maybe pollen count and all of a sudden you’re ten years old again, kicking a stone down the street on a Saturday morning on the way to the park where you’ll meet up with your posse and catch water-skimmers and skip stones and then go play hide-and-seek in the graveyard and buy and eat forbidden candy and lie on your back on the grass in the afternoon looking at shapes in the clouds knowing without knowing, even though you’re only ten, that this is one of those few absolutely perfect days that you’ll be granted in your life, or the time when you’re sixteen and it seems like it’s Saturday again – there’s just something about Saturdays – and you start up your car, roll down the windows and drive up into the mountains, driving until the pavement ends and then until the tarred roads end and then a little further and you park just below timberline and hike along a stream that’s pure snowmelt and so cold you can’t put your hand in for more than a few seconds and on one side you feel the cold coming off the stream as it races down the mountain and on the other side the warmth coming from the huge fields of blue and yellow wildflowers as they soak up sunlight and the water is so clear you can see every brown and rainbow trout even as they think they’re safe under the rock ledges and you find a rock to sit on and you know that this light, this pure air is the best it can ever get and except for a chance perfect day which may come along in the future, this is as good as it gets, and then with a few more of those perfect days sprinkled in, seemingly rarer and rarer as you get older and responsibilities rarely leave you along, years go by and kids grow up and pets die and loves grow and fade and grow again and nothing is ever quite right and all you can really hope for is a few minutes of peace and quiet when the air feels right and it feels like spring and you remember how good life can be and you know that perfection can exist in this crazy universe, if only for a few minutes or a rare Saturday, and that’s enough?

    TAGS:  a perfect day, Spring, perfection


Sons and daughters ‘o bitches is what you all are, constantly expecting me to save you from both yourselves and others, what a hoot, I cant recall where in my job description it says anything about being a glorified therapist for a bunch of whiny, simpering mortals with their their little dogs that nip at my heels even after I’ve saved their owners’ lives, it’s both galling and insulting that I’m somehow responsible for preserving this ‘society’ of ingrates, why last week I was flying along (as one does) minding my own business when I see this train careening out of control toward a cliff and my first impulse was to find and destroy the person who built the train track so close to a cliff, because only someone either criminally negligent or desperately stupid would place a means of transport that close to doom (humans being forever inclined to various forms of self-mutilation), but I digress, so there I am flying along, humming some Christopher Cross (I think it was, Arthur’s Theme, the one that goes ‘If you get caught between the moon and New York City’), when I see the impending doom, swoop down, and stop the train with yards to spare and instead of thanks, this gaggle of women waddle up complaining that the abrupt stop ruined their dinner, their trip, Christmas, and to hear them tell it probably caused puppy death on scales heretofore unimagined in the annals of injustice, so at this point point I snap and do something rash, e.g. I pick up one of the portly complainers and toss her into the abyss, I know, poor form, but she had it coming and wouldn’t you know it, there was an off-duty cop on board who sees my transgression and demands that I cease and desist, enact some sort of citizen’s self-arrest, and allow him to cuff me, but I refused because first of all being told how wrong I am by a guy wearing a fanny pack and a t-shirt with an eagle superimposed over an American flag underneath the words, ‘These colors don’t run’, is ridiculous and second, the bitch had it coming, although it turns out the president doesn’t think so, because he decided to send in the Army with their adorable little tanks and ooooh booga booga, big bad tank gonna do bad things to the superhero, really, kids, are you sure, because I CAN DESTROY SHIT WITH MY EYES, remember, do you recall that one time when I saved Europe’s ass by using my eyes to destroy an asteroid headed for Malta (as if it would’ve been a huge loss), oh, sure you don’t, surprise surprise, jackasses, well tell you what, next time godzilla decides to rise from the briny deep and start treating Japan like his bitch, don’t call me, don’t shine any signals into the night sky, don’t do anything, just leave me the hell out of it, you’re all on you’re own, welcome to hell, lemmings.

    TAGS:  perfection, Godzilla, superheroes, Christopher Cross, portly women


 

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