Box of Mystery…

Upon arriving home from work earlier, I found I’d had an unexpected delivery, Dear Reader…

Baby delivery.gif

*What? No, not a baby, Clicky! How the fuck d’ya arrive at baby?*

what-you-should-know-about_-sperm-2

*No, I know how to arrive at a baby, Clicky… /splutters… Just shut up will ya and let me tell the story…*

…A care package had come in the post from my good friend Poppy Sweet Pea…

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*/sings… Sweet peas are made of these… /shakes head… Clicky! What’s with you tonight? Got fun up your ‘ole tonight or sumfing?*

… A neatly packed cardboard box that Loopy had helpfully opened. It was filled with good things – homemade ‘Bounty’ bars, German nougat, treats for the pup, South Korean face masks, a *cries with laughter* cup 

giphy1

*… cuddly toy… NO! Clicky, not a cuddly toy, for goodness sake…*

… And some heavenly scented bath wotsits, one in the shape of Dave

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*Yeah, it’s a good story… Like the rest of the tales in The Underdog Anthology…*

“Oh my god,” I said biting into a properly sized chocolate and coconut sweetie. “This is delicious! I’m gonna have to make something now to send back.”

Thoughtful Man laughed. The idea must have tickle him because he carried on laughing.

Loopy, who’d been hovering around the box of goodies, gingerly sniffed at the smelly flamingo – he’s at that awkward teenage, allergic-to-baths stage. “You can always make her a sandwich,” he suggested helpfully.

“A sandwich? I can’t make her a sandwich!”

“Oh,” Loopy said dropping the flamingo back in the box. “Well, can you make me one?”

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*I’ll have to think of sumfing, Clicky…*

I am now going to try out one of the face masks, Dear Reader, so I’ll CYA…

3w-4

*Or sooner…*

… Have a Song… 😉

In The Mood…

I’ve been working up to penning some short stories for the next Underdog Anthology, Dear Reader, due out for Halloween. Writing horror doesn’t come easy for me, so today I dipped into The Articles of Dume (written by my good friend the Doctor), during my lunch break, for instruction and inspiration…

*Fuck! I hope it doesn’t take forever, Clicky, the submission deadline is the end of September…*

Anyhoo… I thought I’d post the last of my three stories, but the first that I wrote, for Volume 1. The other two can be found here and here

*Not yet, Clicky, but I’m trying…*

*******

Succulent Sardines

by Roo B. Doo

During daylight the faded grandeur was all too apparent but in the evening the flickering lamplight transformed the interior of Crossgate House into a Gothic nightmare.

‘Well, this is spooky as hell,’ Helena whispered to herself as she lightly skipped up the stairs toward the darkness of the top floor.

Paul was up there, waiting. All she had to do was find his champagne glass and then they would have a few precious minutes to indulge in the most dangerous aspect of their relationship – risky sex. Helena shivered at the prospect and wondered at the audacity of the man the financial media blithely referred to as ‘Golden Sacks’. Getting your rocks off during a game of Sardines at the company’s weekend retreat, was the epitome of risk-taking.

Helena paused as she reached the landing to duck under the heavy, velvet rope barrier and sign firmly stating, ‘STRICTLY OUT OF BOUNDS’. Big bucks can buy use of historical dumps with disturbing histories, but some areas remained firmly off limits. Especially to drunken financiers with little understanding of the meaning of priceless.

She risked a look over the handrail, Helena but couldn’t detect anybody else on stairs; the sound of muffled laughter in the distance below confirmed that only she and Paul were in his part of the house. The rest of the party were searching for him elsewhere. Only she knew where he’d be hiding in a ‘fuck ugly, black wardrobe’ that he’d discovered whilst snooping about earlier.

Slipping her phone from pocket, Helena shone its bluish white light down either side of a corridor until she spotted a fluted glass on a side table beside a heavy, wooden door. The champagne bubbles inside danced and popped as she approached. Helena downed it in one and gripping the cold brass door handle. Part of her hoped it was locked – they had been told these doors were locked – but it swung open effortlessly under her touch. With a final quick glance back the way she’d come, Helena quietly slipped inside the room beyond.

“Paul?” she hissed as she scoured the room for a glimpse of him. “Paul? Where are you? This must be the most stupidest idea you’ve had yet.”

Helena put down the glass and lifted her phone again to take in the dust sheet covered contents of the room. Along the back wall she spotted a large, black wardrobe. Creeping forward, she could make out grotesque figures carved ornately into the pitch coloured wood. Helena grimaced; the wardrobe was indeed very ugly.

“Paul, let me in,” Helena whispered urgently. She flinched from touching the door knob, a carved fist clutching a human heart. Closer still, the carvings appeared to cavort in the cold blue light streaming from her phone.

“We don’t have long. Fuck! It’s doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know you’ll be hiding exactly where you not allowed to. It won’t take those drongos long to figure it out. Let me in.”

There was a metallic click and the wardrobe door noiselessly and smoothly swung open. Helena sharply stepped inside and her lover closed the door behind her.

“You’re a bloody nightmare, this place is creepy.” Helena lent up and pressed her lips against Paul’s neck as he ran his hands down her back. She felt his fingers dig into her arse cheeks pulling closer toward him. “But, I can feel that you’re already hard. That should save some time.”

Helena slid to her knees and swiftly unbuckled his belt. Within moments she’d freed his throbbing cock from it’s rich trappings and greedily began to suck. After a while Paul sighed.

“You’re a wicked child. So, you liked my game suggestion? No, don’t stop.”

Helena redoubled her efforts. In the oppressive darkness, the sound of her slurping suddenly filled her with disgust. This felt like a risk too far, she decided. She wanted to get it over and she didn’t want her attentions reciprocated.

“You really are very good. He’s hopelessly wrong about the most important things, but he’s quite right about you.”

Helena paused and looked up into the blackness. “Who’s quite right?” Her stomach made a queasy roll. “Paul, I’m not feeling too good. Can we stop?”

“Him. Your banker boss.”

Helena stopped and leant back, putting distance between herself and Paul’s engorged penis. The curve of an expensive leather shoe press into her inner thigh as she sat back. Reaching between her legs, Helena groped the familiar texture of Paul’s exquisitely tailored trousers. Shoe and fabric where linked by a cold, bony ankle encased in a silk sock.

“No, don’t scream. Not yet. And no stopping. Please continue.”

With a cruel yank of her hair, Paul pulled Helena back into a pleasing position. He pumped her head back and forth, pinioning her head in his hands.

“They won’t be able to hear you scream in any event. None of you heard his shrieks earlier,” he grunted and sped up. “Two hundred hungry years of solitude. You know, I was beginning to think nobody was left alive out there.”

Helena gagged at the forced pressure in her mouth. Bewildered tears ran from her bulging eyes. Please let someone come quickly, she thought as she succumbed to the darkness.

“As. You. Wish.”

Paul groaned long and loud as Helena’s body slumped onto him. He cocked his head at the sound of someone smashing the champagne glass in the outer room. Heaving Helena’s unconscious body away from him, Paul licked his lips and grinned.

“Yes, you’re very good and we will do that again. But for now, best to make space for the others. Now, I think it’s my time to gobble.”

*******

Right then. I’d better get on with it and get down to writing…

*/puffs out cheeks and blows… Got a suitable Song to finish with Clicky?*

 

 

Supposing A Smokers’ Symposium

A quick post for you tonight, Dear Reader…

*I know, I’m working on it, Clicky…*

On Monday evening, I spent a pleasant couple of hours in Blue Frank’s Smoky-Drinky, talking to chums I’d only ever written to before.

On Tuesday afternoon I was unexpectedly asked what ‘symposium’ is by a girl in the office – her boss had been invited to one and didn’t know what it entailed, so I told her… and then I decided to look it up…

symposium (n.) 1580s, “account of a gathering or party,” from Latin symposium “drinking party, symposium,” from Greek symposion “drinking party, convivial gathering of the educated” (related to sympotes “drinking companion”), from assimilated form of syn- “together” (see syn-) + posis “a drinking,” from a stem of Aeolic ponen “to drink,” from PIE root *po(i)- “to drink.”

The symposium usually followed a dinner, for the Greeks did not drink at meals. Its enjoyment was heightened by intellectual or agreeable conversation, by the introduction of music or dancers, and by other amusements. [Century Dictionary]

The sense of “a meeting on some subject” is from 1784. Reflecting the Greek fondness for mixing wine and intellectual discussion, the modern sense is especially from the word being used as a title for one of Plato’s dialogues. Greek plural is symposia, and the leader of one is a symposiarch (c. 1600 in English). Related: Symposiac (adj.); symposial

*/squints…*

I also met Red Frank’s brother yesterday afternoon. We work in the Tower on different floors, and until now our paths had not crossed, but were thrown together for a meeting. I took the minutes and then gave him a signed copy of The Underdog Anthology 2 to pass along…

*Okay! …/huffs… I get back to writing my submission for Anthology 3… /lights up… But for your info, Clicky, I did actually write some more of it today… /puffs…*

I’d better go for now, Dear Reader, I still have ironing to do, but I will leave you with my good friend, Legs’ post from last night…

*And a Song… /rolls eyes…*

 

 

 

 

A Dolphin Who?

*Thank you, Clicky…*

*Quite the intronaut, Clicky… not sure about the worms…*

So Dear Reader, in ‘Hang on a Mo (updated)‘, I mentioned that I’d written the Afterword for the new Underdog Anthology

The book is a tasty Easter treat…

*Chocked with stories, not dipped in chocolate, Clicky… You wouldn’t be able to read the words…*

It was surprisingly difficult to find a poem to mutilate this time round. Carroll and Poe had already been abused by Leggy in his previous short story collections…

*The Cleggy and the Cameroid, yes…*

*… And The Gorgon…*

When Legs asked me to pen the Afterword for the first Underdog Anthology, it was quite easy to choose, a) literary giant (duh, Shake Sphere) and b) political subject matter (Brexit, duh da)…

*Also Sonnet 6+6+6 is fairly short, Clicky…*

There are lots of great poets and poems out there, and no end of useless politicians and their fuckwittery to choose from this time… But what to choose, who to choose? I tell you, Dear Reader, I was stumped…*/scratches head…*

Enter Canada

*For fucks sake, Clicky! Canadians wouldn’t even be able to criticize the driving…*

O Canada” (French: Ô Canada) is the national anthem of Canada. The song was originally commissioned by Lieutenant Governor of Quebec Théodore Robitaille for the 1880 Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day ceremony; Calixa Lavallée composed the music, after which, words were written by the poet and judge Sir Adolphe-Basile Routhier. The lyrics were originally in French; an English version was created in 1906.

There, a poet, described as such by Wiki… DolphinBasilRuthier... So here is the Afterword poem from Anthology 2, with actions… Then, Dear Reader, have a Song… And don’t forget to buy the book(s)… Available in paperback if you feel the need to burn something after reading 😉

:O Canada! 🤦

:O Canada! 🤦
New home of the Muhammad band!
Politicians love the Islamist sons’ command
Who’s cowering hearts we see compromise
No more to stand strong and free!
On slopes you slide
Oi Canada, we facepalm for thee
God save us from your quisling glee! 🤦
Oy Canada, get off your bended knee 🤦🤦
Oh Canada, get off your bended knee 🤦🤦🤦

A Sirius Discussion About Books and Such

The Underdog and Under-Underdogs have only gone and done it again, Dear Reader…

Underdog Anthology 2

Yep, this time I have two stories included: ‘Morning Run’ (a real short short)…

hot cross buns

*Hot cross buns, Clicky? …/ponders… Hmm, kinda but no, knot really…*

…and ‘The Inchoate Egg’, which is a follow up to ‘Secret Santa‘ and Harry’s horrible Christmas…

*That’s right, Clicky… ;)*

… Anyhoo, I thought I’d post one of my stories from Anthology Vol. I, for you today, Dear Reader, so here is ‘Mind The Gap’…

*******

Amanda woke with a start. She hadn’t meant to sleep on the journey but the warmth of the carriage and soft whine of electrical tracks, coupled with the denseness of the report she’d been reading had lulled her into unwanted sleep.

“That was my foot.” A sharply dressed woman scowled down at her as the wall of bodies pressed together in front, swaying with the motion of the tube train.

Embarrassed, Amanda reached down to retrieve the report that had slipped from her lap. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled to the reddening dent on the bridge of the woman’s high heeled foot. With a look of disdain, the woman turned her back on Amanda.

The carriage no longer felt pleasantly warm as it had when she took a seat earlier at the start of her journey. It had become uncomfortably hot. Her mouth felt dry and the cloying smell of a dozen different perfumes, cologne and deodorant filled her nose. Amanda stuffed the report into the bag stashed behind her legs and wondered how far she’d travelled. The black tunnel walls rushing past behind her gave no clue and the bobbing heads above obscured her view of any map or sign showing the next station stop.

The tube started to slow. Keen to get out of the stifling heat, Amanda rose, knees audible popping which embarrassed her further. She pushed forward, through the tightly packed commuters, toward the carriage doors, dragging her heavy bag behind her. She thumped the door release to the sound of the bleeps and spilled out, being careful to mind the cavernous gap between carriage and platform that opened up before her. She was glad for the cool rush of wind, as the tube pulled away. It lifted her hair from her face and soothed her flaming cheeks.

Amanda watched the last carriage of the tube train disappear into the tunnel. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was but it couldn’t be too far out of the way judging by the number of passengers dressed for the City on the train. A walk and a frothy coffee would refresh her before the meeting, she decided, as she looked for a sign showing the way out up to the surface.

The platform was completely deserted. In the distance she glimpsed a black sign and gold letters – ‘WAY OUT’. Amanda heaved the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder again and walked briskly toward it. Above the soft hum of the Underground Network, the sound of her clacking heels echoed along the empty platform.

She sighed when she found the exit barred by a rusting metal gate. Amanda rattled it but it was locked. “Hello! Is anybody there?” Silence greeted her call. She rattled it again harder but the gate didn’t budge. Irritated now, she turned and walked back the way she’d come.

It was strange – no station name was displayed and she noticed that there were no posters on the curved wall opposite to the platform. No bright advertisements for holiday destinations, insurance companies or wonder supplements, just the faded outline of where they’d once clung. Amanda gave a gasp as, above her head, the platform lights suddenly flickered.

“Can I help you miss?”

Amanda screamed in surprise at the soft voice behind her. She turned to see a wizened man with a pinched expression looking intently at her.

“Yes!” she replied too loudly. “The exit is locked and I can’t find another one.”

The man continued to stare at her and Amanda felt herself start to redden under his gaze. She felt the need to explain. “I got off here by accident. I don’t even know where here is. Look, is there another way out of here? I’ve got a very important meeting to get to.”

She looked up and down the bleak platform unwilling to meet his piercing blue eyes. The sudden thought that she was alone on a locked and deserted platform, with a strange man invaded her brain. She felt her stomach tighten with anxiety and the weight of her bag dig once more into her shoulder.

The man’s face broken into a grin of yellowing horsey teeth. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He slipped one out and placed it between his lips. “Would you like one?”

Amanda looked on aghast. Smoking wasn’t allowed on the Underground. “No, I don’t smoke and you shouldn’t either.”

The man cupped his hand around the end of the his cigarette and lit it. He blew out a cloud of blue smoke that enveloped them both.”Oh yeah, why’s that then?”

“Because it will kill you.” Any fear she had felt was replaced with anger as she waved the noxious fumes away. “Sorry, can you not do that?”

The man responded with a deeper drag and longer plume of exhaled smoke. He started to laugh which turned into a cough. Amanda moved away. A glob of yellow brown phlegm shot out of his mouth and onto the track.

“You’re disgusting. I’m getting out of here.” Amanda turned on her heel and walked purposefully back toward the locked exit leaving the smoking man behind. She could still hear him laughing and coughing as she neared it. Dropping her bag, she grabbed the bars of the gate and shook them vigorously.

“Help! Can somebody let me out of here?!” Amanda glanced back toward the man but he was gone. As she turned her attention back to the gate, he stood on the other side smiling and winking at her, cigarette clamped between his teeth. His smoke stung her eyes and made her nose itch.

“How?” Amanda tightened her grip on metal bars and shook harder. Rust flakes drifted to the ground. “I demand you let me out of here!”

The smoking man took a final drag and flicked the lit end toward her. The butt brushed the sleeve of her coat and fell, still glowing, to the floor. Deftly, he lit another one.

“Argh! How dare you! Stop it!” She extinguished the dog end angrily under her foot. “Let me out, you horrible little man!”

The smoking man took another puff and looked at her coolly. “This station has been closed for many a year now. Haven’t had a train stop in a while. Generally it’s pretty dead around here.” He chuckled. “I know, perhaps you could walk down the track to the next one.”

Amanda stopped. How long had she been on this god forsaken platform? No other train had stopped or passed since she’d got off. The tunnel entrance yawned behind her.

“No. I have a better idea. Why don’t I ring the police and have you arrested for false imprisonment and smoking illegally?” She bent down and scrambled around her bag, pulling out the heavy report to find her phone. She swiped and prodding the display in dismay; there was no signal.

The smoking man was standing next to her on the platform. He bent down and picked up her report. He brushed the cover with his hand and read the title “Decisive Steps to Ensure a Tobacco-Free Future’. What are they, then?” He opened it and squinted at the words. A roll of ash dropped from his cigarette onto the open pages. He closed it with a thud. “Well, it’s certainly thick” he said appreciatively.

“Give that back!” Amanda yelled. She lurched for her report but he sidestepped her advance and she fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Her elbow bloomed with pain. “Oww! You bastard, that hurts!”

Nimbly the old man jumped down onto the track, waving the report above his head. With a final, exaggerated cough, he disappeared into the tunnel. “Come and get it.”

“Stop! Give that back to me right now!” She screamed in pain and frustration. The report contained additional handwritten notes; everything she needed it for her meeting and now it had been taken by a nicotine addict. Amanda got to her feet and cradled her arm. Dirt and blood from her grazed palm smeared the sleeve of her coat and she was covered in the stink of smoke.

A sudden rage of righteousness engulfed her. How fucking dare he? How dare he? The filthy smoker had not only caused her pain and humiliatingly stolen her report, but now she was in no fit state for her meeting. No, she would get it back and then she would kick the shit out of him for good measure. She lowered herself down onto the track. How far ahead can he get with those smoke riddled lungs?

Amanda marched into the tunnel but as the suffocating black closed in, her fury and indignation soon turned to fear. What was she doing following this man? She stopped to think. “Did he say trains don’t come through here or stop here?”

In the darkness she heard a gentle cough. “Stop here.” As once again, Amanda felt a breeze lifting the hair from her face and cooling her flaming cheeks.

*******

Next stop Halloween…

Hell yeah

Have a Song, Dear Reader ❤

 

Hang On A Mo… */squints…* (Updated)

The deadline is looming for the Easter Underdog Anthology, Dear Reader…

*Thank you, Clicky…*

… And I have still to finish my second story submission…

*No, Clicky, that’s a different sort of submission…*

*No, knot that kind of sub mission either, Clicky… /tuts… Could you just… /zips lips… just for a mo?*

…Although I have finished writing the Afterword, an opportunity offered to me by Leggy last weekend. You have no idea the sheer amount of poetry I’ve been trawling through this past week…

*Oh, so much Bryon and Shelley, you wouldn’t believe… /rolls eyes…*

… Anyhoo, I thought I’d take a short break and pen a post, as last night, Leggy brought news that Canadian politicians have made a Motion, a move toward the outright banning any criticism of a single, solitary religion…

…Can’t happen? They wouldn’t possibly enact a punishable law against ‘islamophobia’? The answer was supplied to that question by Red Frank

*Literally at the gate… /sigh…*

*/smiles… A Ted talk, perfect…*

*Oh Clicky…*

… Must get back to finishing my short story now, Dear Reader. Enjoy the rest of your weekend and… Have a Song… 😉

*******

UPDATE – MONDAY 27 MARCH 2017

bode (v.) Old English bodian “proclaim, announce; foretell,” from boda “messenger,” probably from Proto-Germanic *budon- (source also of Old Saxon gibod, German gebot, Old Norse boð), from PIE *bheudh- “be aware, make aware” (source also of Sanskrit bodhati “is awake, is watchful, observes,” buddhah “awakened, enlightened;” Old Church Slavonic bljudo “to observe;” Lithuanian budeti “to be awake;” Old Irish buide “contentment, thanks”). As a shortened form of forebode (usually evil), it dates from 1740. Related: Boded; boding.

There’s been a roobery… 😉

According to German media, the stolen coin is the “Big Maple Leaf”, a commemorative piece issued by the Royal Canadian Mint in 2007. The three-centimeter (1.18-inch) thick coin, with a diameter of 53 centimeters (20.9 inches), has a face value of $1 million. By weight alone, however, it would be worth almost $4.5 million at market prices.

The Bode Museum, located on the German capital’s UNESCO-listed Museum Island, houses one of the world’s biggest coin collections. The holding includes 102,000 coins from ancient Greece and about 50,000 Roman coins.

Spokesman Stefen Petersen said thieves apparently entered through a window about 3:30 a.m. Monday, broke into a cabinet where the “Big Maple Leaf” coin was kept, and escaped with it before police arrived.

German police said on Twitter that the robbers likely used a ladder found at a nearby rail track to break into the museum at around 3:30 am. Suburban rail traffic was interrupted as investigators combed the area for clues. The police did not comment on how the thieves managed to cart the extremely heavy “pet rock” out of the museum without being spotted or triggering any alarms.

“The heather-encrusted Headlands, veiled in a fog as thick as as smoke in a crowded pub, hunched precariously over the moors”.

01dahl-1-obit-master1050-v2

Have a Song…

Missive From ‘Merica: Bowled Over…

Wednesday Evening

“Aren’t you writing any blog posts anymore?” Thoughtful Man asked me.  He was lounging on our bed, tending his ArseFace Kingdom and listening to the TV. I’d come up to visit, bringing fresh glass of ice for his drink and collecting a rollie.

“Yeah, why?” I asked with a hint of surprise; he’d not paid that much attention to my posts before.

He clicked out of his game and on to the LoL. “These Missive things, they’re not yours.”

“Well no, but I do write the bits at the top and the bottom,” I said placing the fresh glass on the nightstand. “And edit the bits in between. It’s fun.”

Thoughtful Man returned to his game. “I don’t understand them,” he replied gruffly.

“Yeah but you don’t understand any of the posts I write either.” I lent over and kissed the top of his head. “Besides, I’m working on some short stories at the moment for the next Anthology.”

He handed me a rollie. “Oh yeah, how are they going?”

“Not as well as before. I’ve finished one, just trying to get to grips with the another,” I sighed.

Saturday Night

I was still staring at the 522 words I’d written, forlornly wondering where the rest the story was hiding, when I saw a new email had arrived. Guiltily I clicked on my inbox. There was a new missive from Cade 😀

“Nine pages! Fucking hell!”

I don’t know what I felt more, trepidation at its size and the time it would take to format, or jealousy. But as I started to read, I suddenly came up with an idea…

*Heh Heh Heh…*

*******


It’s Saturday @ 13:49 in the afternoon, and I have nothing better to do, so why not waste your time AND mine? Since I have nothing in particular on the brain to talk about, LET”S IMPROVISE!!!

Afterall, improvisation takes a SHITLOAD of practice.

^Live performance in Chennai, India ‘Vivid Saetaryung’ by Luna^

There was a mention of some goings on where someone supposedly said something to someone about something, and someone didn’t like something or something. Now, not to be too specific, but whatever it was? Yeah. Or something.

And not to start any new rumors on top of that or anything…but that Luna Lee chick looks like she is only a coupla weeks away from playing SXSW in Austin.

Don’t tell anyone! Shhhhhh!

^Dire Straits-Sultans Of Swing Gayageum ver. by Luna^


Not to change gears midstream or anything…but here above, we can see the lungs of a smoker who has since quit smoking. If you notice, the left side of the lungs (left lung) has been completely cleared of all of the evil black cancer causing substances, and is nice and healthy…good as new.

But if you will also notice...

All blood has been rerouted to the right side of the lungs (right lung)…so that the smoker’s body, which is so desperately craving nicotine, can suck the last succulent morsels of nicotine out of the emergency reserves that remain in the right lung.

That's what I'm seeing anyway.
^ZZ Top-La Grange Gayageum ver. by Luna^


How is the weather where you are? It’s cloudy and cold here. I braved the dogshit piles in the backyard earlier to gather wood, because later tonight, I’m gonna go sit outside and start a fire. Assuming it isn’t raining. But yeah, I ain’t got much else to do except read a few others’ websites, think, write, and prepare to get the fuck outta here A-S-A and motherfucking P.

The rest of the residents of the abode are planning their trip to go snow skiing week after next. They are planning to leave next Saturday, but they are going with some other woman and her children, and I guess there is some confusion over when to leave and exactly how long they are staying. This kinda baffles me, but I know nothing about snow skiing and it’s particulars, other than, it seems pretty simple and straightforward.

Point of Origin + Destination + Mode of transport/travel.
  • One big assed room for everyone to sleep in @ destination for length of stay.
  • Lift passes.
  • Skis/boots/poles.
  • Warm clothes.
  • Money to facilitate the above.

TA DA!!!

Simple.

Mystery = SOLVED! Next!
^TwinBrix – Sirius [Free]^


As I was looking through and for images earlier today, I got to looking at this particular thing above, and started watching the…I guess what would be called “artifacts” if one were viewing this object “in real life” or “IRL”…as “it”(life) has somehow become known. How ironic that we are putting “the flava” IN computer graphics, to mimic what we see “IRL”…and we are trying to take “the flava” OUT of life “IRL” to better understand what we aren’t seeing.

So yeah, there is a representational…erm…”rift“…going on there. Almost as if to say…hmmm…say….interesting…sry…lemme start over.

Almost as if to say, that saying, is more important that seeing/experiencing (nod there to disabled/handicapped/whatever).

So what am I saying? I’m saying that saying don’t mean jack shit sometimes. Much like my observation(s) about The Voynich Manuscript. That there was/is nothing there to be “deciphered” at all. That the letters/words were almost as if someone was just noodling and doodling as they contemplated the thought(s) of

“Why are you searching for mysteries, instead of looking at these beautiful illustrations of plants long since extinct?”

Yes, I realize that there are many things in that book. People, plants, doodles, all kinds of crap. I can’t remember what all because I haven’t looked at all of the pictures from the book. However, as a doodler while in thinking mode, it was just a thought as I followed the curves of this “language”…and thought to myself…

Holy FUCK!!! That looks like some kind of shit that I would draw as I was contemplating an unanswerable question.”

Those kinds of thoughts that usually spring from some kind of joy/sorrow kind of mindset, where you as a person, because of who you are and where you are….you just…can’t give up.

There’s always a better way.

These spans of time usually end in a statement, that is in the form of a question, that isn’t really a question at all. Almost like “The Topless Towers of Ilium”…that you find, indeed do have a top.

Q: Now what?

A: Keep going...or not....whatevz.
^I’m Deranged. David Bowie soundtrack “Lost Highway” 1997^

*******

 

*Yep, Clicky… /evil grin… I’ll post the next bit more tomorrow…*

Cade… Have a Song 😉