The couple’d been hovering just around the edge of my consciousness for three or four days. Saw them in the BullDog one night and then in a hip little bistro the next. I’d overheard one making a nuisance of themselves with the waitress on the third day and had made up my mind to go fuck with them when OneForce came back to the table.
“Set up dude,” OneForce is all animated, rubbing his hands excitedly. He explains to me that his buds place in the Jungfrau is a full-on, OldWorlde castle. And we got the run of the place for a good six months to a year. It’s a writer’s heaven and for OneForce, well, it’s like he’s always needed precisely that to write what he believes his scientific masterpiece: the full-on Grand Unification of Physics. A big old castle that he can lurk and pace around in, peer at the stars, do that shit.
Me, I have other things in mind. Writer’s parties in which we all get fucked out of our heads and try to write a novel in a weekend. Like Byron, Shelley and his wife the weekend that gave birth to Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein.” Think about that weekend, friends. Mary’s hanging out with two of the greatest writers of the Age, a total novice on the scene compared to these two Giants and she’s gotta pump out a novel in a weekend. Byron just spends the whole weekend getting ripped and writing nothing of consequence, Percy can’t get in the groove, leaving wife Mary to produce a genuine masterpiece in her “Frankenstein.” You go, Mary, way to turn the whole GenderRoleStereotype on it’s ass!
I’m thinking about that. And firing out Cantos. And an Earthian Manifesto. And my Heaven and Hell epic. And, and, and…
“We gotta get there!”
“Yeah, but not yet,” OneForce yawns like the big cat that he is and eyes a couple of girls at the next table. “Inspiration is key.” We’re strangers in a strange land and it seems to be working for us. We move our chairs over to these girls table and within seconds OneForce has said something so wholly inappropriate that all four of us are laughing helplessly. I totally forget about the couple who’d been watching(?) me. It was that very same night that I saw them again.
I don’t know sweet FuckAll about any kind of spy bullshit or tailing somebody or whatever, but I do know that if I’m aware of them, they’re either total fucking amateurs or else they want me to know they’re there. Fine. I buy ‘em a couple ‘a drinks and fire over to their table. My movie, not theirs. I’ll do the talking here, thanks very much.
“Well, here all are again,” I say, and climb into the seat next to the fella. I slide them a couple drinks. “You gotta drink it. Be strange not to. Keep your cover.”
“Our cover?” the fella asks. An American. Shoulda known by how rude he was to his waitress the day before.
“Such as it is,” I respond. “How long you been on me?”
Sighs. “Since you landed.”
I nod. I’m not impressed with myself until I realize that my vigilance on these types of things dipped extremely low ever since I’d pumped out The Final, Ugly Truth of the Age. I just don’t care anymore. People know now. Fuck it. Kill me. I have no regrets. I’ve lived a full Life. And I said what I had to. Sink or swim, ManKind.
“Ever think of introducin’ yourselves like civilized people instead of lurking around?” Hmmm. Lurk. Twice in one blog. Fuck it. “Fuck it,” I said, “had fun?”
“Not as much as you,” she speaks. American as well. I’d hoped for something European, a real BondBeauty, you know? Hmmm. Makes me wonder if they were around for the SexShow the other night. Some chick in the audience reaches back and starts yanking my dog entirely unbeknownst to her boyfriend as we watch the couple go at it on stage. Me helplessly arcing great, spurting loads of DNA all over her wrist and forearm, and, I confess, on the backs of the unwitting couple standing in front of me. She never even looked back to see my face. Just
absently rubbed me into her skin. Ah, AmsterDam. A bit of a scene, to be sure.
“That would be difficult,” I agreed happily.
“I thought you were supposed to be all paranoid?’ dude asks me. As NSA agents, which I assumed them to be, they’d probably never palavered with a more relaxed Subject than myself. I just don’t care anymore.
“Why? Cuz that’s what you read about me in my blog? You read what I want you to read, motherfucker.” I’m calm as a cucumber, and letting him know the deal by speaking as if he oughtta know better than that, that he’s a child in the wilderness on this whole NetBloggin’ thing. Which really he is, if he’s never really bared himself to the world by writing of his innermost dreams and hopes and fears and insecurities in the wonderful world of Blog.
“You don’t think I know you guys are out there? Watching? If anything I’ve actually been waiting for you.” Let ‘em chew on that. I have been waiting for it. Now I get to look ‘em in the eyes and I just never ever blink first, not bloody ever. “You supposed to scare me? You’re part of my readership, I assure you.” I grab the female agents hand and look her into the eyes. “I wrote it for you, sweetie.”
My eyes fall to her left as the song changes. It’s Frank Sinatra bustin’ out “Girl From Ipanema,” right as I’m seeing a pair of eyes in the distance, watching me. I feel like we coulda seen each other from miles away, continents even. Dark brown eyes, ruby red, thick lips, long, dark hair.
“What time is it,” I ask the Agent outta the corner of my mouth. I usually don,t care about the hour of the day but Confluences have been coming to me alot as of late and usually in conjunction with music. I can’t take my eyes off my beauty across the bar, leagues away from me as she is, can’t even fathom it. And she ain’t looking anywhere else either.
“Eleven after nine,” my NSA agent responds.
“9-11,” I nod. Expecting it by this time. Anticipating these confluences. “Course it is,” I say softly, totally smitten with this Beauty across the way. “Ain’t it always?”
“What?” the dude asks me.
“It’s always 911,” I repeated, “ain’t it?” I get up and wave him off, still looking only at this dark beauty. “Stick around,” I advise them, “be right back.” I’m up and out, OneForce squeezes into my spot. We’d spoken of these two prior to coming to the bar and he hadn’t noticed a thing. They now have his full attention for Good or Ill. I leave it to him, for now. I have one thing on my agenda now and one thing alone. And she still hadn’t taken her eyes off me. Raw fire shoots back and forth between us as I take each step closer towards her. It’s on, Friends and Neighbors, it’s on, the Game is afoot and I will seize.
That is all. For now. Natch.
-iSense
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Mythic Things
Mythic things, great shining armor, the clash of steel, great love and betrayal, monsters, princesses, lessons. Castles under seige, battles on open fields, painted tribes on horseback galloping to battle with the feverish fervour of the enflamed.
Fate determined by the Gods? By the actions of a Hero? Monster slain and honor gained for favor of kings and their nubile daughters, the Favor of the MulitVerse, if even for but a few fleeting seconds. Blind, this Favor? Or carved into your Destiny the very instance the whole Thing began?
A man in a cave tells a story to a child, an old man sits on a dusty street-corner and tells the tale to a small group of children, a man puts ink to paper of a tale which is told in turn to the next generation for ever, until they hit the big-screen with multi-billion dollar budgets and the most impressive stars.
Mythic things.
A gryffin flies, the last of a decimated line from the ancient dragon wars. If you are at war with dragons you can be sure it is about gold and nothing else. You ever notice dragons cherish gold most in their dark hearts? The greed archetype. Peel back an archetype to an origin? Is there one or is it just a pattern that our collective unconscious trips into every generation? Why would not Man spiral forever they way we all individually do, make the same mistakes, feel the same victories, just as the vulture swirls in the manner of a gryffin?
-iSC
Fate determined by the Gods? By the actions of a Hero? Monster slain and honor gained for favor of kings and their nubile daughters, the Favor of the MulitVerse, if even for but a few fleeting seconds. Blind, this Favor? Or carved into your Destiny the very instance the whole Thing began?
A man in a cave tells a story to a child, an old man sits on a dusty street-corner and tells the tale to a small group of children, a man puts ink to paper of a tale which is told in turn to the next generation for ever, until they hit the big-screen with multi-billion dollar budgets and the most impressive stars.
Mythic things.
A gryffin flies, the last of a decimated line from the ancient dragon wars. If you are at war with dragons you can be sure it is about gold and nothing else. You ever notice dragons cherish gold most in their dark hearts? The greed archetype. Peel back an archetype to an origin? Is there one or is it just a pattern that our collective unconscious trips into every generation? Why would not Man spiral forever they way we all individually do, make the same mistakes, feel the same victories, just as the vulture swirls in the manner of a gryffin?
-iSC
Did I just arrive here or did I live here forever?
I don’t know but I'm pretty sure I don’t fit in here. They watch crappy television all day. Half them drooling all over themselves. I tried to change the channel once and it started a riot. Don’t rock the boat, that’s what I got out of it. So I don’t. I can’t figure out what they’re all watching or what they’re getting from it. If anything.
I get myself in trouble in this place. Throw food. Break stuff. Start fist-fights. It’s the only way I know I’ll get a latenight visit from Her. On the nights that they strap me down and beat me, she comes for me. Does things to me. Does things to herself, in front of me. And I love it. And I know she’s not real. She might’ve been once, but not now. Not here. Besides, she used to be pure as the driven snow...
They just keep giving me drugs. Sometimes it’s great. Other times I’m hyper aware of how bored I am of everything, but am powerless to do anything about it. It’s interesting though, my doctor? He’s not a doctor. I swear he was a patient here, and not too long ago. I remember quite clearly cheering him on as he threw a full bowl of oatmeal at the wall, then cheering on the guards who beat him bloody. He’s wearing the little white coat now, though, doodling weird little pictures on his clipboard, not listening to a thing I say. Will I get to be the doctor some day? When’s my turn? How does it all work?
The feeling is, from those that are almost entirely unglazed, that something must be done. We must escape. We must take the place over. We must do something. Something. Everybody agrees that we must do something. Nobody agrees on what or wants to be the one that starts whatever this something is. We are all afraid and at the same time, far too busy doing absolutely nothing at all. Each of us glazes over again and any coherent discussion is lost amidst the burble of my fellow madmen and an ever-yammering idiot box. It’s just so loud. Hurts my ears. But sometimes I get into it, you know? Course you do. How could you not?
I get myself in trouble in this place. Throw food. Break stuff. Start fist-fights. It’s the only way I know I’ll get a latenight visit from Her. On the nights that they strap me down and beat me, she comes for me. Does things to me. Does things to herself, in front of me. And I love it. And I know she’s not real. She might’ve been once, but not now. Not here. Besides, she used to be pure as the driven snow...
They just keep giving me drugs. Sometimes it’s great. Other times I’m hyper aware of how bored I am of everything, but am powerless to do anything about it. It’s interesting though, my doctor? He’s not a doctor. I swear he was a patient here, and not too long ago. I remember quite clearly cheering him on as he threw a full bowl of oatmeal at the wall, then cheering on the guards who beat him bloody. He’s wearing the little white coat now, though, doodling weird little pictures on his clipboard, not listening to a thing I say. Will I get to be the doctor some day? When’s my turn? How does it all work?
The feeling is, from those that are almost entirely unglazed, that something must be done. We must escape. We must take the place over. We must do something. Something. Everybody agrees that we must do something. Nobody agrees on what or wants to be the one that starts whatever this something is. We are all afraid and at the same time, far too busy doing absolutely nothing at all. Each of us glazes over again and any coherent discussion is lost amidst the burble of my fellow madmen and an ever-yammering idiot box. It’s just so loud. Hurts my ears. But sometimes I get into it, you know? Course you do. How could you not?
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Canto IV – Evils Past and Present
I’d hoped, like the news, to be unbiased and fair
And I want you to know that I desperately care
So am I unjustly dragging the Bush name through the mud?
Well, that name ain’t so pure, in fact evil’s in his blood
But don’t take it from me, Citizens, take it from the Record
The Bush family past is quite heavily checkered!
Here’s a genuine evil tale, hideous yet true
'Bout Granpappy Prescott Bush during World War Two.
‘Brown Brothers Harriman,’ financed Hitler at war
A banking company truly rotten to the core
A company to which Pappy Prescott belonged
And when the US intervened he felt grieviously wronged
They shut down the Union Bank with a new law, it’s true,
Called the ‘Trading with the Enemy Act’ in 1942.
This Bank sold pig-iron and explosives to the Nazi hoard.
Prescott Bush, Bushie’s Grampy, was Chairman of the Board.
One might think a new law from the President enough
But not for old Pappy Bush, who simply said “tough!
There’s money in War, take it now or it’s gone
What does it matter on whose side I’m on?”
So he kept profiteering on the blood of his own
Hiding money for all of the Nazis he’d known
Hiding secrets from his country must've been lots of fun
Cuz he kept trading with the enemy until 1951.
I know what you’re saying, that I’m some kind of nut
That I’m pulling this story, the facts from by butt,
I’m a conspiracy nut or a lie-telling Rat
But sorry dear friends, that’s not quite where it’s at.
For the facts of this Canto, I am totally in debt
To America’s oldest paper, ‘ The New Hampshire Gazette.’
The facts were checked out and for truth twas said yes
By both the National Guardian and the Associated Press
Facts are facts friends, and should be no surprise
That the Bush family name is full of murder and lies.
Why not Bushies Grampy making money from wars?
No different from his grandson and the rest of the Whores
That make up the PNAC and the Neo Con Right
Who make money each day that the soldiers go fight!
Which is why John Loftus had perfectly good reason
To say Pappy Bush, like his grandson, should've been tried for Treason.
You might ask yourself “why of this I’ve not heard?”
To your mind it’s abhorrent, disgusting, absurd!
“I watch C.N.N. ” you say, “how can it be?
How have I never seen any of this on t.v.?
From the pundits, the experts, the internet polls?”
Well you’re spoon-fed ‘reality’ that’s loaded with holes
Created for all by the good folks at the News,
With no trace of bias and the purest of views.
And I want you to know that I desperately care
So am I unjustly dragging the Bush name through the mud?
Well, that name ain’t so pure, in fact evil’s in his blood
But don’t take it from me, Citizens, take it from the Record
The Bush family past is quite heavily checkered!
Here’s a genuine evil tale, hideous yet true
'Bout Granpappy Prescott Bush during World War Two.
‘Brown Brothers Harriman,’ financed Hitler at war
A banking company truly rotten to the core
A company to which Pappy Prescott belonged
And when the US intervened he felt grieviously wronged
They shut down the Union Bank with a new law, it’s true,
Called the ‘Trading with the Enemy Act’ in 1942.
This Bank sold pig-iron and explosives to the Nazi hoard.
Prescott Bush, Bushie’s Grampy, was Chairman of the Board.
One might think a new law from the President enough
But not for old Pappy Bush, who simply said “tough!
There’s money in War, take it now or it’s gone
What does it matter on whose side I’m on?”
So he kept profiteering on the blood of his own
Hiding money for all of the Nazis he’d known
Hiding secrets from his country must've been lots of fun
Cuz he kept trading with the enemy until 1951.
I know what you’re saying, that I’m some kind of nut
That I’m pulling this story, the facts from by butt,
I’m a conspiracy nut or a lie-telling Rat
But sorry dear friends, that’s not quite where it’s at.
For the facts of this Canto, I am totally in debt
To America’s oldest paper, ‘ The New Hampshire Gazette.’
The facts were checked out and for truth twas said yes
By both the National Guardian and the Associated Press
Facts are facts friends, and should be no surprise
That the Bush family name is full of murder and lies.
Why not Bushies Grampy making money from wars?
No different from his grandson and the rest of the Whores
That make up the PNAC and the Neo Con Right
Who make money each day that the soldiers go fight!
Which is why John Loftus had perfectly good reason
To say Pappy Bush, like his grandson, should've been tried for Treason.
You might ask yourself “why of this I’ve not heard?”
To your mind it’s abhorrent, disgusting, absurd!
“I watch C.N.N. ” you say, “how can it be?
How have I never seen any of this on t.v.?
From the pundits, the experts, the internet polls?”
Well you’re spoon-fed ‘reality’ that’s loaded with holes
Created for all by the good folks at the News,
With no trace of bias and the purest of views.
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