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The "winners" of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest have been posted. The contest challenges entrants to compose bad opening sentences to imaginary novels and takes its name from the Victorian novelist Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, who penned the original It was a dark and stormy night.

This year's grand prize goes to Sue Fondrie, for "Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories."
foxtongue: (Default)
An excerpt from the journal of Metrocentric:
Across from the pub, an office building, presenting to us its side elevation. A column of windows, about half a dozen in height.

In many workplaces people making or taking calls on their mobile phones will leave their desks and make their way to a more anonymous part of the building: a corridor, a stairway, a lift lobby. There they stand and shuffle as they speak - if there is a window they will typically look out of it for all or part of the call.

It was that part of the afternoon in which anyone going back to the office would have done so, and the post-work clientele had yet to appear. I was drinking Bombardier, because he got the first round in and he can't ask for lager, he says.

Every now and then a face and torso would appear at one of the windows opposite. At one point there were four. Four in a row. "Connect Four!", I remarked. All this was happening behind him.

Once, when all four fully presented themselves at the window, and none were crouched into themselves in their phone calls, and two were gesticulating, the sun came out; the light fell on all four. The squares of window stood out against the dark concrete. It was like looking at a grand opera stage set: they could have flung the glass aside and burst into song.
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It's a long time since I wrote to you, Frau Milena, and even today I'm writing only as the result of an incident. Actually, I don't have to apologize for my not writing, you know after all how I hate letters. All the misfortune of my life -- I don't wish to complain, but to make a generally instructive remark -- derives, one could say, from letters or from the possibility of writing letters. People have hardly ever deceived me, but letters always -- and as a matter of fact not only those of other people, but my own... The easy possibility of letter-writing must -- seen merely theoretically -- have brought into the world a terrible disintegration of souls. It is, in fact, an intercourse with ghosts, and not only with the ghost of the recipient but also with one's own ghost, which develops between the lines of the letter one is writing and even more so in a series of letters where one letter corroborates the other and can refer to it as a witness. How on earth did anyone get the idea that people can communicate with one another by letter! Of a distant person one can think, and of a person who is near one can catch hold -- all else goes beyond human strength. Writing letters, however, means to denude oneself before the ghosts, something for which they greedily wait. Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts. It is on this ample nourishment that they multiply so enormously. Humanity senses this and fights against it and in order to eliminate as far as possible the ghostly element between people and to create a natural communication, the peace of souls, it has invented the railway, the motor car, the aeroplane. But it's no longer any good, these are evidently inventions being made at the moment of crashing. The opposing side is so much calmer and stronger; after the postal service it has invented the telegraph, the telephone, the radiograph. The ghosts won't starve, but we will perish.

~ Franz Kafka, from a letter to Milena Jesenska, whom he met in person only twice.
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On the middle finger of my right hand is a small lump, a callous right up by the first knuckle that used to be known as a writer's bump, prominent and round, worn into my flesh by countless pens, yet, oddly, I have discovered that my hand is no longer familiar with writing.

The crux of this discovery lay in a love letter I wrote last night, (bittersweet black ink on treasured boutique paper, short yet hopefully sweet), when I found it curious how naturally I remembered my cursive, (how deplorable my style has become!), and my kerning, even as I marveled at how very long it took to manually scribe all the words. I have become more accustomed to tapping at keyboards, whipping down thoughts at 75 words per minute, and the gentle, profound flexibility of word processors that allow me to shift chunks of text up and down a page, than the slow, steady pace of scribbling with ink, although it used to be the activity I did most in a day. Still, I appreciated the process, even as I railed against the pace. It is comforting to fashion an object, to have made something more tangible than my usual twist of digital light.

I have, myself, a small untidy box of such things, collected from friends, ex-lovers, and one amazing, mysterious stranger, that I can never quite bring myself to throw away, no matter how irrelevant their messages have become. They are charmed things, each page representing a strangely intimate glimpse into a slice of past life, time that I would otherwise forget captured as solid state memory spun from stationery, as telling as the rings of the dead trees that made the paper pulp. Riffling through them exposes layers upon layers of emotional archeology, the rise and fall of small relationship empires, describing arcs of meaning all the way from the brief glory before an emotional disaster to someone's gleaming desire inexpertly pinned to prose like a shoddy taxidermy specimen mounted on sagging cardboard, all broken clauses and imprisoned nouns trapped in a dirty laundry of terrible poetry and too many verbs.

So even if the practice feels antique, even as my hand cramps at the now unfamiliar act of proper writing, even as it consumes resources probably better left for others, I will defend the act forever. Love letters, even as a mad, sometimes callow contrivance of adulation, hypocorism, and art, are how I shall keep my heart.
foxtongue: (femme)
  • An acoustic cover of Home, by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros, by Jorge & Alexa Narvaez.

    He calls, soft, exhaustion laced, considerate, concerned. I recite, trying to remember the swirling words of the story as I find the book, flip pages to the story, "Here is the story of Mignon as I remember having read it in a famous old book." Somewhere in my day there was news about travel, about death, difficult to process, the sort that kicks in both the head and the heart. "A young man named Wilhelm was staying at an inn in the city. One day as he was going upstairs, he met a little girl coming down." He is driving, the sound of the city sliding by the windows, an echo of tires and commuters tinted brake-light red. I can picture him if I concentrate, the tilt of his head, the way his hand rests on the wheel, pale eyes on the road, even while in the center of my self, I refuse to believe in our structure. I hate how something so small can keep me alive. "He would have taken her for a boy, if it had not been for the long curls of black hair wound about her head." I listen to what's between our conversation, shoes crunching across gravel that I've walked across silently in bare, frozen feet, when he sits to undo his laces, the shuffling of a coat being removed and left on a rack. Habits beginning to be memorized, the shape of how he moves through space, the way he signs his name. "As she ran by, he caught her in his arms and asked her to whom she belonged. He felt sure she must be one of the rope dancers who had just come to the inn." All of this comforting, a little bit effortless, a narrative that smooths like water over stone. I skim through the book, my favourite story on the very last page, and do my best to quietly read, warm as feathers, sharing solace over the phone. "She gave him a sharp, dark look, slipped out of his arms, and ran away without speaking."
  • discount

    Dec. 16th, 2010 01:35 am
    foxtongue: (Default)
  • McSweeney's: Barbie Is A Product Of her Environment.

    She's getting off the bus at my stop, expensive fake glitter nails, under-age, for sale. What is there to do? Her laughter is harsh, a grinding thing, bright, painful. She walks to the corner, turns left to the stroll, knock off prada, juicy couture velour, industrial back alley bitchiness, swinging her availability like a weapon, something sharp with which to stop cars. Already she's taken drugs, eyes blank, pupils huge. My walk is to the right, towards the apartment. I look up at the rain as I wait for the stop-light, the wet drops smearing my vision as it spatters on my glasses. I am invisible to her. I worry for her heart.
  • foxtongue: (femme)
    ...But That Was [Yesterday]

    Song on repeat, fingers frigid from typing, everything around me perfectly still. We're talking about dying, about family in the hospital, about relationships that never were, chances that perished almost as quickly as they had become. I think about fire, about how much tragedy stains my heart, how much sorrow clogs my breath. The boyfriend who committed suicide, the woman who was almost my mother, dragged to death, pregnant, under a truck. Family wrapped in white sheets, counting minutes. A different parent, one of many, confused, waiting to die. There was a phone-call. Later, at some unknown time, there will be another, and perhaps the person on the line and I will cry together.

    I’m helplessly needless and needless to say I owe you.
    Helplessly needless and needless to say I owe you.

    Outside is cold, the rain has half frozen, but I expect colder still. Clothed in frost, in the shirt of someone I used to love, winter is crawling through the windows, offering loneliness in place of flowers, memories of years when I still had a future. They play out like beads on a string of days, tallied in small bursts, bright but too long ago. How is it that days are so long, while years are so short? Fractions of lifetime stretched out over bone. Cells replicating. I used to believe that one day would be easier. Soon I will be too old for it. I will be done, the last page written. The book closed. Somewhere out there, past the glass, there is snow.

    Well I’d wait ten thousand picks for just one more chance, just one more chance to see your face again.

    The people around me do not know how to cure this sorrow. Tender, they insist on holding me or pet my hair, as if rocking silently is enough. Shivering, I require more, to engage, to pull my intelligence out from my pain. Perspective as everything. (Not everything broken can be repaired.) On the east coast is a grandfather, lungs filling with fluid, and a boy near the phone. We write back and forth, filling the void with comforting words, distractions, poetry, and rough jokes. We write back and forth and I do not know if I am helping. I do not know if I am like my friends, heartfelt yet inadequate, offering solace that would comfort me, but not them.

    Well I’d pull, teeter away, at the earth with my teeth, the earth with my teeth to touch your face alive.

    The piano kicks in, quiet, insistent, with a sound like birds. I am collapsing, fracturing, splintering, shivering into pieces. If someone were to touch me, I would explode, shrapnel embedded in every wall, with a sound like a wounded animal, terrified and very, very young.

    You lie helplessly still as your face falls apart.
    You lie helplessly still as your face falls apart.

    My stress betrays me. Inside of my belly, chemicals misfire, hormones fail. I do not release an egg. "Progesterone secretion is prolonged because estrogen levels are low". My womb is lost, continues singing for fertility, even with the map misplaced. The walls thicken, then slough. Bleeding seven days, eight, now thirty. A flood. I grow pale. The red spills like an endless creek, enough to fill a pail. I am a tributary, coloured scarlet. Chunks of flesh escape me as big as the palm of my hand. My breath vanishes, the world glitters, and suddenly exhaustion, fatigue. It is too much effort to ask my heart to beat. I cannot move. My body is a heavy as lead, my veins filled with gold.

    With wax and wires and hair from the back of your head.
    With wax and wires and hair from the back of your head.

    With my blood, so sleep. I am awake in the dark, endlessly so. My breath solidifies, but my dreams do not. Instead I write, I reply, my back-log of messages attacked, finally, until dawn, the sun a smudge of gray the same tenor as a cough. To a former lover, lost for too long, I write, "Your silver hair makes me think of feathers, of flight, and the purity of light seen through the fractures of a crystal. Perhaps you are, in fact, slowly turning into a dove, one the colour of lightning, a tongue like glass and a brain ripe with electricity." Our love was a wonderful thing, poetry balanced on edge, the quirky, deprived, and mad meeting together as one. Maybe somewhere is a world where it worked out.

    Well, I can make your face brand new.
    Well, I can make your face brand new.

    We stay up late, my current love and I, an ordinary history of affection warped by misunderstandings, his lack of experience, the way he abandoned us the first time we fought. Where do we go from here? Defining what is wrong is only a first step, almost a year late, too late, almost a year since it all began. My eyes are glued shut with salt, hot and sad. His arm bleeds where it scraped against the side of the bed. My role has been counselor, not partner. Tearing words from his tongue has been almost impossible, the squeezing of blood from a stone. Together we have been teaching him responsibility, and though he is quick, he resists.

    La da la da la da da da da da da da da da da

    Dawn painting the top of the mountains, the world's orbit sliding day into place. The urge to shift from bed, to draw on the window, withers against the memory of warmth, of shifting discussions, the lace of conversation drifting over my eyes like something imagined from a far away land.

    You are warm, you are warm

    There are only four ways for a relationship to end; stuck together or split apart, drowned with misery or flavoured with subtle joy. Duality doubled, basics, building blocks, the future laid out as cabled strings that tie lives together. Abandonment, paperwork, making tomorrow always better than today. I fought for us until he apologized, truth the most harrowing weapon of all, and then my heart burst, as if there was nothing left inside the pain but exhaustion, terrible, cruel, but free. Even so, we are lucky. Now, no matter how it turns out, as a couple or merely friends, we will find peace. We'll love each other until death do us part.

    Come take my hand and I’ll take your hand
    And I will bring you out
    Come take the line and I’ll take the line
    And I will pull you out
    In the sun
    foxtongue: (femme)

    He slowly loses mass while I sleep, the cells of his body evaporating into morning. By the time I wake, he is gone, as well are his things. Defined by absence, no note is left, nothing to say he was here, only a small clear space is left behind on the floor from his suitcase. He drifts away like a ghost, particles shedding into the air with every breath as I dream, his kisses vanishing with him. Sitting in the bed, I find a few stray hairs on the pillow and twist them around a finger, wedding ring proof he's not imaginary, but still I do not believe.
    foxtongue: (beseech)

    Let me fall out a window with you. Place your hand here, upon the jut of my hip, where it rests in your sleep, where you grip my body to yours from behind. Let me lean back, just a little off balance. Let me feel the center of my gravity shift and slide. Place your other hand like a cradle for my head, as it hangs backward, trying to get the perfect shot of something sixteen stories below. The shape of you, the perfect heft of you, let it join me as I slip. Let your eyes widen in surprise, then smile with me. Let your lips find mine as they do in the dark. The sound of our clothing against the sill, the relaxed, casual laughter that will explode from my chest, these sounds will protect us, keep us safe, as we listen, absently, for impact, the beginning of the end.

    Before that, (our collision with the indifferent ground), let me float away with you, hands twisted in the cords of a enormous balloon, brightly coloured, impossibly huge. Place your trust in my wrists, where they strain at the ballast of our weight. Let me drift on the wind in your tightest embrace. Arms screaming, my fingers numb. Under our feet will be the sea, the turquoise horizon a feather shimmering gently away. Let us endure until land, our anatomy twisted into one tangled shape. Aceept that we are stranded. Let me make fire as you wave at ships, as you hold me close at the curve of your hip. The warmth of our totality, the sweet, delicious taste of our kiss, these things will protect us, keep us fed, as we signal, unwavering, for delivery, until the rescue ships.
    foxtongue: (26th birthday)
    I am sleeping tonight with a page from your diary tucked under my pillow.
    foxtongue: (canadian)
    365: 62 - 03.03.09
    365: 62 - 03.03.09

    His voice is almost convincing, "We could always try tantric sex." Her mind races for a few seconds, failing to place the non sequitor with any current topics of conversation, before discarding the notion altogether. This is very obviously an entirely new discussion. She thinks about the last time she felt beautiful. Once, before, even in this bed. "Where was that question six months ago?" she asks, instantly wary, "I mean it. Where?" He stumbles, reeling, "I... I don't know."

    In one white wooden drawer are her stockings. Fishnets full of torn holes, seamless black nylons with a back seam of flashing white rhinestones, purple velvet thigh highs that stay up without a garter belt, a pair of red and black vertical stripes with the toes danced out. Electric memories of sweat, ghosts as distant as England, as far as away as reaching out three feet and yanking on a bronze pull shaped like a vacant new moon.

    She feels as acutely cold as surgery, like she's splitting her arms open and only the bright dust of stars is spilling out. "I don't mean to be insulting, repeating this," she says, with a feeling akin to tearing off limbs, "but that was precisely the problem in the first place. I would tell you I need mental input more than physical attention." She taps his forehead, trying not to walk away behind her eyes, wincing that he never once breathed poetry, "And you'd only try to answer with sex."

    Dreampepper this time but before: March 3rd in 2007.
    foxtongue: (femme)
    He looked like any other low slung hip-hop hood, wide slouching jeans and a loudly patterned hoodie with something like the Yellow pages logo drunkenly stamped all over it in grinding red, chartreuse, and green, except that the music blaring from his shiny black headphones wasn't rap. It was candied children's music, something simple and Mexican, the South American aural equivalent of tooth rotting, brightly shiny sugar dots.

    "Maybe I should marry a bus driver," she thought, sitting next to him, "Settle down with someone with a steady job, who smiles at strangers. Someone with the celtic knot tattoo around their upper arm that was trendy when I was seventeen and they were twenty six. He could own a gun I would frown upon, play a little bit of guitar, and light candles instead of turning on lamps at night in the summertime."
    foxtongue: (moi?)
    I don't know Stu Nathan and it's very likely that neither do you, (unless you are either Budgie Barnett who has just come out with a new book of quickfic that's quite lovely, yes you should buy it, where you ask, why right here or Alasdair Watson of They Fight Crime.) I don't know what he looks like, where he lives, or why he keeps a journal. If we were to meet by chance in the street, I would not recognize him. The only reason I know his name is Stu, even, is because it says so right there on his userinfo. He is a complete and utter stranger.

    Why should you care? Because you should friend him. In among his regular blogging activities, he writes incredible character pieces about his fellow passengers on London transit, who he calls Tube People. Sometimes amusing, occasionally sobering, they are perpetually excellent and well worth your time.

    A satisfying excerpt from a recent post:

    "They clearly don't know each other, but they have two things in common — age and class. Bundled up against the cold in overcoats and scarves, the gentleman wears an old-fashioned check cap and the lady has a cosy headscarf. He holds her arm as they board the train in the windy West London no-mans-land on the way to Heathrow, but she's supporting him as much as she supports her.

    'Oh, thank you,' she says, in the effortlessly penetrating cut-glass tones of the truly posh. 'Thank you so much, I was afraid I wasn't going to get up into the carriage.'

    'That's quite alright,' he replies, in a voice you can imagine encouraging the troops at Arnhem. 'No bother at all.' But he's red in the face and puffing, and half-falls gratefully into his seat.

    They aren't shouting, and they couldn't be described as loud. But their voices carry around the sparsely-populated carriage as they make the sort of small-talk you might hear at a tea-dance. Faultless manners and old-school decorum, and you can see that everyone else in the carriage is paying rapt attention. Newspapers stop rustling. Pages of novels are unturned. The volume on MP3 players is surreptitiuously lowered.

    'You said you had children? A boy and a girl, wasn't it?' the lady asks, her head on one side, her face attentive.

    'Oh, yes,' says the gentlemen. 'They're both fine and happy, grown up now of course. Jane's doing something in social work, living near Brighton; it's an area called Kemptown, if I'm remembering correctly.'

    'And does she have a young man?'

    'Weeeell...' he drawls, his eyes unfocusing slightly and a wrinkle deepening between his eyes. 'Actually, there seem to be two young men around; they have some sort of... arrangement I don't really understand. They don't seem to both live there all the time, but they're both... around. But everyone seems to be happy with it, and she has one son by each of them. And it's a terribly bohemian area.'

    'Like a village?' she says.

    'Oh, very like. It's not my place to question, I think?'

    'And what about your son? What does he do?'

    'Yes, he runs his own business. He was doing something in the City, but he decided to pack it in and do something he always wanted to do.'

    'And what was that?'

    'He opened a sandwich bar with his wife.'

    'A sandwich bar? It's not one of those places where you can't sit down, is it? I can't abide those.'

    'No, no, there are seats, of course there are. And you can get other things as well, hot soups and so on, and I believe there are salads as well.' This is said in the tones of a man who has heard of the concept of salad but will have no truck with the reality.

    'And it's doing well?'

    'Yes, very well, I understand.'

    'Oh, good! That's marvellous. I do sometimes get peckish, you know, and a well-made sandwich is very welcome. What's the place called? Is it somewhere I could keep and eye out for?'

    'Yes, it's called EAT, so he tells me.'

    The man opposite has raised his newspaper to hide his face, and the pages start to rustle as his hands vibrate.
    foxtongue: (Default)
    I spent last night at Lung's place being wined and dined with David and Claire and writing a glossy, shiny happy proposal article for Reader's Digest about Slab City, where we were staying by the Salton Sea. Considering that Slab City is essentially a small town comprised of poor and crazy people pushed out to the ultimate margins of society, it was pretty tricky. Not only did I have to write in the sappy, almost vapid style of Reader's Digest, I had to gloss over anything untoward. Nigh impossible, but I think I succeeded. By the time I was done, I had a rough article draft which failed to note any of the incest, open meth use, unbalanced people suffering from mental illness, or the terrifying number of sex offenders. Instead it talked about how great our friends are. It was pretty awesome, like looking at the moon with a microscope.

    Via Lung today:

    Very hard at work putting together an article for a magazine. Typical photographer's home office scene just prior to the lingerie pillow fight:

    foxtongue: (dial tone)
    pluck nine shiny yellow lemons from the pile, put them in your basket, find the strawberries, try to decide through the clear plastic clamshell boxes which ones contain the best and most delicious strawberries, put two of them in your basket too, and one pink grapefruit, then purchase them and leave the store. peel what needs peeling, tear them apart, lick the tart juices running down to your elbows, smile, laugh, (try to find someone pretty to help), put them in a medium sized pot, then rummage through a kitchen drawer until you find a neglected potato masher, one rarely used no matter how delicious mashed potatoes are because there is just never find time in a busy life to make them, and use it to squish the pulpy sour lemons and the pink grapefruit that squirted while it was being skinned until they are mostly juice. while doing this, the pretty helper should have washed the strawberries in bracing cold water, clear and fresh and cool, and begun to pry the stems out with a fingernail, delicate and certain. they should then open the berries as if they were lips, something sweet to kiss, and toss the pieces in with the wet and acidic mess in the pot, brightening it with berry blood the colour of love and good music. when the first box of plump and perfect strawberries is gone, pressed into the rest of the liquid, take the pot, thanking the pretty assistant, fill it with beautiful water, enough to cover the mixture three times over, and put it on the stove to boil like a mysterious teenage dream of summer. when the mixture has begun to boil, possibly stir in with a wooden spoon, cracked perhaps from being left in the sink too long last month, a cup of the darkest demera sugar, as unprocessed as sugar can be, flavourful as honey. after thirty minutes of bubbling, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom, take the pot from the stove and place it inside the fridge, as arctic and pale as fake fox fur. the frost will lick it clean. when it is cold, it is ready to drink. enjoy.
    foxtongue: (Default)

    Bob Partington's Blood pen

    The pen has a battery-powered mechanism to dispense blood drawn by a syringe. (video).
    It's part of a series that will debut at the Bread and Butter, Untitled Exhibition in Barcelona Spain, January 16th - 18th.
    foxtongue: (femme)
    Looking for a Green Light: "Lighting is a greedy user of energy, and public projects can be particularly heavy consumers. But many lighting designers are in fact trailblazing the use of low-energy technology."

    I sent you a letter with only one word, Hold. A train ticket word for long distances, a place to put your baggage, to put your arms, the embrace awaited, wished for, forgotten. I picture us as if through the lens of a camera, floating in glassy space, anchored by places we have been, where I have touched you, streets that have been warmed by our breath. It is as if an echoed copy of you is still here, imprinted inside the tiny fractures we left on reality with the molecules of our voice, our motion, simply waiting for you to come home. We are clips from some greater film, the title of which is beyond me. (Before the screen, there was the stage.) I think of our constant tired laughter and your sly technical hands, the way they drifted, fidgeting, up and down the hems of my skirts. My imagination wonders about the airport, wonders at my apprehension, (as it creates shaky lists of reasons why I might not like you again), asks why I feel so dreadfully shy.

    I have been refusing to count down days; instead we are down to my Cassandra test of silence and all its implications. (Really we are down to fingers now, less the number of a clumsy butcher. I can feel my panicked heart constricting.) When, to combat my almost professional anticipation of misfortune, I sent you flowers, I irrationally felt like I had betrayed an unspoken agreement, yet my smile supernovae bloomed when I discovered the accompanying note had been garbled through a game of florist telephone. It was like discovering a new favorite song, transforming the simple into the sublime, with my eyes wide open.

    I am looking forward to seeing you again.

    Some electric companies have created tourist interest with their manatee populations. "... conservationists say the potential closure of aging electric plants is an unsolved problem for the survival of the species."
    foxtongue: (Default)

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
    A Guest post from Jhayne:

    I apologize for leaving everyone with a bit of a cliff-hanger earlier this week. My journal has been innaccessible for the last few days and is likely to remain so until Livejournal screws its proverbial head on straight over the latest SixApart fiasco. (For those not in the know, this is what's been going on.). I am hoping that using a third party to post will break past the endless 404 display that has cropped up every time I attempt an update.

    So! news!

    Someone's willing to buy the theatre and lease it to us.

    However, and this is a nasty however, we have to give him a proposal stating WHY we would be the best tenants in the known local universe. This is an investment, he requires a return. This proposal has to be delivered as soon as possible, because he leaves on a business trip in about a week. Of course, that's "about a week" as of Tuesday. Now it's Thursday night and I have just spent the last couple of days glued to my computer, ignoring so-called normal-human hours, typing my fingers to the bone and aggravating my carpel tunnel beyond rational belief, all so we would have a completely new HotW proposal done as quickly as possible.

    You people had better thank me, even if this falls through. Thank me and Lee, the groshing accountant Warren's provided us out of the utter blue on no warning whatsoever who's willing to work through the night for free, and thank Merlyn, who came and made me dinner and cleaned my kitchen, all so I didn't have to pause what I was doing, and Alastair, who's been hacking at my horrible rough-rough drafts, and Carlos, who's been doing the same, but from Washington, and Silva, who's been helping me write all today, and Michael Green, for continuing to know more about theatre than I have ever wanted to know.

    And with that, I have to somehow extricate myself form my computer and find something to eat, because I'm fairly certain it's in the manual somewhere that one should not go over twelve hours without a meal. This may even require I leave my apartment, but no worries. I'm brave when I'm starving. Signing out.
    foxtongue: (hot in here)
    In memory of language, I will spit you, craven, from my mouth. Every day that was a letter with you, I will burn. In memory of words, of meaning, of the double-handed dealings of my tongue between your lips, I will tear you from me, reject your chrome sensationalism, my infatuation, my glorified attachment to your acquisitive frame. I will deny and repeal all rights your hands had, all liberties of motion, all the rapacious, itching greed I had mistakenly, lasciviously, authorized and stamped with the sanctioned approval of my gentlest kiss.

    I will not allow you the animistic gift of speech. It is mine.

    In respect for adoration, I will not name you. Your face will be blank, as slate on concrete, as lacking in feature as you were in grace. In respect for devotion, I will not need you, not crave or desire your golden smile, your irrevocable beauty, your unfortunate habit of junk crashing my mind. I flatly refuse to focus on your absence or notice the anger on my hands, my thwarted fingers, or my dizzying feeling of rejection. Your singular admiration will sink into time like twinkling stars into a cold winter sea, your voice will be like an aftertaste, and the flame of your being will be as to ashes dusted out of a failed marriage bed.

    Medical-tophat, the creator of The Doctor Pepper Show, has a flickr account.

    The latest in WTFJapan: "I think I have that song for DDR" with dubious thanks to Ed, who wants to know why Japanese women "sound so uncomfortable?"

    Stevie Wonder setting fire to Sesame Street with an injection of pure funk into the Sesame St. Song and Superstitious.
    foxtongue: (feed me stories)
    "You know, most people don't do that," the farmer remarked off handedly as he tilled his vegetables.

    "What?" the girl asked, genuinely curious, as always.

    The farmer stood up straight, wiped his brow with his red kerchief and locked eyes with the girl. "Walk around with a flower in their mouth," he replied, nodding to the phenomena.

    This gave the girl pause, she tried to look down at the flower but her eyes got all crossed and made her dizzy. She looked up at the farmer and asked tentatively, "Why?"

    He gave a long sigh and continued with his tilling, "'Cause it's strange, that's why."

    "Oh..." She thought for a while, her bare toes stabbing idly at the dirt as she balanced on the other foot. "But it's not strange that people don't have flowers in their mouths?"

    The old farmer snorted, "That's right."

    The girl considered this further and said, "What do you call it when a girl has a flower in her mouth and yet is able to speak without it falling out?"

    The farmer grinned and looked up at her, "Bad story-telling."

    photo by [ profile] alois
    text by [ profile] kindelingboy


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    April 2012

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