O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O !

O Satan!

 

O Satan do you think I'm not onto your game? You arrange lives to despair. You put before us ideas of futility. You image people who are hopeless. And you bet that our vision of the hopeless will make us ourselves despair.

You, Satan, think that if a soul sees enough misery, especially if it's up close and personal, will cause despair and a consequent turning away from the light of God. Do you see how feeble your logic is here? Do you think we're so vulnerable?

I can feel your influence and, though I could simply fall into your line, I will resist it. You want to get my soul be making me despair. To do that, you've surrounded me with what appear to be hopeless souls. That's your game: despair by empathy!

No, Satan, no. I will not despair. You've surrounded me with misery, to make me blow my head off, but ... no. My soul is what you want, in your grand game with God, but you're not gonna get it.

My wife is sick and suffering, yes, it's true, but I will not submit to you. Even if she dies, there's still lovely light.

 

*

 

O Jazz!

 

"Jazz in 1946, 1947, it was wild," he told me.

"Everyone was overblowing everything. The trumpets were going nuts, and their mouths were bleeding when they did it. There was blood everywhere, and they even had a bucket onstage where the brass players could spit. That was the blood bucket.

"People were so goddam happy, even sometimes the people who'd had brothers killed. Even then, they had to find something meaningful. What'd all been for? Ah, yes, jazz!

"We'd invaded Europe, you know? And we'd wiped those jerries out. Dead krauts everywhere, it was brilliant. I don't want to brag, but I killed three of them all on my own.

"So, we get back, and we're all fucked up, out of our heads from the insanity we'd been through, and we're greeted by the most loony music you're ever going to hear. The Duke, Coleman Hawkins, Dizzy, and so on and so on. And you could hear their love and appreciation. They were a drug to get us through, and it didn't quite work, because we were a little more fucked up than music could fix, you get my meaning?

"Still, jazz was a cure. Heroin was the alternative."

 

*

 

O Pride!

 

He was out in the wind at a streetcar stop, and drizzle was coming down, and it was cutting through his coat like his coat was a negligee. He decided: I have my pride, so I will get onto the next streetcar even if it's as stuffed full as I expect it to be.

The streetcar crawled nearer, and he read its livery, and knew it was the one he wanted to get onto. The doors opened, and indeed it was stuffed. He decided: I have my pride, and that will see me through this misery. I really want to get home, and nothing should be able to stop me and my pride.

He had to stand very near the front, and though he expected some miracle to occur somewhere along the long journey that would empty out the streetcar even just a little bit, it did not become roomy at all. He decided: I have my pride, and though I am tremendous pain I will not beg someone for a seat.

Finally, a seat opened up near him, and he sat. His pride was relieved; it hadn't been through an ordeal like that for a whole week.

 

*

 

O Melancholy!

 

While I was obediently cleaning up one of the dormitory rooms at the college, two graduate students were sitting in it, near the window and ignoring me. They were talking about how sad they were. They missed their homes, and they felt the future had no reward for them.

I interrupted. "You should read Robert Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. It could do you some good. First edition was in 1623. Burton tears apart all the books in the Oxford library in search of everything known about the disease just as Democritus tore apart animals in search of the source of black bile. It's not a short book--the edition I last read was a thousand pages plus 400 pages of editorial notes--but it's a real hoot. It's the symptoms, the causes, and the cures, all laid out in logical order. In the end, though, it appears that writing the book didn't help Burton heal himself, if you know what I mean. Krrrk! I seem to have my copy here. Look."

They took the book from me, looked it over, and handed it back to me. I was just a work-study undergraduate. Also, strangers in dreams don't talk.

 

*

 

O Superman!

 

"He who quits, and runs away, lives to fight, another day!"

When was the first time, when was the most recent?

She had something like a boyfriend at a summer camp. It wasn't a rich camp. Everyone had to go home to their own beds every night, except for one. Come to think of it, it was a shabby affair. But then again, everyone around her was too poor to notice it was a shabby affair.

The boy was someone she felt friendly towards. They were friends for two whole weeks, and then they parted. There weren't any regrets, there weren't any scenes. They simply got onto separate buses, and she went back to her public school and he went back to his.

Months later, he showed up at her school. He's come as part of a performance of something-or-other. At recess, her brother brought him over. She didn't take it kindly. She kicked the boy and ran away to where they couldn't find her. Didn't they understand it was over? Why should there be an entanglement? Her emotions fought against her, but she won that battle!

"He who quits, and runs away, lives to fight, another day."

 

*

 

O U A I U!

 

A robot walks into a Fifth Street bar. It says to the bartender: "Gimme a scotch and soda."

The bartender sez: "You robots can't drink. Who's it for?"

Robot sez: "Did I ask for questions? No. I asked for a scotch and soda."

The bartender fixes up the scotch and soda and puts it in front of the robot. The robot seems to be looking at it.

The bartender sez: "Well?"

The robot sez: "I read an article the other day in a science magazine. It was all about how long it takes to verify the solution to a problem. Article said it can take longer to verify than to solve."

"What magazine was that?"

"Studies in Advanced Science."

"Is there really such a magazine?"

The robot doesn't reply.

Bartender sez: "Well, it's ten bucks for the drink."

"Don't rush me, don't rush me. Show some respect."

The bartender cleans a glass. He says to the robot: "So, anything else I can get you?"

Pause.

Finally, the robot says: "Actually: do you have a yellow box with an orange star on it? See, I have to put this scotch and soda on top of one."

 

*

 

O Drunks!

 

-It seems all the tv I can watch is all tied into what my wife wants to watch.

-O do go on.

-I can sneak in some zany violent stuff every once in a while, but those whiles are seldom.

-So whaddaya do?

-Go along with it, mostly. She likes those English detectives, and I can't say I don't like them meself.

-I like that shit myself.

-But it's awful weird, these recent English shows. Every marriage and every romance and every hook-up is mixed-race.

-I don't think that's impossible or unlikely.

-These cops, sorry, was I talking about something else? So, my wife likes these British cop shows, and I like them too. I'm big on detectives.

-Fine people, detectives.

-Something even more weird, ifImaysaysomyself: Are there really so many cripples in England as there are on tv?

-Haven't thought about it myself.

-Every show has some cripple. Last one I saw, it was a girl without legs.

-Why shouldn't she be employed?

-Soon it'll be like the Living Torso from Freaks, but in a mixed-marriage.

-Well, I.

-And then, get this, they'll cast some guy without a torso, at all, in something.

-Quit while you're ahead.

 

*

 

O Ignorance!

 

I'm going to here immortalize you, Ron Linker. I have to start with the context, which is a Facebook post by you and it reads:

 

Why are Christians so Pushy? They are always

pushing Jesus, Prayer, etc. Never see

that by other religions; OT is Jewish.

 

Where to start with this garbage? It's obvious to me that you believed this was a persuasive argument. Capital P on pushy. Capital P on prayer. No subject in the third sentence. Nonsense at the end. (No kidding that the Old Testament is Jewish! Mind! Blown!)

I can't say I've ever met any especially 'Pushy' Christians. Somewhere in the gospels, Christ sez Christians should evangelize, should spread the Word, which is incidentally the cause of the Pauline letters.

The funniest thing about your post is that you think it's some kind of Hidden Knowledge that 'OT is Jewish.' Holy fuck how ignorant do you have to be to be surprised by that? It's like saying: "Dirt is brown!" and expecting shocked faces in reply.

We unconfirmed Catholics are called to say: "Hey! In Buñuel's 'La voie lactée', we see Christ whooping it up at the wedding in Cana."

Suck it up.

 

*

 

O So True!

 

*

 

O O Death

 

--She's a body in pain. She can't sit anywhere for any length. We're both going mental.

--Look, no physio is doing anything.

--I know, I know.

--We're both suffering.

--I've lost track. Which one of us is death?

--Very funny. Skeletons can't smile.

--Point taken. It's the decay that's troublesome. We know about that.

--One of us is quite familiar with that. But who I can't say.

--We have our tasks, and we do them. But that's about all we can do.

--Cooking, cleaning, eating.

--You're not as dumb as you look.

--Point taken.

--And what's to be the end of it all?

--Eternity is a long, long, time.

--I believe in something more.

--Who doesn't? Who could survive without some idea of that sort? Bint.

--Is there some place else you'd rather be?

--Excuse me?

--Why are you here, now, with me?

--I think it's in my job description. Of course I'm here! I've always been here!

--O death. Can't you spare me over just another year?

--O now we're quoting folk songs. Pretty!

 

*

 

O Presences!

 

Every four or five nights, so long as it's a quiet and still night, I can hear what sounds like footsteps far off in my house. One night I got out of bed and silently crept down stairs. The loudness of the footsteps did not change. I went down into the cellar, again as quietly as possible. When my foot touched the concrete floor of the cellar, the footsteps stopped. I repeated this test at the next opportunity, and the results were the same. I call the footsteps my cellar presence.

Some evenings, when I am sitting in my living room, I can sense someone standing behind me, and silently. Perhaps I see ahead of me some shadow shift slightly; perhaps that's what makes me listen to my surroundings. I can hear night, but I know something is there behind me. This is my living room presence.

And sometimes when I go into my bathroom, I can see that items have been moved. Sometimes a shaving brush, sometimes a tube of toothpaste, sometimes a roll or two of toilet paper. This is my bathroom presence.

They don't really bother me, so I don't really bother them, my presences.

 

*

 

O My Paws and Whiskers!

 

I was sunning myself this morning in the East Room when something scurried beyond the patio door. I didn't catch a good enough glimpse of it to identify it as friend or foe, so I waited quietly for it to re-appear. How else would I know if I could eat it? I hadn't gotten any idea of its size; all I'd seen was a brown shape that could have been a lovely mouse or a nasty raccoon, or it could have been pretty much anything, of any size. The fact was, something had moved out there, and I had to know what it had been. After a few minutes, with my ears sharp as triangles and my eyes dilating to catch every bit of light, I slowly got up, making so noise. One paw in front of another I crept towards the door, stopping five times along the way to let it appear, if it was brave or stupid enough to do so. Then, I was at the door, silently looking out. I didn't see a thing. Was it hiding? Had it seen or sensed me? I had no answer, so I waited twenty minutes.

 

*

 

O 0

 

In the beginning was the void. There wasn't any reason behind it. Just a big nothing. Then someone did something, and the void was gone forever.

Which is actually not the case, is it? The void continues on, in the spaces between everything, from atoms to galaxies, the void is absolutely predominant.

The uncovering of the void took a very long time, and we're not done with understanding it. What more can be said about it? I don't know, because no-one knows the final word.

Even mathematically, the void had to be represented in order for any progress to be made. "What's this symbol mean?" "It means nothing." "How can something represent nothing?" "I'm not completely sure, but it's really useful."

We can't estimate how far from really knowing nothing we are. The empty spaces are becoming more and more obvious, and nothing works without it and the understanding of it.

Everything is moving farther and father apart, and the void grows daily and comes together, as water finds water.

Can this tide be reversed? Funnily enough, all attempts to do something merely creates more void. I can't think of the proper example to show how that works.

 

*

 

O Opeth!

 

Players halfd undrsootd hwta I meant when I saisd the tructure og notation could have been another way. The gigh nots coud l have been on th the bottonm nd the low notesd of the tio. Wut? Said David. And OI couldn'y ecxplains it.

Music plulse through you, and it's can'[t be under stood of analauysed. Everything we all say about music and how it works meansn other to how it worksd. We don’t' known anytigin about it. Asd I said to someone dearlt believerd by me: "Aminalsd doesn’t hear hmusic. Why?Becayw they doin'ty care."

Just to take one example, there's Opeth./ Theyre tording wielltoddoen ground, of King Cruiimson with a d=bit of or maybne a buit=g not of death metlal in it. I don’t know enough about it.

And there ;'sthe pojnt. Y9ou cant nowo enough abour music to uinderdstasnd it. It's all mental and it's all hoiuman, We can't control it not in the least. I thing this essay should be reserved for all tiome.

That we don't know what music is, or how it works, we should take as a blessing. Language is linear, mostly. But music--music!--is ultimately polyvalic, whatever that word means.

 

*

 

O Father!

 

The editor of the Inverness Oran answered his phone, which was a direct line, since the place only had four employees. "Hello, Inverness Oran, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Gus, it's me."

"Hello, Darling, how are things at home?"

"Everything's fine. However, this is a business call."

"Oh really?" She'd never made a business call to him before.

"Yes, I'm calling about Father Jim's editorial about Christmas."

Gus recalled the editorial. It had been wry and amusing, like all of Father Jim's editorials. Priests are good writers mostly.

"Yeah. His stuff about the Magi is all wrong."

"What's wrong with it?"

"He doesn't understand they were tried-and-true Zoroastrians. He thinks they were just some guys who saw a light and went to it."

"You mean he left out some details."

"Yes, a big detail! They worshipped fire, and light, so they were much more purposeful. Magi were big on fire. It's where we get our word magic."

"I'll be sure to mention it next time I see him."

"I think you're going to have to make a retraction."

"For an editorial?"

"Exactly."

"We'll discuss this when we have dinner. I'll be home by seven. Bye."

"Bye, darling!"

 

*

 

O Gross!

 

He didn't feel the need to bathe. He wasn't after a girlfriend. So why bother? He relished the stink he could throw, almost at will. They could all keep away for as long as they wanted. And if they wanted to stay away forever, that was perfectly reasonable and acceptable too.

He'd think dirty and nasty thoughts almost constantly. He'd wake up in the morning and hear on the street outside his apartment, and he could imagine them in truly horrible situations. This was his greatest pleasure in life. It would be great if he could scare one and make scream.

He knew he was transparent. He knew anyone could easily see through him and see the cesspit in his heart. Anyone at all could see it, and they would keep away. He never committed a single crime, save the crimes of lacking hygiene and decency.

And yet he would sometimes wonder: How had this all come about? Didn't he have friends once upon a time? There was youth, and there was hope and almost a sort of happiness. Who had he let break his heart so much? Clearly, someone was to blame. Who the hell was it?

 

*

 

O My Darling O My Darling O My Darling Clementine!

 

Goodheart, be not Victim Trillion of despair. The world is infinite in all directions, and there are tons to be done. The children of our generations and the children of their generations will not run out of things to do; don't think you're in any final position; we are always somewhere in the middle of space and time. The fractionality cannot be quantified.

You of the human condition know that making is your nature. So, get to making. Don't just sit on your ass expecting others to do it all for you. Genius not required.

Most people can sing, so: sing. Sing about anything, even about despair itself. Most people can write, so: write. Invent an unprecedented style, so future folk can do it too. Most people can create, so: create. Anything you can imagine you can create, and if you fail, what of it? We shall learn from our mistakes.

I own a mine. I call the mine mine and I call the mine myself. It is an inexhaustible mine, with gems in the ore. (A lot of dross, too, admittedly!) You are a mine, if only you'd see!

 

*

 

O Child!

 

The child asked me: "What is truth?"

I replied: "Imagine you are a one-armed Portuguese. You are on a mysterious island. The island holds an abandoned oil rig. One afternoon, one of your fellow strandees discovers that the oil rig is fake. He takes you all to a giant pipe. He lifts it up, revealing a ladder going down.

"Steam gusts up from the hole, at intervals of a half-minute or so. To go down will require some speed. You volunteer, even though and because you only have one arm. A gust blows up, whence you jump into the hole, grabbing the ladder.

"Trup-trup-trup you go, down the ladder, and past the vent from which the steam blasts. You reach the bottom, which is a vast room, badly lit, and rusty all over.

"However, you notice light. Beyond large windows, people are milling about, unaware of your presence. The glass is a one-way mirror. The people are acting like they are in a market or a pharmacy. They are taking invisible goods from invisible shelves. You watch, and wonder if you can ever reach them. Something is in the way: invisible shelving.

"That, my child, is the truth."

 

*

 

O 64!

 

Again I dreamed I was at my 64 again.

A sleek little grey keyboard, with function keys along the top.

What couldn't I do with it? Every possibility was open to me. I made it complete, and it completed me.

And today, where is it? When did I abandon it? So many things get thrown away, and only a few accidentally. Yes, most throw-away is intentional, and a small part is unintentional. Nothing in liminal in that comparison.

We wrote music together, using a program we came up with together. We wrote at least three games together. We wrote a Risk program with imitation players (who admittedly were pretty lousy at it). We imitated an adventure game called Pirate Island or something like that. We also wrote labyrinths, shifting labyrinths, which were a bit too easy to solve.

Those were the days of magic, those days so long ago.

In the dream, a machine from the olden days emerged from a dump. It had been developing all this time, and it was nothing like the machines of today. It had out-developed them. This oldster was a threat to the New Order, and half of it was ... me.

 

*

 

O Victim!

 

-I have serious doubts.

-The case is closed. All the Is are dotted and all the Ts are crossed.

-Something doesn't feel right. Deep in my bones.

-We haven't made any mistakes, right?

-Perhaps not, but perhaps so.

-Look, Doc, he was seen entering the building, by four people.

-I agree with that part, yes.

-Right day, right time, just a half-hour before the murder.

-These are all mere facts. Still, there's something wrong in all this.

-The victim's neighbours phoned their superintendent to complain about all the noise coming from the room.

-We have those records logged. It's all in the case file. And yet something doesn't feel right.

-Doc, how can you not be certain?

-Perhaps I am erring on the side of caution. Perhaps.

-Doesn't the phone call mean anything to you?

-The one, Help me, I'm being stabbed? That phone call?

-Of course I'm talking about that phone call.

-You've never heard of a prank call, Sergeant?

-We found the body, and the killer-

-alleged killer-

-standing there, practically begging to be arrested.

-That's the part that doesn't add up.

-Now I get your point. You're right. He's innocent.

-Yet, on the other hand-

 

*

 

O Eye?

 

Eye've heard there's a picture of a very distant galaxy, and that this galaxy looks something like an eye.

Eye've even heard some people say it looks kind of like the eye of God (or Sauron, perhaps someone somewhere said inevitably).

Now eye know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but eye'm a little skeptical about these interpretations.

Because after all eye can look at a picture of the Milky Way, and eye'm pretty certain there's a way to see an eye in this our galaxy. All it takes is a couple black holes in the middle to make it look like an eye-ris; and if you use the right frequencies for representation, eye can see how it looks quite like an eye.

In any case, this distant eye, which cannot have ever been seen before, can certainly not be taken any more seriously than the face on the moon, or the temporary freeze-frames of coronal eruptions on the sun.

In any case, what could it mean? Eye can only see that if it is the eye of God, it's incredibly distant from us.

Eye would say it shows God's indifference.

Eye would see so.

 

*

 

O Captain!

 

I don't understand what he sees in that big ship of his. A keel, three decks, three masts, a couple thousand square feet of dirty canvas, a rudder, a pine wheel to steer the thing around: I've seen better, and there's almost certainly better ones on the horizon. I've heard they're doing a bang-up job in Amsterdam. Bigger ships, but I don't care about those bigger ships.

What did he ever do to deserve that ship of his? Mom loved us both the same. She insisted on fairness in all things. After she died, things started going wrong. I do honestly believe I've been cheated! By my brother! Just because he's eighteen months older! Is that enough to explain it? No! It's not enough!

The lesser solution would be for me to build my own ship. A ship bigger than his, a better ship, a more, uh, seaworthy ship. I could start drawing up the plans this minute. I can see it in my mind's eye: a ship exactly like his, only ten percent bigger. Like, 11/10 scale.

The greater solution is to take it from him. That's what I'd rather do. The meek shall inherit the earth!

 

*

 

O Stevie!

 

"Yes, I draw, and I draw a lot. My sister gives me all the paper I want, and I draw and draw on the paper. She's never been anything but supportive of me.

"I like to do my drawing lying on the floor in the parlour. I don't even chew my pencils. Instead, I intently draw, and I never draw the same thing twice. It's kind of miraculous, really, that there's no end to the subjects you can draw.

"I draw people's faces, but only when facing in the other direction. I think that is more true-to-life. After all, more people are looking not in your direction most of the time. There are other directions. There's also some math proving this, and I've drawn that proof, but I think it got burned.

"I draw drainpipes, along with a whole lot of other pipes. Again, you have to be looking in the right direction to see them properly.

"My sister sharpens my pencils for me, because I'm no good with knives. I cut myself once, and it was a real mess. I tried to say: 'I was only looking for experience,' but I only thought of saying that later."

 

*

 

O Space!

 

Straight from the Country it was his first day in the City. It was a big city, and he had his first class--philosophy--at eight in the morning.

He was the first one there. He sat down in the third row, centre. He was expecting to learn a lot of stuff that year, even that day alone.

A few of his fellows showed up, both boys and girls. They all sat themselves down around him, but never beside him. Maybe that had to do with philosophizing itself.

It was his first class in the City.

Someone sat down beside him. A girl. He looked her way politely, and said: "Hello."

She replied: "Hello."

She had a phone that was more a computer than a phone. She seemed to be writing to someone. She would half-laugh every once in a while.

About ten minutes into the class, he felt her against him, shoulder-to-shoulder and arm-to-arm. Maybe people in Cities do this kind of stuff all the time. Little space, after all.

It was his first day in the City, his first class in philosophy, and the first time he got beat up by someone's boyfriend in an alley.

 

*

 

O No!

 

I know someone who says he has nothing.

He says: "I have no family, I have no friends, and I have no relatives. Automobile no, Vespa no, house no, furniture no, pets no, books no, and cigarettes no."

He talks like that, far more than anyone can possibly appreciate. He can name all the things he does not have. It's impressive.

"I have no hopes, I have no dreams, I have no aspirations, I have no rivals, I have no sports or games, I have no commitments, I have no responsibilities, and I have no organization."

I won't tell you where he stays, because I don't want competition.

"I'm lacking in skills, abilities, talents, intelligence, strength, wit, drive, beliefs, religion, spirituality, and common sense."

He lacks more things than other people don't lack.

"I have no theories, I have no idealism, I have no materialism, I have no pragmatism, I have no epicureanism, I have no platonism, I have no aristotelianism, I have no augustineanism, I have no scholasticism, I have no premodernism, I have no modernism, I have no postmodernism. I have nothing."

And yet, all said, I must say he has a terrific sense of absurdity.

 

*

 

O Sturm und Drang!

 

The gods gathered and started bickering immediately. One wanted this, one wanted that, one wanted what the other wanted, and the other wanted what the one wanted. Something had gone terribly wrong in the sky!

"Why are we fighting?" interjected a respected god. "What is the cause of our dissention? We can't be to blame, so there must be an External Cause!"

The search began, across the universe. They found a tepid little planet far enough away from themselves that no-one would miss it. It had a couple seasons to it, since its rotation was skewed by some twenty-three degrees. There was life already on it, adapting away to its environment.

Obvs, this planet was to blame.

"How can we inflict damaged upon them?" wondered aloud one god.

Another god said: "What curse may we lay upon their lives?"

The wisest god said: "Let us give them our natures, and consciousness, and let them deal with it as they may."

"And we can sell tickets!" cried a wag.

And so it came to pass that the lives on the planet were given consciousness and the nature of the gods, and the latter gambled on their fates.

 

*

 

O New Year!

 

Here comes another year! 2025! 5x5x3x3x3x3! That's a lot to deal with! I wish you all a happy and prosperous New Year, all 365 days may they greet you with marvellous hours and minutes and mornings and afternoons and evenings--wink-wink--all through the year! May you benefit and may you accept these gold-covered chocolatas to bring you fine times! I extend these wishes even unto all the people you know, your neighbours, your third uncles, your children and parents, and also to all the folks in the orbit of your existence. May God bless you all!

However

If you're on my shit list

I hope you finally get non-personed. I really would laugh at your demise. I hope you suffer a full-front attack by lice, I hope your house burns down, I am imagining traffic accidents, pianos falling from tall buildings down onto you, and rabid Cujos tearing you to pieces. I'll bust a gut hearing about your miseries! I'll dance jigs if your plumbing breaks disgustingly. I'll clap and whoo when your divorce hits the pages of the yellow press and tabloids. The worser the better's what I say about my enemies.

Happy New Year!

 

*

 

O Spiritus Ars!

 

This one is quite tricky.

Where will it come from?

Is it from somewhere out on the street, beyond the window?

I heard gunshots from outside a couple nights ago. I went outside to look. Down on the corner, I saw a couple strolling casually. I went back inside. The noise had been Mary smashing ice against the washing machine.

Will it come from the world of dreams?

I was standing at the top of a hill with Mary's mother and someone else. An earthquake happened, and the hill got taller and taller. In the end, there was a staircase leading down to where we had been. That was all, and there's not much to work with.

Will it come from the news?

There were a bunch of deaths in the last week. Jimmy Carter, Linda Lavin, Olivia Hussey. I don't have much to say on that score; Carter was a moral monster, I watched Alice all the time, and Romeo and Juliet I didn't see 'til maybe 1983. There's not much there to work with.

So, what is left? Only mere music? Let's see.

La la la la la la.

That's not too bad, is it?

 

*

 

O Happy Day!

 

Has come to an end. You've settled down in your nice warm blankets, and you sigh with wonder. How could a day be so extraordinary? From the minute you awoke to this present minute, everything went well. There were no angry outbursts, no-one was rude to you, you in return were pleasant to everyone, and, since nothing was hurt, something must have been healed, or is on its way to being healed. Perhaps tomorrow, the healing could continue!

You're tired now, quite tired, but entirely at peace. There's not a hint of an ache or a pain to you, or in you, or about you, depending on your dialect's idioms. Your arms feel right at home precisely where they are, and your legs are likewise. You're in bed, at home, and nothing is going to alter this evening. You don't even have a headache! How weird is that?

You're seeing your whole life laid out like a long journey, and there's a sign reading YOU ARE HERE upon this special day and evening. Nothing can touch you tonight. You have been blessed. Even if it's only a chance thing, on this day you give gratitude and blessings

 

*

 

O Lonesome Me!

 

I remember. We met at a laundry, and talked and talked. I asked her out, and she said yes. And so the following Saturday we went to the movie-picture show playing downtown.

At the intermission, I shyly told her what had happened in Dublin on 16 June 1904. She laughed to hear about it. (This didn't take place even close to any June sixteenth; in fact, it was in an autumn.)

My innuendo started to become clearer to her. I didn't let it rest until she finally said no, not on your life, I'm not doing that. Sorry.

I left my seat and went outside onto Main Street. I leaned against the cold brick wall and smoked. After about five minutes, she came out and leaned against the same wall but she didn't say anything.

I didn't understand what went wrong. The story was a cute one, and relatable. Maybe these things only happen to guys who are going to be great writers, and not pathetic and spineless schlubs like myself.

Finally, I left her. I thought she'd follow me, but she verifiably didn't.

I never saw her again, even though she lived but a block away.

 

*

 

O Blood & Thunder IV!

 

Seems like it was a long time ago when I was standing at the counter of a major chain pharmacy in the bigger mall of my hometown, eager to rent a console game and not just any console game: Blood & Thunder IV, recently released.

The lady at the counter understood what I wanted and she went into the back of the shop and she was there for a long time but then she emerged with things in her hands and one of them was definitely a console game and the other thing she carried was a videocassette.

"Here it is," she said to me, displaying it, and yes it was Blood & Thunder IV she had, but she continued: "and here's the complimentary video movie you get for absolutely free," and I looked at it and it was some BBC made-for-tv thing about some king.

"I can't use the video," I lied: "because we don't have a VCR," but she said: "Well, that's too bad, you have to take it, it's policy, don't give me grief," and so I took the video along, and when I played the game, every monster had her face.

 

*

 

O Effendi!

 

Tomorrow morning, at eight o'clock precisely, the invasion will begin.

I am not the invader, please understand. Rather, my home is going to be invaded once more, by a foreign element.

It happened yesterday, too, one of these invasions. All I can do is hide and wait for them to go away, some seven or eight or nine hours later.

I have to live in fear during these invasions, you see. They can make all the noise they want to, but me? I cannot make a revealing sound. Because of they find me, I won't be able to sleep for weeks.

Yesterday, the invaders came with all kings of cutting tools. Allegedly, they were here to replace our water pipes. And, yes, it must be admitted, the did replace the water pipes. We now have hot water upstairs, or so they say. (I haven't had the courage to check myself yet.)

The finally left, and we picked up the carnage.

And tomorrow, an alleged 'drywaller and painter' will be arriving. In a truck. In a truck. How do you think that will go?

Again, I will have to hide silently, listening exhaustingly, to every move he makes.

Invaders.

 

*

 

O Machine!

 

I knew I wouldn't be able to get to my office and my computer to tell the Machine not to self-destruct despite the order given to it by the Xerxes Corporation in time to thwart a cataclysmic disaster. I spotted an idle machine--I thought it was Stacey's--so I sat down, logged into sys mode, located the proper parameter, and toggled it to OFF. Those cunning Xerxes had hidden it in the replica kernel, and I fixed it just in time. Disaster averted.

I noticed Joan standing over me. "That's my machine," she said.

I said: "Yes, but there was a bit of an emergency." She didn't have clearance to hear the details.

"You're not supposed to use someone else's machinery."

"I swear to you, it was a serious emergency."

"I have personal files in there. I feel a bit violated."

"I apologize once again, I-"

"You didn't apologize before."

"Didn't I? Sorry about that, I've been under-"

"I'm gonna go talk to the manager."

So, despite my heroism, the manager of the data processing pool talked to her boss, and that boss talked to her boss, and that boss talked to one of her bosslings, and

 

*

 

O House Rules!

 

1. It is everyone's responsibility to leave the common room in the same condition as it was when they entered it. Especially when it comes to pizza boxes.

2. Musical choices must be agreed upon, or at least not yelled about. Amplitude is another matter. We've drawn up a log table re hours of the day. Zero at 2 AM, seven at 2 PM (when people shouldn't be around much).

3. Sleep-overs are encouraged. We're a liberal house. Only keep it down and be discreet. We don't want to encourage aural voyeurism. (Stacey suggest the word 'entendrism', but that's not a normal word.)

4. As with rule 1, the toilets must be left in the same condition as they were when entered. We all know who we're talking about.

5. Don't hog the phone! There's a payphone at the laundromat, remember.

6. There is noooooooooo rule 6. (Snarf!)

7. As a courtesy, don't hassle Joan in the morning. She's got tons going on.

8. Store whatever you want down in the basement, but don't treat it like a dump. Have some consideration.

9. General bitch sessions happen on Sunday afternoons. Clear the air, and we should live.

 

*

 

O! O! O!

 

I woke in remembrance. Was it possible I had a girlfriend when I was ten?

And I realized it was true. We were together whenever we could be. We'd meet at midpoint, Baker Park, whenever we could.

We weren't in love, because you can't be in love when you're ten, but it was close.

When we both were twelve, and exploring a being-built house in a being-built sub-division, she, above me, said: "Did you see my note?" I found the note amidst the sawdust. It read: "Wanna make out?"

We sat down on some bench and kissed and wondered what it was all about.

Don't misunderstand. I don't name her because I still love her.

A couple years later, adolescence hit, and we both wanted to know. In a forest, both curious, both trusting, we put hands down pants. It was a cold afternoon, and exploratory. We both learned new things that afternoon. Can you remember your first feel?

I don't remember how we fractured, but we did.

Later, we danced at the HS prom. Both oddies! No dates! Neither!

She married, had two children, then got back to being a lesbian.

It's weird what you see.

 

*

 

O Game of Thrones and Song of Ice and Fire and Second Song of Ice and Fire and the Other Books Whose Names I Don't Know!

 

There's something like six books to this, or maybe it's seven. (In either case, the writer, George R.R. Martin, is finishing another one. I actually read one or two of his stories a long time ago. One of them was called Sandkings, and it's a good story. He might have also written one called Unaccompanied Sonata, or maybe that one was by someone else. Oh, I think that one is by Orson Scott Card! My mistake, maybe!)

So anyway, this 'Game of Thrones' is a really long book, or series of books, I don't know what to call them. There's a lot of killing and so on, and I have the idea it's kind of faux-medieval. (In other words: it's been done.)

So it's very very long, and it got made into a TV series that apparently diverges from the books somewhere along the way, which had to be since the TV show had to end before the final book or books were written.

All in all? I have to give it a 10/10.

 

*

 

O Sweet Nuthin!

 

Telephone call! Line three!

She answered it. I was breaking down boxes eight feet away.

"Yes, how's everything? What? Oh my God, that's terrible! When did it. Do you want me to come over? It sounds like. No no it's quite all right, I can be there in. Ah, geez, I'm so sorry, really, this is terrible. Make up some coffee in a bit, keep busy, and I'll be over as soon as I can."

Disconnection. I looked up, because I knew I was going to get some information.

"It was Jen. Her husband was in a car accident."

"Oh no! Is he going to be okay?"

"No-one knows, it was a serious crash. She's been told to stay away from the hospital til two. I'm going over there."

I said: "Wow, this is too much. I remember having my dog running away once, and I looked and looked all over the place, but she was gone. I cried because I didn't know anything, I didn't know what to expect. I'm sure Jen's in the same situation."

"You think this is just like that?"

"Not quite, but there are similarities."

"Don't tell Jen your analogy."

"Maybe not."