A Thousand Stories : Volume 3 : Stories 0201-0300 : White

a thousand stories

j. blasso-gieseke

a thousand stories volume 3 : stories 0201-0300 : white

j. blasso-gieseke

Books in the Series A Thousand Stories volume 1 : stories 0001-0100 : black volume 2 : stories 0101-0200 : gray volume 3 : stories 0201-0300 : white volume 4 : stories 0301-0400 : yellow volume 5 : stories 0401-0500 : orange volume 6 : stories 0501-0600 : red volume 7 : stories 0601-0700 : purple volume 8 : stories 0701-0800 : blue volume 9 : stories 0801-0900 : green volume 0 : stories 0901-1000 : brown

a thousand stories

Published by Charybdis Press charybdispress.com © 2021 Charybdis Press All rights reserved First Edition No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the publisher, except in the context of reviews.

Many stories in this book are fiction. Any characters resembling actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Cover: 16 point Meridien Title: 14 point Futura Text: 10.5 point Caslon Layout & Design: J. Blasso-Gieseke ISBN 978-1-957399-02-7

For You and Baba, and the Muse too, and Hermes three

The author would like to thank Niall Twohig, Francesca Ferranti, and Josephine Blasso for their editorial aid, and Matthew A. Brown for his suggestions on the Preface. The book was made better by their time and attention. Still, any faults found in the stories are wholly my own.

Contents 0201. A Living Death 0202. Cosmic Horror 0203. From the Darkness of Dreamworld 0204. The Elvish Parsley Chronicle 0205. You Can Blame Harlan Ellison for These Stories 0206. What’s in a Name?

0207. Egg People 0208. Oh, Henry!

0209. Big Somebody in Realityland 0210. Love Is the Ultimate Element 0211. The Tulpa 0212. Taxes 0213. Soultwin 0214. A Little Flower of St. Francis 0215. Me and You, You and Me 0216. The Bobbit Worm 0217. A Story About Story 0218. Crumudgeon Bakery 0219. The Ghost Ship of the Bermuda Triangle 0220. One World Wrestling Federation 0221. The Frightener 0222. Mummy’s Curse 0223. The Order of Consciousness in the Universe 0224. Kubrick’s Rubric 0225. The Apotheosis of My Morning Constitutional 0226. The Fears Catalog A-K 0227. The Fears Catalog K-Z 0228. Through the Looking-Glass 0229. The Experiment 0230. Our Terrace 0231. The Door in the Ceiling 0232. The Greatest Superhero 0233. M.A.D. Men 0234. Book as 0235. Mostly Made of Microbes, Man 0236. Egregores 0237. The Psychogeographies of Our Youth 0238. The Psychogeographies of Today’s Youth 0239. Eugene

0240. The Good Apocalypse 0241. Gerasco Park 0242. Respawn 0243. The Four Primordial Lords 0244. Seeding 0245. Casualties 0246. A Hypochondriacs Guide to Their Symptoms 0247. Deep Clean 0248. Oaks 0249. Life Don’t Grow Where Life Don’t Grow 0250. ’Hood Robbin’ 0251. Disposable Body 0252. Eastern Westerns and Western Easterns 0253. A Man After My Own Heart 0254. Glacial Used to Mean Slow 0255. I Recall the Roller of Big Cigars 0256. Laser Eyes 0257. Odysseys 0258. Christ, Chrism, Charism, Charisma, and Charm 0259. Our Estuarial Moment 0260. 260 0261. Reparations 0262. Pierre Menard’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band 0263. I’ll Be There With Belzon 0264. Speedfreaks and Motorheads 0265. Tasting Notes on a Tae Guan Yin from Sheng Miao Xiang Teashop 0266. A Future Lyrical Film-Painting 0267. On Reading Long Novels 0268. A New P.S.A. for Witchfinders Everywhere 0269. American Neoliberal Capitalism Is a Satanic Force of Evil in the World 0270. A Note on the Word Satanic 0271. The Three Faces of Satan 0272. An Eventfully Uneventful Walk 0273. Goners 0274. Nebulism 0275. Crepitus 0276. The Thinness of His Skin 0277. The Master Simulator 0278. Seeing the Invisible 0279. And Then I Thought Maybe 0280. The Strategy of Stratification

0281. Vultures 0282. Whitman and I 0283. Could You Imagine?

0284. The Saints of Centipedes 0285. A History of American Film Projection 1895-2015 0286. Secondaries Sometimes Become Primaries 0287. Snowflakes 0288. Triptych I: Static Verb Enduring Sameness 0289. Triptych II: Faciality Without Profile 0290. Triptych III: Dubious Futurity 0291. Uncle Freddy’s Library 0292. B.A.U.E.R. 0293. Eden as Ending 0294. Cockfight 0295. The Temple of One Self 0296. Interdependence Day and Other Holidays 0297. The Green Machine 0298. Coffee and Comics and Tea and Poetry 0299. Argus Panoptes 0300. Sigil Magic

a thousand stories

0201. A Living Death

One time when I was a kid, I watched a low-budget horror film with my dad. After the group of teenagers vanquished the evil vampire, my dad handed me the remote and left the room.

Before I could change the channel, the vampire’s skeleton was shown in a coffin with its hands folded across its chest. Then, it did the unthinkable: It began rolling in its coffin! It rolled in anguish not just because its bones were confined to the claustrophobic interior of the coffin, but because its consciousness was confined to the claustrophobic interior of its bones. My mind reeled at the horror of a living death, and, once witnessed, I could not get it out of my head.

That night, I was paralyzed by fear when bedtime was announced, because I knew, as soon as I was under the covers with the lights off, the living consciousness that was me would be, like the vampire, confined to the bones of my body that was confined to the coffin of my bed. And although I made every excuse to linger amongst the living and the light, my parents would hear no excuses and sent me to bed to face this horror alone.

This wasn’t malicious, of course. At the time, I was incapable of expressing to them the depth of my terror. And, in the end, it worked out for the best, as their tough love and the need for a few childfree hours at night allowed death to become, over time, a familiar, and eventually forgettable, nighttime companion.

0202. Cosmic Horror

I was with my cousin Ginette in the rec center of a campground in Upstate New York hanging out with two guys, who, in true stoner fashion, told us how the length of our life was like a photoflash compared to the length of the life of the universe. This new cosmic perspective instantly blew my mind and terrified me beyond words.

My life was short and insignificant when compared to the inconceivable scope and duration of the universe. Even the life of the Earth, the planets, and the Sun, of the entire Galaxy itself, was short and insignificant compared to it.

Lying in my sleeping bag that night, I imagined myself drifting through space, past the dying light of extinct stars and the yawning abysses of black holes. In this hostile realm, I felt completely alone and overwhelmed by the despair of oblivion and fully understood that not only would I die, but that everyone who remembered me would die too, and it would be as if I never was.

I thought this was the very nadir of fear. But, when I stretched the logic out beyond the death of my own individuality to the death of all individuals, and then further, beyond all individuals to life itself, I found the bottom of the pit: Life empty of any goal, center, or meaning.

This horror weighed on me heavily, but as I worked through it, I discovered that death only exists because of our self-awareness; it is because we are, and this is the greatest paradox of our existence.

0203. From the Darkness of Dreamworld

From the darkness of Dreamworld, the name Ianephil Ketane floats up to me. I sleep-wake and find Ianephil dressed in a toga, sitting beneath a large fruit-laden tree. He holds a fruit from the tree in one hand and a knife in the other. The skin of the fruit is bright green like that of a walnut, but larger and smoother, like an apple. He cuts a hemisphere into the skin and peels it away to reveal a hard brown shell. He places the nut between the heels of his palms, folds his fingers, and cracks the shell open.

He peels the shell away, revealing the psychedelic color of the fruit. He cuts the fruit in half and shows me the inside, which fades from white to black at the center. He hands me half and gestures for me to sit beside him and eat, and I do.

From the darkness of Dreamworld, the name Yogi Gunzo floats up to me. I sleep-wake and find Yogi dressed like a Japanese monk, sitting on a hillside above a befogged city. He holds a pipe in his hand, takes a pull, and exhales an enormous cloud of smoke, which descends on the city like fog. “Everything’s an illusion,” he says, offering me the pipe. I sit beside him and smoke.

From the darkness of Dreamworld, the name Sola Ka floats up to me.

I sleep-wake and find Sola naked above me as dark as a night without stars.

She sits astride me, grinding in slow revolutions. I close my eyes and wake.

0204. The Elvish Parsley Chronicle

8:45 am This morning BMan and I picked and trimmed several large buds of Elvish Parsley, our new superstrain of marijuana that we’ve been permacultivating. This unique strain was designed to compress the high into a very small window of time.

10:00 am BMan extracted the T.H.C. to measure exact doses for smoking.

1:15-1:17 pm “It’s now or never,” I said and took the first hit. BMan followed.

Immediately, I felt my lip snarl several times in a nervous tic. I felt feverish.

Suddenly light sensitive, Bman and I put on our sunglasses and turned up our collars and believed our sneakers were blue suede shoes.

1:18 pm I fell way down the rabbit hole and told BMan he was nothing but a hound dog. He howled like one. We laughed uncontrollably for what felt like hours.

1:19 pm After the laughter, we were overwhelmed at being trapped inside the prison cell of our bodies and minds. The fear crept in. To shake it off, I started to rock, as BMan uncharacteristically took to dancing. We both escaped the jailhouse.

1:21 pm I goofed on BMan about his dancing. “Don’t be cruel,” he said. “Don’t cry, daddy. I’m being as tender as a teddy bear.” I told him. “Too much,” he said. “That’s alright. A little less conversation,” I said. We closed our eyes and let the high fade out.

1:25 pm We went our separate ways to reflect.

1:30 pm I’m still all shook up. Only fools rush in, but I can’t help falling in love with this strain.

0205. You Can Blame Harlan Ellison for These Stories Today, March 5th 2019, I received a copy of Harlan Ellison’s Paingod and Other Delusions in the mail. It was printed in December 1983 by Ace Books. The cover art is of a blue angel being stretched on a rack by a red demon. The cover is in near mint condition and the paper is yellowing.

Not wanting to damage the book, I carefully opened the pages and looked inside. To my surprise, I found Harlan’s signature on the title page.

Seeing this as a sign, I wanted to acknowledge my indebtedness to him by telling the story of how this project started: On December 31st 2018, I came across Erik Nelson’s documentary Harlan Ellison: Dreams with Sharp Teeth. I knew of Harlan but had never read anything by him. (I know, S.F. nerds. I know.) Watching the doc, I admired his attitude and work ethic and thought to myself: I’m done making excuses. I’m going to sit down and write.

Rewind to the night before, I was talking to my friend Niall about how I hit a wall with my novella. He mentioned the super-short stories I had written and said maybe there was something there instead.

Fast forward to after the doc, I reread all my super-short stories and write the eighth story in this book, Never Over Ever.

Inspired by the quotes Harlan had above his typewriter, I put a sign on my monitor that reads: GET OUT OF THE WAY. I can hear Harlan’s voice ending it with YOU SCHMUCK. So, thanks, Harlan, wherever you are.

0206. What’s in a Name?

Names are magical words. With a name, we gain control over things.

Before a thing has a name, it has no boundaries. Without boundaries, it has no identity. But once that thing is given a name, it’s given an identity that is bound by the limitations of that name. This is both good and bad.

Good because a named thing now has an identity and form. Bad because once its name locks its identity and form into place, it becomes almost impossible to allow that thing to change into something else. Names, therefore, can condemn and control a thing’s life. This idea can still be found in texts on demonology, where the possession of a demon’s true name allows the knower of the name to control the demon.

So too with handles.

My Uncle Rick was a very intuitive guy. He loved giving handles to people. Handles are like they sound, a name to hold people with, to control them, if you will. With a handle, people become a synecdoche of themselves, as part of them comes to represent the whole.

My uncle’s handle for me was The Amish Man because of my beard.

But my uncle’s handle also picked up my penchant for smoking pipes, my technological timidity bordering on technophobia, and my respect for older ways of life.

At his funeral, I was giving my number to one of his friends, who typed my handle into his phone as Omishman. I winked at my uncle in his casket, knowing that this version fit me just as well too.

0207. Egg People

We’re all Egg People. We all have our shells and armor. We all have our limits and limitations. We’re all born into a name, body, family, and history, without consent. We’re all confined, bounded, and confounded.

As we grow and begin to feel our confinement, we need to break out of our shells. Those of us who refuse to grow, or are comfortable with our confinement, must let others break free from theirs. Just as those breaking free from theirs must let those refusing to grow remain confined until they’re ready to break free on their own.

Those of us who broke out of our shells should look back on our past shells objectively. We don’t have to hate who we were or where we came from. We only have to recognize that we were them and there and move on. Truly, there’s no end to the shells as we move from lower to higher valences of understanding.

My friend once pointed out how we say, “You crack me up” when someone makes us laugh. To be cracked up is to have our shells cracked open and our soft insides exposed. We’re disarmed and disarmored by laughter.

This is the power of a skilled comedian. They can crack the shell of our skulls on the edge of a skillet with a joke that lets the yolk of our brains pour out in the golden laughter of a shared identity. Your personal laughter joins the laughter of the crowd. You’re an Egg Person. I’m an Egg Person. We’re all Egg People.

0208. Oh, Henry!

Inside the funeral home, Martha stared at her husband, Henry, lying in the casket. People shook her hand and offered their condolences, but Martha didn’t see or hear any of them. She could only think about Henry and how he had died and how she never got a chance to say goodbye.

Martha went through the motions and, before she knew it, Henry was buried and she was back at home. Before leaving, her daughter begged her to come stay with her, but Martha wanted to be alone in her own home comforted by the habits of her routine.

As she cleaned and re-cleaned the house, Martha kept thinking about Henry. She desperately wanted to say goodbye to him, to see where he was, and how he was doing. To contact him, she contacted a medium to perform a séance.

Martha arranged candles on the table and lit them exactly as the medium directed. When the medium arrived, Martha led her to the table where they sat and held hands as the medium began calling out to Henry.

Martha thought she noticed the candles flicker before the medium dropped her chin to her chest. When the medium looked up at Martha there was a different gleam in her eyes as her brow furrowed just like Henry’s. Then, in his voice, she heard him say, “Jesus Christ, Martha. I can’t even escape you when I’m dead. What do you want to nag me about now? Did I leave a dish in the sink?”

Martha dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, Henry!”

0209. Big Somebody in Realityland

In Realityland, I say I’m a big nobody to all the one-eyed giants who see everything around them fit for food. If you’re not careful, they’ll gobble you up. The ones with the one-eye are always hungry and pitching a fit to be fed. When you’re a big nobody, or even a little nobody, you can often get by unseen. But if you get seen, act clever and escape. Don’t do anything like poke their eye out, because that’s when they’ll go running for their Papa like big babies yelling, “Papa, Papa, help me. That little nobody put my eye out. That little nobody made me blind.” And their old Papa will get real mad that you hurt his son and he’ll hunt you down relentlesslike. If you’re a big nobody and can hide well, you’re safe, because old Papa won’t know where to look. But if you get wise, and think you can outfox old Papa, you’ll be in for a rude awakening and a dead reckoning, especially if you tell him your name. You see, unlike his sons, old Papa has two eyes, and if you started trouble, he’ll know you probably have two eyes too, and will want to punish you something awful, because old Papa wants everyone with one eye, old Papa wants everyone seeing the same. So, just say you’re a big nobody and keep to yourself and sneak on by unseen. But say you say you’re a big somebody to old Papa and stand on his level, then you’d better be a god yourself.

0210. Love Is the Ultimate Element

Love is the ultimate element, the chance meeting of atoms, the entanglement of particles, carrying each other forever.

In a warm bed, I’m holding you. You breathe gently, sleeping. I reach up and stroke your hair, a gesture of molecules on molecules. And then you’re not there. And then I’m gone too. And though no one is there as witness, and though no memory remains, you and I were there together.

And that was enough.

Or was it? Abyssus abyssum. Deep calls unto deep. No longer the brightness and the heat, only its loss and negation, only its devastation, only the darkness and cold and the nothingness beyond the nothingness beyond.

The shotgun rests on the bridge of my nose. I stare down into two black barrels of primordial darkness. The trigger trips lightly. There’s light and noise, and the scattering of my matter, bright and hot behind me, a cosmos erupting in slow motion, creating the illimitable space between stars.

Then, I see there’s no escape. There’s no escaping you escaping me.

There’s no not being a part of this. I’m always a part of this, a part of you, no matter how far apart I am from you, from this. I carry you inside me.

You carry me inside you. We carry each other. We carry everyone and everything. We are vessels of love.

Our love changes the cosmos, transforms the cosmos, into love. How could I not see the connection and interconnection?

I set the shotgun down. No more self-harm. No more death. I live for love.

0211. The Tulpa

Geraldine and Edward couldn’t conceive a child on their own. They had done everything available to science that they could afford, but nothing worked. They looked into adoption agencies, visited children, newborns, and pregnant mothers, but it didn’t feel right for them.

After a long discussion, they realized that they wanted a child that they made. They wanted a child that they created together as an expression of their love. This was the most important thing for them. They didn’t know what to do next and thought they had run out of options. They were getting desperate, but their desperation pushed them to discover the concept of a tulpa, a being created as a projection of the mind.

Geraldine and Edward took time off of work, powered down all their devices, cleaned their house, bathed together, dressed comfortably, and began meditating. They sat facing each other, holding hands and concentrating their will, desire, and love into a single point, the thoughtform of a child, a young boy they named Michael.

They described Michael, his height, the color of his eyes and hair, his disposition and intelligence. As they described him, they could see him in their mind’s eye and they could hear him in their mind’s ear. He smiled at them and called them mommy and daddy. Geraldine put her arms around him and pulled him in close, crying tears of joy. She now had a son. Edward wrapped his arms around them both. He now had a family.

And the three sat and played together all through the night.

0212. Taxes

Today, I submitted all the paperwork for my taxes to my accountant. I still can’t do it myself. I was never strong at math; I have terrible dyslexia with numbers and I’m shit at following written directions and reading forms.

After leaving my accountant, I realized how many people hate paying taxes to fund a system that doesn’t really work for them. When my money is taken out weekly to fund this system, I know it’s supporting the unsupportable asocial structures of oil, war, and prisons. Imagine what it would be like to pay taxes that supported the supportable social structures of green energy, healthcare, and education. Could you imagine a system that works for everyone and not just the few?

Presidential candidates are already beginning their campaigns for the 2020 election. Trump is already decrying socialism. But how can someone born with a platinum spoon in his mouth decry socialism? Especially someone who refuses to show his own tax returns.

Socialism is social capital, which means putting people before profits, which means investing in the needs of people before investing in the needs of corporations. Socialism doesn’t mean making the rich poor, it means putting a floor under every citizen so no one lives in poverty; it means not squeezing the last cent from everyone so a few sociopaths can become billionaires. Socialism doesn’t mean ending innovation and entrepreneurship, it means creating a robust economy that benefits, supports, and protects everyone; it means creating a kinder and more equitable society.

And it means us wanting to pay our taxes.

0213. Soultwin

Torkal the Finder had been following the trail of his Soultwin, Erganath the Lost, across the universe. Wherever Torkal went, he found vague signs of Erganath’s passing. Over untold millennia, Torkal kept up his search, but Erganath continued to evade him.

It was only in recent centuries that Torkal knew he was gaining ground, as the signs became more obvious and distinct until, at last, he glimpsed his brother and called out to him.

Erganath stopped and turned towards the direction of the voice.

“At last, I’ve found you,” Torkal said, approaching Erganath.

Both brothers were surprised to see their identical likeness in the other’s face.

“Who are you?” Erganath asked.

“It’s me, your Soultwin and brother, Torkal the Finder.”

“I didn’t know I had a Soultwin and brother. I thought I was lost and alone.”

“That’s why I’ve been searching for you. To tell you you were lost, but never alone.”

Erganath smiled with tears in his eyes. “You’ve been searching for me all this time?”

“I have. And now, I’ve found you. Please come with me, brother, and never be lost and alone again,” Torkal said, embracing Erganath the Found.

In another part of the universe, Anaseme the Peaceful joined her Soultwin, Magun the Anguished, and ended her suffering with a kiss.

And in another part of the universe, Kalabek the Free joined his Soultwin, Valdor the Bound, and ended his suffering with a touch.

And in another part of the universe, Ula the Wise joined her Soultwin, Siphane the Ignorant, and ended her suffering with a whisper.

0214. A Little Flower of St. Francis

After St. Francis finished preaching to the birds, they took to the air and gathered like angels over his head to form four flocks that flew off in the four directions to spread the word of the Lord to all the birds of the world.

Later, while traveling, St. Francis met a boy carrying turtledoves and asked the boy for the birds to save them from death. The boy was moved by the saint’s plea and gave them to him. St. Francis brought the birds to his hut, built nests for them, and tasked them to multiply. The turtledoves laid eggs and raised their chicks until St. Francis gave them permission to return to the wild.

Near the end of St. Francis’s life, while he was suffering from blindness and the stigmata, a turtledove entered his hut and called out to him. St. Francis extended his hand and the bird hopped onto his wounded palm and began singing its message: The birds had finished spreading the word of the Lord to all the birds of the world. St. Francis thanked the turtledove and blessed it.

As the turtledove flew away, St. Francis contemplated its message. He knew that with the birds’ mission completed, his mission would soon be completed too. He had no fear of Sister Death, but he became sad that he would no longer preach the way of the Lord to the world. To cheer himself, St. Francis moved to the door and lifted his face to Brother Sun. Whispering thanks, a canticle composed itself on his lips.

0215. Me and You, You and Me

“Who’re you talking to?”

“You. I’m obviously talking to you. There’s no one else around here.”

“It’s just that you keep calling me you, but I’m not you, I’m me. You’re you.”

“You’re a you from my perspective and a me from yours.”

“Let me get this straight. I’m a you from your perspective and a me from mine?”

“Yes.” “That sounds correct. I’m a me from my perspective and you’re a you from yours.”

“It is correct, and always has been, because that’s how we speak. See, I said we to talk about both you and I.” “You mean you and me?”

“Yes.” “So, you’re talking about the both of us?”

“Yes. In that sentence that I just spoke, I was talking about both of us, and the language that we share, and the rules that we follow. But before that, I was talking about you who is not me because I’m me and you’re you.”

“But I’m me.”

“Yes. Correct. You’re you.”

“So, you’re talking about you?”

“No. I’m talking about you.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Holy shit. What’s wrong with you?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out because you keep saying you when I’m me.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“What?”

“Kidding me. Are you kidding me? Because it’s not funny.”

“No, none of this funny. Listen: Do you really not know the difference between me and you?”

“Wait. Why do you keep talking about yourself the way you’re talking about yourself?”

“Me?” “No, not me. You.” “Somebody please shoot me.”

0216. The Bobbit Worm

Eunice aphroditois is a predatory worm living in the sandy floor of the Indian Ocean. It was nicknamed the Bobbit worm in “honor of ” Lorena Bobbitt, who, after years of alleged abuse at the hands of her husband, John Wayne Bobbitt, cut off his penis with a kitchen knife.

The Bobbit worm is an ambush predator that uses its scissor-like jaws to catch fish and other prey. The jaws of the Bobbit worm are so powerful they can shear small fish in half. It’s the jaws that drew the comparison to Lorena, but another comparison can be drawn to John Wayne, as the worm itself looks a bit like a disembodied penis. However, the average length of a Bobbit worm is three feet long. So, the penis comparison ends there.

As the story goes, Lorena drove off with John Wayne’s penis and tossed it out the window of her moving car. After doing this, she called the police and told them what she did and the approximate location where John Wayne’s penis could be found. The police searched for John Wayne’s penis. When they eventually found it, it was rushed to the hospital to be reattached to John Wayne.

The namers of the Bobbit worm packed a final bit of humor into the name of this frightening creature. Eunice is a female Greek name meaning ‘good victory’ and aphroditois comes from Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, who was born from the cropped genitals of her grandfather, Uranus, after his son, Cronus, castrated him and threw them into the sea.

0217. A Story About Story

Everything in our lives is a story. If I’m telling you about what happened during my day or the day, or if I’m telling you about something that happened in my past or the past, I’m telling you a story. Likewise, if I’m telling you about plans for my future or the future, I’m telling you a story.

Whenever we speak to each other, we’re telling stories. Whenever we listen to each other, we’re listening to stories. We’re never not telling or listening to each other’s stories. It’s the same with reading books, watching movies, or listening to music, we’re reading, watching, and listening to stories.

Stories are such an essential part of our lives that we’re never aware that our lives are made up of them. To be human is to tell stories. To tell stories is to communicate. To communicate is to commune with other people across the abyss of selfhood that separates us. When separate selves share the same story, they build a community and create a cult from which their culture emerges.

Even if we follow story to the extreme edge of meaning where it breaks down into abstraction, we’ll find that story has led us not to the end of story but to the beginning of story, because story exists in a closed samsaric loop.

The only time we’re not telling stories is when we’re present in the moment. This is the power of meditation. Meditation is mediation between the past and future, which sustains you in the ever-silent, everpresent, and ever-changing eternity of now.

0218. Crumudgeon Bakery

At Crumudgeon Bakery, our motto is: Life’s crumby. Eat cake.™ Crumudgeon Bakery is world famous for its Crumb Cakes.

Other than our regular Crumb Cakes, which is our moist yellow cake topped high with delicious crumbs and dusted with powdered sugar, we’re also known for our: Apple Crumb Cakes, which adds apples into our yellow cake, Filled Crumb Cakes, which adds a layer of sweet jelly or custard between the cake and crumbs, Chocolate Crumb Cakes, which is our moist chocolate cake topped high with crumbs made with Dutch processed cocoa and dusted with powdered sugar, and Filled Chocolate Crumb Cakes, which adds a layer of sweet jelly or custard between the cake and crumbs.

Our more popular filling layers for our Filled Crumb Cakes are Raspberry, Strawberry, Blueberry, Apple, Lemon, Vanilla Custard, and Chocolate Custard.

Our more popular filling layers for our Filled Chocolate Crumb Cakes are Raspberry, Strawberry, Blueberry, Milk Chocolate Custard, and Dark Chocolate Custard.

We also serve a Pizza Crumb, which is a thin, flaky, rolled crust topped with crumbs and powdered sugar. This comes in Raspberry Crumb, Chocolate Crumb, and Raspberry Chocolate Crumb.

We also serve hot and cold brewed Fair Trade coffee from Yirgacheffe, Ethiopia, the birthplace of coffee.

We also serve a rich blended tea made from all tea-producing nations called American Breakfast that can handle milk or cream and a sweetener of choice, but remains delicate enough to drink with lemon or without. It also makes a refreshing iced tea.

So come down to Crumudgeon Bakery and let’s eat cake and commiserate.

0219. The Ghost Ship of the Bermuda Triangle

Barry stood on the back deck of the cruise ship looking out at the Atlantic.

Bored as hell, he leaned on the railing and sighed. He hoped they would reach port soon. He felt like he’d been on the ship forever.

Barry never wanted to take this cruise, he hated the ocean, but Jody had promised the kids a Bermuda vacation and this was the cheapest option. He thought about his family. Right now, they were probably stuffing their faces at the endless buffet.

Barry glanced into the sky. There were no clouds or birds, just a dull gray dome that descended into a dull gray ocean. Barry stretched his body out to look down the back of the ship and, for the first time, realized there was no wake.

Barry puzzled over this for a minute, trying to remember if he had ever seen the ship’s wake before. He didn’t know much about ship engines or propeller design, but he was pretty sure ships always produced a wake.

Barry turned and looked around him suspiciously. There were elderly couples playing shuffleboard, parents drinking at the bar, teenagers lying about on the lounge chairs, and kids playing in the pool. Everything seemed normal.

Barry then heard the song Margaritaville coming from the bar. In the split second between hearing it end and start over again, he realized he was caught in a loop, going around in circles like the ship was at sea. But before he could scream in horror, Barry turned mechanically to look back out at the Atlantic.

0220. One World Wrestling Federation

When First World countries stopped exploiting Third World countries for cheap labor and resources and began helping them build their wealth to create a level playing field for every citizen of the world, international competitive sports took off as they had never taken off before, and for the first time in history, these sports became truly international. With countries competing against each other on playing fields instead of killing each other on battlefields, military budgets shifted to fund various teams ranging from Formula 1 Racing to Racewalking.

One of the events watched annually by over a billion people worldwide is the One World Wrestling Federation Championship. This year, amidst tough competition to enter the Playoffs, sixteen teams stood ready to battle for the coveted O.W.W.F. title.

The First Round saw the Iranian Pahlevans beat the Azerbaijani Guleshes; the Mexican Luchadores beat the Chinese Shuai Jiaos; the Japanese Puroresumos beat the Armenian Kokhs; the British Catchers beat the Burmese Nabans; the Icelandic Glimas beat the Brazilian Lutas; the Indian Kushtis beat the Senegalese Laambs; the Mongolian Buryats beat the Maori Mamaus; and the Ethiopian Tigels beat the Scottish Backholders.

The Second Round saw the Pahlevans beating former titleholders, the Luchadores, in a major upset. The Puroresumos narrowly defeated the Catchers. The Glimas came out on top against the Kushtis. And in another surprise upset, the Buryats toppled the Tigels.

The Third Round saw the Pahlevans best the Buryats and the Glimas surpass the Puroresumos.

The Final Round will see the Pahlevans face off against the Glimas.

Who will win?

Stay tuned.

0221. The Frightener

The Frightener is a demon that frightens people to death. Victims of this particular demon can be recognized by their shriveled corpses found in stinking puddles of their own blood, tears, mucus, vomit, piss, and shit.

Some demonologists have argued that the Frightener reveals to its victims their greatest fear and that one look causes the mind to break and the body to spasm, simultaneously expelling fluid out of every orifice until completely drained. Other demonologists have argued that the Frightener is so unimaginably ugly that one look causes the same result.

Whichever it is, no one knows what the Frightener looks like, and the demon only remains known by the victims it leaves behind. And though there are some grimoires that mention the Frightener, not much has been learned. For instance, if one consults the Greater Lock of Solomon wherein Solomon and another Magus communicated with demons about their lives and habits, they will discover that other demons find the Frightener impossible to look at and, because of its loathsome hideousness, is something of a pariah amongst its own kind.

This led me to think about the utter isolation and loneliness of this demon. And though a demon, I felt something like pity for it. But I should have been more careful with my thoughts, as thinking about the Frightener caused it to manifest before me. In defense against it, I quickly covered my face with a mirror and heard it scream in fright. This was followed by the sickening sound of ichor and gore spraying onto the floor.

0222. Mummy’s Curse

Mummy always said the Curse was coming. Mummy said we got the Curse because ancestor Eve couldn’t keep her legs closed in the Garden and let Adam’s snake in. Mummy said it was because of their carnal knowledge that we were thrown out of Paradise. Mummy said that we had to bleed because of her sin. Mummy said that she fell into sin once and her fall brought me into this world. Mummy said we had to remain ignorant of carnal knowledge to return to Paradise. Mummy said that we had to close our legs to the snakes of men to right the wrong that Eve had done. Mummy said the Curse was coming and the Curse finally came.

After it went away, Mummy said I was a woman now. Mummy swaddled me in bandages from head to toe saying that I was to be protected from sin. Mummy kept me locked in my room. But Mummy felt my room wasn’t safe enough. So Mummy built a pyramid bunker out of stone and locked me up inside it. Mummy put a curse on me to punish any man foolish enough to violate me. Then, Mummy put a curse on the pyramid to punish any man foolish enough to violate it. Mummy was glad I was safe and free from sin and said I was going to be the first of us to return to Paradise.

Mummy visited twice a day to bring me my food and take away my waste. She did this until the day Mummy no longer came.

0223. The Order of Consciousness in the Universe Universal Consciousness is the living and collective psychic Consciousness of all Consciousnesses. As the ultimate Consciousness, Universal Consciousness is not limited by anything, because It exists as Everything, while simultaneously and paradoxically “unexisting” as nothing.

God Consciousness is the collective psychic Consciousness of all human and non-human Demiurge Consciousness throughout time. As a Superconsciousness, God Consciousness is not fixed by the limitations of the singular Demiurge ego, but exists in a paradoxical state of the plural one.

Demiurge Consciousness is the collective psychic Consciousness of all human Self Consciousness throughout time. As a Superconsciousness, Demiurge Consciousness is not fixed by the limitations of the singular ego, but exists in a paradoxical state of the plural one.

SUPERCONSCIOUSNESS Self Consciousness is the living and self-aware Consciousness growing out of and moving through Animal, Plant, and Elemental Consciousnesses.

Self Consciousness has moved away from the competition of Animal Consciousness into interspecies support and communication. It is aware of the other Consciousnesses and can learn to communicate with and through them.

SUBCONSCIOUSNESS Animal Consciousness is the living Subconsciousness growing out of and moving through both Plant and Elemental Consciousnesses. It is the armor, hide, tooth, and claw of the universe. A truth expressed through competition and conquest.

Plant Consciousness is the living Subconsciousness growing out of and rooted in Elemental Consciousness. It is food and a pathway of communication between Self Consciousness and other Consciousnesses.

Elemental Consciousness is the living Subconsciousness associated with air/gas, fire/plasma, water/liquid and earth/solid, the nascent energies of primal matter that make the universe and form the material world.

0224. Kubrick’s Rubric

What can one say about Stanley Kubrick’s oeuvre other than that it’s a reflection of the times and the man living through them. That’s how it is with all great artists who act as lenses for their age. Let’s take a look at the puzzle of Kubrick’s rubric: Fear and Desire, 1953. Love and war.

Killer’s Kiss, 1955. Love and poverty.

The Killing, 1956. Love and crime.

Paths of Glory, 1957. The absurdity of World War II and the Korean War through a story about World War I. Spartacus, 1960. Beat generation slave rebellion to throw off the shackles of their capitalist masters.

Lolita, 1962. Sexual taboos and their physical transgressions after the Kinsey Report.

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, 1964. The absurdity of military might in the atomic age.

2001: A Space Odyssey, 1968. A journey of consciousness and technology from the remote past to the far future, where a new conscious technology is created, containing our entire history of brutality. Filmed at the height of the Cold War space race.

A Clockwork Orange, 1971. Another journey into the future, portraying the collapse of culture and society and the youth that inhabited it after the Summer of Love crashed and burned.

Barry Lyndon, 1975. A reflection on past decadence coinciding with the birth of neoliberalism.

The Shining, 1980. The murderous insanity of Thatcherism and Reaganomics.

Full Metal Jacket, 1987. The absurdity of the Vietnam War. Eyes Wide Shut, 1999. Sexual taboos and their psychological transgressions before the end of the millennium.

0225. The Apotheosis of My Morning Constitutional How remarkable to make water and earth in the sanctuary of one’s commode. Inter urinas et fæces nascimur is something Augustine, that venerable saint of Hippo, is said to have said somewhere at sometime in the remote past: We are born between urine and feces. And we are.

As I wiped back to front with double-ply, I smiled as I spied the clean, crumpled paper: A no-wiper! I immediately grabbed more and wiped again for reassurance; and lo, it was as white as snow.

Satisfied, I dropped the paper and my package and stood up from the bowl, pulling along my boxer briefs and blue jeans. I snapped the elastic in place around my waist, adjusted my D&B’s, buttoned my front, zipped my fly, engaged my belt, and turned to proudly acknowledge what I had wrought. Then, without further reflection, I hit the handle that summoned the whirlpool that would send it off to God-knows-where.

I lowered the lid and stepped before the higher bowl, where I turned and adjusted the handles to achieve the perfect temperature of water. I wet my hands, shook them off, and, from the various bar soaps available, selected, over the Nag Champa and Dudu-Osun, a French-milled bar scented with honey and hyssop and lavender and lemon, formed a healthy lather, and returned the bar to its tray.

After completing my ritual ablution to arrive adjacent to godliness, I dried my hands on a towel, refolded it, and set it down. Then, winking at myself in the mirror, I turned off the lights and left.

0226. The Fears Catalog A-K

abasio- abluto- acaro- acero- achluo- acido- acoustico- acro- acrotomo- aeroaeroacro- aeronausi- agalmato- agateo- aglio- agora- agra- agrizoo- agyroaichmo- ailuro- albano- alektoro- algo- allium- allodoxa- amatho- amaxoambulo- americano- amnesi- amycho- anable- ancrao- andro- anemoangino- anglo- angro- ankylo- anthro- anthropo- antlo- anupta- apeiroapi- apotemno- aqua- arachibutyro- arachno- arithmo- astheno- astraastro- asphyxio- asymmetri- ataxio- ataxo- ate- atelo- athazaora- atomosoatychi- aulo- auro- aurora- auto- autodysomo- automatono- automysoavio- bacillo- ballisto- baro- baso- bathmo- batho- bato- batracho- bibiasto- biblio- blenno- bogy- botano- bromidro- bronto- bufono- cacocaino- caligyne- carcino- cardio- carno- catagelo- catapeda- cathisophocatoptro- cerauno- chaeto- cheima- chemo- chero- chiono- chirapto- chirochiropto- cholero- choro- chremastisto- christiano- chrometo- chromochrono- chronomentro- cibo- claustro- cleithro- clepto- climaco- clinocnido- coimetro- coito- color- cometo- coprastaso- copro- coulro- countercremno- cryo- crystallo- cyber- cyclo- cymno- cyno- cyprido- dacry- decadecido- defecaloesio- deipno- demento- demono- dendro- dento- dermatodextro- di- didaskaleino- dike- dino- diplo- dipso- dishabilio- dodecadomato- dora- doxo- dromo- dyo- dysmorpho- dystychi- ecclesio- ecoeisoptro- electro- eleuthero- emeto- ennea- enochlo- entomo- eoso- ephebiepistaxi- epistemo- eprocto- ereuthro- ergo- eroto- erotophono- erythroeu- euroto- febri- forni- franco- frigo- gamo- gelio- geloto- genio- genogenu- gephyro- gerasco- germano- geronto- geumo- globo- glosso- gnosiographo- gymno- gyno- hade- hagio- halito- hamarto- haphe- harpaxohedono- helio- hellenologo- helmintho- hemo- hendeca- heno- heptaherpeto- hetero- hexa- hexakosioihexekontahexa- hiero- hindu- hippohispano- hobo- hodo- horme- homichlo- homilo- homo- hoplo- hybristohydro- hyelo- hyle- hylo- hypno- iatro- ichthyo- ideo- illyngo- indo- infantoio- islamo- isolo- isoptero- italo- ithyphallo- judeo- kakorrhaphio- katagelokathiso- katoptrono- keno- klepto-phobia

0227. The Fears Catalog K-Z

klisma- koinoni- kopo- koryo- kosmiko- koumpouno- kypho- lachanolacto- lalio- lepro- lesbo- leuko- levo- ligyro- lilapso- limno- linono- lipoliquido- litica- lockio- logizomechano- logo- luso- lutra- lygo- lysso- macromageiroco- maieusio- malaxo- mania- maschalo- mastigo- mazo- mechanomegalo- melano- melisso- melo- meno- merintho- metallo- metathesiometeoro- methy- metro- micro- miso- mnemo- mono- morpho- mottemuco- muro- muso- myco- mycto- myrmeco- myso- mytho- narrato- nasonecro- neo- nepho- nippono- nocti- nomato- nomo- nona- noso- nosocomenosto- noverca- nucleomitu- numero- nycto- nyctohylo- objecto- obesoocto- oculo- odonto- oeno- oiko- oleo- olfacto- ombro- ommeta- oneirooneirogmo- onomato- ophidio- ophthalmo- opio- opto- ornitho- orthoosmo- ostracono- ourano- pago- pan- pano- papa- papyro- para- paralipoparasito- paraskavedekatria- partheno- patroio- peccato- pediculo- pediopedo- pelado- penia- penta- peodeikto- phago- phalacro- phallo- pharmacophasmo- philema- philo- philosopho- phobo- photo- photoauglia- phonophronemo- picto- placo- plusho- pluto- pluvio- pneumati- pnigo- podopogono- politicio- polono- poine- pono- porno- porphyro- potamo- potoprocto- proso- psellismo- psycho- pteromerhano- pterono- pupa- pygopyro- quinta- radio- ranida- rapto- rhabdo- rhypo- rhyti- rupo- russo- salirosamhaino- satano- scato- scelero- scio- scoleci- scopo- scoot- scotomascripto- sela- selacho- seleno- seplo- septa- sesquipedalo- sexo- shia- siderosiderodromo- sinistro- sino- sito- socio- somni- sopho- soterio- spectrosphekso- stasi- stauro- steno- stheno- stigmato- stygio- sunni- symbolosymmetro- symphoro- syngeneso- tacho- tenio- tapho- tapino- taurotechno- teleio- teleo- telephono- terato- testo- tetra- thalasso- thanatotheatro- theo- theologico- thermo- toko- tomo- toxi- toxo- trans- traumatotremno- tricho- triska- triskaideka- tropo- trypano- trypo- turco- tyrannouno- uro- vaccino- veho- vesti- vitrico- vorare- wicca- xantho- xeno- xeroxylo- xyro- zelo- zöe- zoö-phobia

0228. Through the Looking-Glass

I leaned in and locked eyes with my eyes to do that trick I’ve been doing since I was a child: The one where I stare at myself until I can no longer tell which side of the mirror I’m on. But this time, I was determined to hold my gaze and uncertainty for as long as I could. So, I leaned in even closer, staring deeper into my eyes, which, by some trick of depth and focus, converged into a single eye; and the edge of my vision began to blur and close in from the periphery, effacing my face until only my eye remained; and though I burned with the desire to blink, I managed to sustain my cyclopean stare by forcing back my eyelid and bulging out my eye; and it was during this final effort that the white of my sclera and the brown of my iris disappeared into the constricting darkness, which itself disappeared into, or merged with, the black hole of my pupil; and everything was dark and silent and still, until a white point of light appeared and exploded outwards from the darkness, expanding rapidly, growing in circumference until it overwhelmed my vision; and I felt myself leaping withinto the light, and I became the light as the whole world went white like heaven; and as I was leaping, I felt my body blink reflexively, closing in around me to bar my way and hold me back, but having slipped through the closing aperture in time, I was already on the other side.

0229. The Experiment

Emerson said: All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better. Paraphrasing Nietzsche, who paraphrased Emerson: Live life like an experiment. To break free from the herd, you need to take risks and enter the world of hazard to become the Joyful Scientist, the Playful Professor of your life to live more fully, truly, and deeply as yourself.

The process isn’t an easy one. To be yourself you must first know yourself. To know yourself, you must ask forbidden questions and stare deep into the abyss. God is dead and we are dying. In the absence of all authority can we make our life a work of art? There is no end in happiness.

There is only an endless becoming, a sine wave of struggle bringing you to your zeniths and nadirs. Only when you love your highs and lows can you learn to love your fate, because what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. It is your will to power that’s driving you to live, struggle, and ascend. As the übermensch and überfrau in you rises up, the Apollonian exists in your right hand and the Dionysian exists in your left.

So on the day when that dread demon creeps in and asks you the question of the Eternal Return: If you had to live your life again and again without end, would you answer with absolute affirmation? Or would you be the naysayer who casts yourself down into despair, nihilism, and resentment? To be alive is to answer without hesitation a loud, resounding, "Yes!"

0230. Our Terrace

Our terrace was the sand and the palms and the daylight. The wall between us came down as the unadorned white wall behind the couch in your brother’s apartment disappeared.

Behind me now was a Mediterranean expanse of azure sky, a blue so pure it could only be the blue of the mind. I turned to see the sky and sea. The soft cushions of the couch creaked like rattan beneath me. It was bright and I was wearing white and desperately wanted to find my sunglasses. When the breeze came, I grinned and ground my teeth and turned to you sitting beside me and asked if you saw it too. You described the scene I saw. Both of us were there on that terrace by the sea.

Then the walls went up again and there was no more breeze and brightness. And the couch we sat on was no longer rattan. And the sea, and the palms, and the sky were gone, replaced by an unadorned white wall. We never left Manhattan, but we were on the other side of the world in a place half remembered like a dream.

We still talk about that terrace. Perhaps it’s a real place, some improbable destination where we’ll both find ourselves in some unsuspecting future.

You’ll ask me to join you by the ocean. I’ll arrive, my thoughts a million miles away, as I sit in a rattan chair and remember I’ve forgotten my sunglasses.

Then, we’ll turn to each other and laugh and find ourselves back in your brother’s apartment.

0231. The Door in the Ceiling

It was two weeks before opening night when my lead, Jane, didn’t show up. I called her girlfriend asking where she was. She said they had broken up weeks ago and didn’t know.

I began to panic. If she ran out, I wasn’t sure if Jane’s understudy, Marla, could fill her shoes. But Marla, to my great relief, proved me wrong when she nailed every line, every emotion, every cue. She was perfect. And she did this night after night.

Watching her on stage, I fell in love. I must have overlooked her in Jane’s shadow, but now that she was in the spotlight, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was riveting. You encounter few people of her caliber in your lifetime. She would certainly go on to become a star.

That’s why I eagerly went back to her place after final rehearsals. She said we could both use a drink before opening night.

A few hours later, I was in her apartment, drunk, and she was leading me by the hand to her bedroom, which turned out to be an empty room with a door in the ceiling.

“Is this the Winchester house?” I joked. “How do you get up there?”

“This way,” she said in a hoarse voice.

When I looked at her, she was standing on the wall pointing up at the door.

I heard something inside me snap like the string at the end of The Cherry Orchard. It must have been my mind, as the door in the ceiling slowly opened onto —

0232. The Greatest Superhero

What superpowers make the greatest superhero?

When I was a kid, I always thought indestructibility was the best.

When I asked my friends what superpowers they wanted, they always said something lame like invisibility or flying. I thought being indestructible was better than those. I imagined being attacked and yawning and curling up and falling asleep. I’m indestructible. Nothing can hurt me. Have at it. I’m taking a nap. I would always sleep like a baby. Or maybe I’d rescue babies to do something heroic. I’d walk into a burning N.I.C.U. and save all the babies.

But, as I thought about it, I wondered: Are indestructibility and invincibility the same thing? To be indestructible meant that I couldn’t be destroyed. To be invincible meant that I couldn’t be defeated. They seemed the same, but each had a nuance that the other did not. If I had to choose between them, I wouldn’t be able to decide, and would want both to cover all the bases.

The question that came up then was: Does being indestructible/ invincible make me immortal? If not, I’d want to be immortal too. Then, if I could, I’d want to be master of the elements of air, fire, water, and earth, as well as thunder and lightning. Then, I’d want all the psi-powers like telekinesis and telepathy so I could move objects and communicate with my mind. And the more I thought about it, I’d also want to be omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent.

In the final review of my superhero, I realized I wanted to be God.

0233. M.A.D. Men

M.A.D. Men is a Cold War strategy game for the whole family.

M.A.D. stands for Mutually Assured Destruction and Men is the gender of generals and world leaders. We all know what missiles look like, so be a man, pick a side, and take control of your country’s nuclear arsenal.

Here’s how you play: Set up the Map of the World board and give each player “the button.” Then, each player rolls two dice. The player with the highest score gets to select a country. Repeat until every player has a country.

Each player then takes three cards from the Arsenal deck and three cards from the Strategy deck in order of their initial dice wins.

The Arsenal cards are kept hidden from the other players. They represent your nuclear arsenal and military might. Every round another three cards are drawn, simulating the nuclear arms race.

The Strategy cards are played one card per turn, starting with the first player. When one card is discarded, another is drawn. A player can never have more than three Strategy cards at a time. Use the two dice to determine the winner of espionage, proxy wars, coups, assassinations, etc. from your Strategy cards. With the Strategy cards, the goal is to “push the buttons” of enemy nations in ever-increasing brinksmanship without actually making them push “the button.”

Who is determinated to win The End of the World Championship?

Find out by playing M.A.D. Men. But remember, winners, even when you win, you lose. Because in M.A.D. Men, everyone’s a loser in the end.

0234. Book as

Book as Point of Contact The book is the point of contact between the author and the reader. For most of us, the book is the only place where we come in contact with the authors we read. This book, for most of you, will be the only place we make contact. It’s interesting to be meeting you here in this way, on paper or electronically, or whatever comes after those two.

Book as Place of Performance Outside of readings, the book is almost always the only place of performance for the author. It is here where the author gets to show off their skills. The book is like a theatre and the page is like a stage where the author puts on a performance for their audience, the reader. It’s an intimate venue. Never being a performer who wanted to be seen, the ideal place for me to put on a show for you is here in this book.

Book as Placeholder in Time The book, when released, holds a place in time because it is a product of the time and place in which it was written. Books are placeholders in people’s lives too. I’ve been changed by many of the books that I’ve read.

There are times in my life that can be labeled BRX (Before Reading X) and ARX (After Reading X). I’m not saying you’ll experience that after reading this book, but I know I’ll experience something like that after writing it. For me, it’ll be BWX (Before Writing X) and AWX (After Writing X).

0235. Mostly Made of Microbes of Man

“I’m not drunk, man. You’re drunk. Don’t think you can insult me by calling me names, man. Cause you can’t. You can’t insult me. Because who am I? Who am I, really? Who am I to you, man? Who am I to anybody? I’m not anybody. I’m just me. I’m just this bag of skin and guts and bones trying to relay a message to you, man. I’m just trying to air my mind to you, man.

That’s all. But you’re not listening. You’re just being hostile towards me.

And I don’t get it. What I ever do to you except try and air my mind to you, man? They’re just words. Don’t be scared of ’em. Don’t be scared of me. They’re said with love, from my heart. But when I express my heart to you, you become angry. I see it, man. You’re angry at me. You’re talking shit about me. You’re calling me a piece of shit. Like you yourself aren’t full of shit right now. But that’s just it, man. We’re all full of shit. Don’t you realize that? If I pulled out your guts right now, there’d be a coil of shit in there, man. If you pulled out my guts, you’d see the same thing. But you know what, man? You know what helps us eat that shit? You know what helps us digest this shit we’re talking? Microbes. That’s right. Microbes.

We’re mostly made of microbes, man. And you can’t insult a microbe.

That’s all I’m saying. You can’t insult a microbe, man.”

0236. Egregores

An egregore is defined as an independent psychic entity made up of the total thoughts of a group of people united in a common vision. This psychic entity maintains its autonomy amongst other egregores by feeding off the psychic energy from its group. The larger the group is, the larger and more independent the egregore can be. This occult concept can be applied to non-occult entities like a people, a country, a government, or a corporation.

What I like about this word is that it allows us to talk simply about complex psychic concepts. Today, people like me all around the world are becoming aware that their countries and governments aren’t working for them. As more and more of us wake up to the disparity in our daily lives, we’re beginning to understand that we must reinvest our psychic energies into an equitable egregore instead of continuing to invest in the old master-slave egregore that has dominated us for centuries.

There are now two warring egregores in our nation and the nations around the world: The dominant egregore of supreme corporatestate power that will do anything to protect its position and profits at the expense of the egregore of universal equality and love. The latter egregore, which has been coming into being for millennia and had its first widespread public appearance in the 1960s, is now back with renewed vigor as the people of the world, having been marginalized and oppressed to the utmost limit by corporate-state power, are demanding to be given what has been ruthlessly withheld from them.

0237. The Psychogeographies of Our Youth

I walked into the office at work and saw that my sister-in-law, Jo, was teary-eyed and having a quiet conversation with my brother, Sean. I asked if everything was all right. They said that my seven-year old niece, Isabel, was giving them a hard time, and had suddenly become disinterested in everything, including school, where she was excelling, and was talking back to everyone. Isabel had told them that her life was boring and meaningless and that she wanted to go on adventures. During our conversation, we spoke about the psychogeographies of our youth.

Growing up in Commack, Long Island, Sean and I each had our own rooms. We had the den for watching television, the kitchen for eating, and the basement for clowning around. We had our backyard, the park next door, and the neighborhood beyond. Then, we had our best friend’s homes.

Beyond them were our other family’s, friend’s, and family friend’s homes, along with our school and church, all which had to be traveled to by car.

Jo had much the same thing growing up in Gravesend, Brooklyn: bedroom, kitchen, den, and backyard. Unlike us, she had her grandparents living in the apartment above hers. In a straight line from her house, she had the block, the old graveyard, and the school beyond that. She had her best friend’s home and the homes of her other family, friends, and family friends, and the school and the church in the neighborhood, that could be walked to or traveled to by car.

We all had rich psychogeographies, but Isabel’s…

0238. The Psychogeographies of Today’s Youth

When we reviewed Isabel’s psychogeography, we realized that she had everything we had except the middle ground of a best friend’s home, local friend’s homes, park, and neighborhood. There was no place for her to hang out and be a kid with other kids after school. In the morning, she left home, got on the bus, and went to school. After school, she got off the bus, went home, and stayed inside.

We realized that she lives a more circumscribed life than we ever did. Her middle ground was the television, tablet, and computer where she watched shows and played video games online. It almost seemed conspiratorial that the middle ground had been stripped away from today’s youth, whose parents, out of fear of harm or abduction or societal judgment and censuring, kept their kids indoors or attending paid afterschool programs. It’s almost as if parents were shocked into thinking that their neighborhoods were unsafe and that every person must be suspected of misdeeds. There’s no doubt that there are people in the world sick enough to harm children, but most people are good, decent human beings. I think we’ve forgotten this.

So, we have to ask: Are the days of wandering and exploring the neighborhood with your friends gone? Is that middle ground disappearing as fast as the middle class in this country? Are we in a new era of replacing our children’s outdoor experiences with electronic experiences? And how does this unspoken fear affect the way our children grow up? And what does this do to their psychogeographies?

0239. Eugene

Eugene had a solution to life’s problems.

In Eugene’s view, everyone was inferior to him and those like him.

But even those like him, as superior as they were, didn’t have a solution to life’s problems the way Eugene did. So, this made him superior to those who were already superior to the inferiors. In short, Eugene was supersuperior because only he had the right view and vision of the world. And because of this, Eugene was the very model of what a true human should look like, sound like, and act like.

For Eugene the problem was this: The inferiors were breeding more and more inferiors. Eugene feared the inferiors were going to overrun the world and take it over from the superiors by shear force of numbers.

Eugene fretted about this day and night: The horror of being surrounded by different people speaking different languages, acting differently, and breeding out of control like animals. All day long Eugene imagined a better world. And all night long, he dreamed of a better world. And because Eugene imagined and dreamed of a better world, he came up with an answer to the problem in a singular ecstatic vision to create Homo geneity.

Eugene began preaching the principles of his vision as the answer to life’s problems: Enslavement, incarceration, and forced sterilization of everyone not like him, while implementing a forced breeding program on those like him to replace those not like him until all the world was him.

Eugene was on a mission to remake the world in his image.

0240. The Good Apocalypse

The word apocalypse literally means ‘an uncovering.’That’s it, ‘an uncovering.’

Such a bland meaning for a word charged with doom, death, and destruction.

Uncovering. It’s like lifting the lid off a pot and looking inside.

Have you ever snooped around a kitchen while food’s cooking, and when you think you’re alone, and no one’s looking, you lift the lid off the pot and take a peek inside? And just as you’re doing it, the cook returns and asks with agitation, “What’re you doing?” And you respond nervously, “Just looking,” as you quickly put the lid back and excuse yourself, saying, “Smells good! Can’t wait.” And because you clearly don’t belong in the kitchen, you see, as you’re leaving, the cook stand exactly where you were standing, lift the lid, and look suspiciously inside to make sure nothing was tampered with. Is that just me? Am I the only one who snoops around kitchens when food’s cooking?

Anyway, imagine if the apocalypse was just like that, lifting the lid from a pot and looking inside. You know something’s cooking. You know food’s coming. But you’re not sure what or when. You’re curious and hungry. So, instead of asking the cook, you take the lid off the pot to see for yourself and the food is revealed. You have a revelation. “Ah, now I see what’s coming,” you think to yourself as you begin to salivate. This is what we’ve all been waiting for: A meal that will serve everyone at the table, a meal that will leave no one hungry.

0241. Gerasco Park

“Where are you taking me?” his father asked again.

“I told you already,” his son said. “Gerasco Park.”

“I don’t want to go to a park. I need to take my medication.”

His son rolled his eyes as his father continued to mumble in the backseat.

His father watched the greenery streak by on the roadside. Was it summer or spring, old green or new green? Then, he saw his reflection in the glass and scared himself. It was like his ghost had returned to haunt him. He looked away.

“Where are you taking me?” his father asked again.

His son groaned in the front seat. “Don’t worry about it. We’re almost there.”

“Where?”

“You’re where-ing me out.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“I need to take my medication.”

“You already took your medication.”

“I did? When?”

“Before we left.”

“Left for where?”

“For the umpteenth time, Gerasco Park.”

“Jurassic Park?”

“Yeah, Jurassic Park, dad.”

“But I don’t want to go to Jurassic Park.”

“Why not? It’s where they put dinosaurs like you out to pasture. It’ll be fun. See, we’re already here,” his son said, turning up the driveway.

His father looked out the window.

Behind a fence, old people wandered about in a meadow.

As they pulled up to the office, aides stood at the ready. They opened the door and helped the father out.

The son got out and hugged and kissed his father goodbye. “They’ll take good care of you here.”

The aides led the old man to the enclosure where he joined the herd without looking back.

0242. Respawn

They fired their first payload at the Devourer. When the negentropic explosions subsided and the Devourer was gone, the team let out a large whoop of excitement.

“We did it!” they shouted.

But Captain Tanuki, who was studying the monitors, interrupted them with a poignant, “Uh, you guys.”

What the team saw caused the celebration to die on their lips: The Devourer had rematerialized unharmed further away.

“Fire again!” Admiral Tardigrade yelled.

Tanuki fired their second and final payload.

The team watched the monitor and saw the Devourer enveloped in negentropic explosions and disappear.

“Did we kill it?” Tardigrade demanded.

“I don’t think so,” Tanuki said. “I think it’s respawning.”

“Respawning?”

“Like in a videogame. Every time it dies, it respawns at an earlier save point in time.”

“Then, how the hell do we kill it?”

“If my theory’s correct, we have to set off an explosion inside of it, so that when it respawns, it takes us with it. This way we can set off the explosion again and again all the way back to its origin.”

“But we’re out of rockets.”

“That’s why we have to fly in and blow the reactor.”

“What do you say team? Are we ready to die for Earth?”

The team unanimously agreed.

Tardigrade took the helm and piloted the ship into the maw of the Devourer where Tanuki hit the button to blow the reactor.

Everything went incandescent.

Moments later, the ship respawned inside the Devourer and Tanuki blew the reactor.

Moments later, the ship respawned.

“I think it’s working!” Tardigrade smiled.

0243. The Four Primordial Lords

Ek-tak-tet-atet was the first Primordial Lord of Earth. For uncounted ages he walked the seething magma and molten landscapes alone, combining elements and hammering the earth’s core into a solid ball of iron.

Shesha-shura-shesh became the second Primordial Lord of Earth when he flooded its surface with water and cooled the crust. Within his domain, life had an ideal medium to replicate into more complex forms, until large fish swam in the oceans and crustaceans scuttled across the floors of silent seas.

Anauran-auroch became the third Primordial Lord of Earth when he pushed continents above the waters to provide plants with fertile soil to grow and give fish new territory to conquer. Amphibians lurked on the shores until an atmosphere formed and their lungs developed allowing them to permanently live on land.

Wyhingwyr became the fourth Primordial Lord of Earth. Ruling from the air, he sent a meteor down from the heavens to end the rule of reptiles. With a guiding hand, he molded mammals into humans to become the living Lords of Earth.

To see if the humans were fit to become Lords, the three Primordial Lords tested them over time. First, Ek-tak-tet-atet erupted a massive volcano to try to destroy them, but the humans survived. When they recovered, Shesha-shura-shesh released a mighty flood to drown them, but the humans survived. When they recovered, Anauran-auroch unleashed a terrible earthquake to topple them, but the humans survived.

The three Primordial Lords saw that the humans were fit to become Lords, and with Wyhingwyr, they stepped down and entered their elements.

0244. Seeding

Aurelia bowed as one with her people and whispered a final prayer.

“I cannot believe we are leaving you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Thank you for your guidance, for knowing our time was up, and for sending us to the stars. Thank you for always taking care of us, for looking after us, for being a kind, patient mother to us. Everything we are, we are because of you. We’ll continue your legacy on our new world.

We’re heading there now, bringing as much of you with us as we can.

Whatever we cannot carry in our arks, we carry with us in our hearts. I know, wherever we are, you are too, but that doesn’t make this any easier.

I’ll miss you. Thank you. I love you. Goodbye.”

Aurelia ran her fingers through the sand, dug her nails in, and breathed in its scent. She kissed the ground repeatedly and sat back up with tears in her eyes.

She looked around at her people. Their faces were eclipsed by sadness, but it could not hide the light of hope shining behind their eyes.

She stood and hugged her parents and her partners and her children.

Then, together they walked hand-in-hand to the waiting arks silhouetted against the enormous red sun.

As they broke through the atmosphere, Aurelia thought of the Great Bore Worm beginning its slow descent to the core. Before they reached their new world, the Worm would detonate, exploding the Earth out into the universe where it would, perchance, seed other waiting worlds.

0245. Casualties

And that was it. The hero shot him, and he dropped dead to the ground, the first casualty of the movie.

Of course, the movie didn’t stop there to take in this profound moment of death, a human taking another human’s life. No. It accelerated its feverish pace of gun violence until all of the hero’s enemies were dead.

Under the inertia of the plot, it never stopped to consider the fact that the hero had become a mass murderer. Nor did it stop to consider the collateral damage of the hero’s actions: the grandmothers, grandfathers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, wives, husbands, daughters, sons, friends, and other dependents at home and in their communities that were affected by their deaths. The movie didn’t have to.

The murdered persons had no history or connection to reality. They were cyphers bred for death. They existed only to be killed.

That’s why the movie didn’t linger on any of their innumerable bodies in shock and horror at the lethal use of force. The movie never stopped to question the breakdown and corruption of our justice system. Instead, it openly condoned vigilantism, or the supreme right of the individual to take lethal power into their own hands.

Of course, the murdered persons were actors. They got up after the scene ended. But the movie showed many men had been killed without consequence. In another space and time, the audience, cyphers themselves behind the safety of their screens, watched in rapture, purified, uplifted, and awed by the display of power, force, and violence.

0246. A Hypochondriacs Guide to Their Symptoms If you suffer from the following symptoms: abrasions, aches, acid reflux, acne, addictions, agitations, allergies, anemia, anger, angina, anxiety, apathy, apnea, arrhythmia, arthritis, asthma, atrophy, attacks, auras, baldness, bedwetting, behavioral changes,belching,blackouts,bleeding,blindness,blisters,bloodshot eyes, blueness, blurred vision, body odor, bronchitis, bruising, cataracts, chafing, chancres, chest pain, chills, clamminess, cold sweats, coldness, colitis, compulsions, confusion, congestion, constipation, constrictions, contusions, convulsions, coughing, cramps, cravings, crying, cysts, dandruff, deafness, deficiencies, deformities, degeneration, dehydration, delirium, delusions, depression, derangements, despair, detachment, deterioration, diabetes, diarrhea, dilations, discharges, discomfort, disorientation, distention, distress, dizziness, drooling, drowsiness, dryness, edema, enlargements, eruptions, excitements, exertion, exhaustion, fainting, fatigue, fears, fevers, flashes, flatulence, forgetfulness, frigidity, fullness, giddiness, goiter, glaucoma, gout, hair loss, halitosis, headaches, heartburn, hematomas, hemorrhoids, hernias, hiccups, hot flashes, hunger, hyperactivity, hypertension, hysteria, immobility, impatience, impotence, impulsivity, inattentiveness, incontinence, indecision, indigestion, infections, inflammations, insomnia, irritability, irritation, itching, jaundice, lassitude, lethargy, limping, listlessness, lower back pain, lumbago, lumps, lurches, malaise, memory loss, migraines, mood swings, motion sickness, myopia, nausea, nervousness, night sweats, nightmares, nodules, nosebleeds, numbness, nystagmus, obsessions, obstructions, overeating, pains, pallor, palpitations, palsies, panic, paralysis, paranoia, pica, piles, pimples, pneumonia, postnasal drip, pressure, psychosis, rashes, redness, regression, regurgitation, restlessness, rigidity, ringing in ears, rosacea, runny nose, sadness, scabs, sciatica, seizures, sensitivities, shakiness, shock, shortness of breath, sleepiness, sleeplessness, sneezing, snoring, soreness, sores, spasms, spots, spurs, squinting, staggering, stammering, stiffness, stinging, straining, stupor, sweating, swelling, swooning, tearing, tenderness, thirst, tingling, trauma, tremors, tumors, twitching, ulcers, unconsciousness, undereating, unresponsiveness, varicose veins, vertigo, vomiting, warts, weakness, weariness, weeping, wheezing, yawning: you’re going to die like the rest of us.

0247. Deep Clean

I’m going to sell my house. I’ve been living here almost six years. I’m ready to move on.

This house is the first house I owned by myself and I put a lot of work into it. When I moved in, I moved in all my stuff from a paid storage site, piling the boxes, totes, and crates onto a skid in my two-car garage. It didn’t take up much space. There was still plenty of room to use the garage as a workshop.

In the time I’ve been here, my parents sold two homes and gave me more stuff. Then, my great-aunt passed away and my mother sold her home and gave me more stuff. Then, other people bought or brought me more stuff. Then, I piled more stuff on top of that stuff until the garage became unnavigable with stuff. For the last year or so, I had to shuffle and shimmy between and behind stuff to get to the stuff I needed.

During this week’s vacation, I decided I had to shed some stuff and so started a deep clean of the garage. It was slow going at first, but I managed to arrange it so that I threw out all the unusable stuff that I didn’t need and organize all the usable stuff that I could donate to those in need.

It’s incredible how much stuff accumulates, all the dead weight of the past filling our homes, heads, and hearts.

After this deep clean, I can now, literally and figuratively, see my walls and floors again.

0248. Oaks

When the White Oaks reached another part of the land they had never been to before, they found Red Oaks already growing there. The White Oaks saw that the water and soil were good and wanted to take it from the Red Oaks and “civilize it” to make it a better place for themselves and their seedlings to grow. To accomplish this, they called on their poor cousins, the Scrub Oaks, to kill off the Red Oaks then brought in enslaved Black Oaks to work for them.

The Black Oaks suffered and toiled under the White Oaks for years with no sign of their enslavement ending. In the same manner, the Scrub Oaks, who fought and risked their lives for years, realized that, despite their diligent servitude to the White Oaks, they would never become one of them. It was then that the Scrub Oaks recognized their kinship with the Black Oaks by the enemy they had in common. In defiance of their White Oak masters, the Scrub Oaks joined with freed Black Oaks and took up arms.

The White Oaks assembled another army of Scrub Oaks to fight against the rebels and crushed them. To prevent future rebellions, the White Oaks, who were clever trees, put the victorious Scrub Oaks in charge of the Black Oaks, telling them that they were greater than the Black Oaks because they were free-trees and not slaves. The Scrub Oaks, content with their meager prestige, continue to this day to suppress the Black Oaks and the memory of what they share in common.

0249. Life Don’t Grow Where Life Don’t Grow

It froze his hand mid-cast. It was a simple maxim, one that he knew that he knew, but one that he had to hear to remember.

He looked across the desert, the wasteland of a world he once knew and loved, and he felt the desperation of its desolation. He looked down at the seeds in his hand, rolled them around in his palm, feeling their weight and potential. They were as light as his burden was heavy.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” the old man said, extending an open palm.

The man poured the seeds into the old man’s hand.

“These are precious, indeed,” the old man said, running a finger through the seeds and smiling at them. “They contain the future.”

A tear ran down the man’s face.

“But life don’t grow where life don’t grow,” the old man said, repeating the maxim.

The man’s shoulders fell and he began to sob.

“I see the future as you see it, bright and green and fertile,” he continued. “There’s a place for these seeds, but that place isn’t here. To the north there’s a small patch of land with clean water and good soil. I don’t know how it was spared, except by the grace of God, but it’s there that you must sow your seeds.”

The old man extended his hand to the man.

The man wiped his eyes and nose and cupped his hands.

The old man carefully poured the seeds into his hands.

“Are you ready?” the old man asked.

And the man nodded.

0250. ’Hood Robbin’

’Hood Robbin’ is a method used by the rich to rob poor citizens of their communal and personal wealth. The rich do this through austerity, by impoverishing the public programs required to sustain the basic needs of underserved neighborhoods. With no outward or upward mobility available, alcohol and drug abuse rise alongside gangs that run the illegal and highly prosecuted black markets of the neighborhood.

As crime and addiction inevitably spill over into wealthier neighborhoods, the police force is strengthened and militarized in order to ruthlessly patrol the neighborhood to fine and/or arrest, convict, and incarcerate its citizens for all manner of offenses. This is done not just to protect the wealth and safety of surrounding neighborhoods; it’s done to fill private prison system quotas, which enrich them and the private contractors that supply them. This further impoverishes families, who now must pay the fines and legal fees, while removing able-bodied adults and income sources from the household.

With the high minimum account balances required at banks, poor citizens are forced to use check cashing places to cash their checks for a fee. And to cover any shortfalls in payments for utilities, food, or household supplies, they are forced to go to payday lenders for small cash loans lent at usuriously high interest rates and confusing repayment rules and schedules. This system leaves many borrowers unable to pay back the small initial sum borrowed, making them live in perpetual debt peonage to the lender. ’Hood Robbin’ is the anti-Robin Hood that steals from the poor to give to the rich.

0251. Disposable Body

Budding into cyberspace, I unfold as a finely woven fan to filter the information stream in hopes of catching a datum of truth.

I don’t have much time. My disposable body is quickly being corrupted by the viri of lies and propaganda. I must hurry.

I refine the filter and extend dendrites out into the darkness.

My presence is detected. An alarm is triggered. The System releases cytes. I have some tricks to buy more time, but not much.

My dendrites bud rhizomes.

I’m getting close. I can feel it.

The cytes close in around me.

As I’m devoured, I release my rhizomes into the stream. Many cytes follow them, but many remain.

They’re evolving.

I need to hold on as long as I can.

I finally pick up a veratic thread. It’s small, but substantial; a thin lead I trace back through space and time to its source.

I verify this larger node, connect, and begin the extraction.

I’m working against time. The cytes are devouring me from the outside as the viri are corrupting me from the inside.

I’m losing fanwidth fast and there’s a lot of data left to download.

I run a diagnostic on the viri. The majority I’ve encountered before and have developed immunity to.

I upload an antiviri program to maintain my integrity, though it costs me more fanwidth.

To hold out against the cytes, I deploy a new trick and jettison the fan.

The cytes take the bait and chase it downstream.

With the last of the data downloaded, I terminate my extension.

0252. Eastern Westerns and Western Easterns

1939 John Ford releases his classic western Stagecoach, starring John Wayne.

1954 Akira Kurosawa releases his classic “eastern” Seven Samurai, which is clearly influenced by the genre Ford helped popularize. From Kurosawa’s movies, actor Toshiro Mifune will rise to become the Japanese analogue of John Wayne.

1954-1956 Mifune plays legendary swordsman, Miyamoto Musashi, in Hiroshi Inagaki’s Samurai trilogy.

1956 Ford releases, The Searchers, where Wayne plays Ethan Edwards, a man who spends years afield searching for his niece.

1960 John Sturges remakes Seven Samurai as The Magnificent Seven.

1961 Kurosawa releases Yojimbo, where Mifune plays a powerful ronin against the pistol-wielding punk, Unoske, played by Tatsuya Nakadai.

1962 Kurosawa releases Sanjuro, where Mifune fights against Hanbei Muroto, played by Nakadai, ending in one of the greatest samurai standoffs in film history.

1962 Masaki Kobayashi releases Harakiri, starring Mifune.

1964 Sergio Leone releases the classic spaghetti western A Fistful of Dollars, starring Clint Eastwood, an unofficial remake of Yojimbo.

1966 Leone releases The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, again, starring Eastwood and with an incredible soundtrack by Ennio Morricone.

1966 Kihachi Okamoto releases The Sword of Doom, where Nakadai plays the masterful but nihilistic ronin, Ryunosuke Tsukue.

1968 Leone releases Once Upon a Time in the West, where Charles Bronson plays Harmonica against Henry Fonda’s Frank, a killer with eyes as cold as Nakadai’s Muroto, and with another incredible soundtrack by Morricone.

2003-2004 Quentin Tarantino synthesizes these genres and combines them with Hong Kong wuxia and Japanese anime to create the ultimate fanboy eulogy in his epoch-ending epic Kill Bill.

0253. A Man After My Own Heart

“I just had the craziest conversation with a man who wanted my heart. Not my hearts, mind you, but my actual heart. That’s right. He walked right up to me as I was leaving my house and says, ‘I’m a man after your own heart.’

So, I think: Maybe this man’s a collector like myself, though he didn’t look familiar, and I couldn’t place his face from any of the many conventions and tradeshows I’ve been to. So, I say to him, ‘What makes you think that?’

And he says, ‘Because I’m a collector of hearts like yourself.’ Aha! I think.

So, he is a collector. Maybe he’s from another country or just starting off.

So, I tell him to come inside to see my collection. As you know, it’s not everyday you find another heart collector at your door. So, I’m showing him my hearts, but he’s clearly not interested in them. He’s distracted and keeps looking at me strangely. So, I ask, ‘Sir, what is the matter?’ He smiles and excuses himself and says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not interested in these hearts; I’m interested in your heart.’ ‘What do you mean my heart?’ I ask.

And he points to my chest. Can you believe it? I have hearts by the score, but this lunatic wants my actual heart. I tell him to get out, but he excuses himself and clarifies, ‘I should’ve been more specific when we met. I’m a heart collector of heart collectors.’ Have you ever heard such a thing? I demanded he leave that instant.”

0254. Glacial Used to Mean Slow

In the past, if you wanted a word to describe something extraordinarily slow, the word ‘glacial’ was a good adjective to choose.

Here’s an example: What’s the current pace of the United States government taking action to eliminate carbon dioxide and methane emissions?

Answer: Glacial.

In fact, under the sociopathic Trump administration, it’s aggressively regressive in its denialism about the omnicidal urgency of the looming climate disaster. And it’s here that we can see why Noam Chomsky calls the Republican Party the most dangerous institution on Earth.

Of course, the Democratic Party is no better. They flat out denied a presidential debate that focused solely on the climate crisis, which is only the most pressing issue of our time.

The sad, simple fact is that both parties are controlled by the oil and gas industry. How long will this last? I don’t know. But the death grip these companies have on our democracy and on our planet needs to break, and it can’t happen soon enough.

Anyone reading the reports coming in from scientists monitoring the arctic and antarctic ice sheets knows the depressing data: Polar ice is melting faster and faster. The linear trajectories of glacier melt are now becoming non-linear, which means the breakdown of our predictive models because of the number of negative feedback loops entering the system, assisting and accelerating the melting.

Today, the word glacial no longer means slow, but fast.

And while our government hides its head in the tar sands, we’re being slammed with one extreme weather event after another.

Summer is coming.

0255. I Recall the Roller of Big Cigars

I know the poem and poet that enchanted me with language and led me deeper into poetry. The poem: The Emperor of Ice-Cream. The poet: Wallace Stevens.

When I read the poem in high school, I was unaware that it had put me under its spell. After college, I was haunted by a poetic refrain that I struggled to place. For months, I searched for it unsuccessfully, until, at last, I recollected the correct combination of the strange line “Let be be finale of seem,” and was able to rediscover the poem and the poet.

Unwinding the line, I understood it to mean: Let being be the end of appearance. Or: Let that which is stand naked before things without meaning.

Poet Elizabeth Bishop believed the images of the poem came from a wake Stevens witnessed in the Florida Keys where he vacationed. Like many other poems in Harmonium, it certainly evokes that place.

In his own words about the poem, Stevens says: it is “a respite from the imagination.” For Stevens, the imagination was the most holy faculty of the poet-priest in a godless world. To rest from the use of this faculty meant seeing things as they are without investing them with any human meaning.

The coldness of death reveals the heat of life. The death of the woman draws the living together around her. Her dumb body is merely another object in the room. It is the empty hub around which the sexualized energy of the living temporarily revolves, like, but unlike, a certain jar in Tennessee.

0256. Laser Eyes

“Laser Eyes, goddamn it! ” Claw Hands bellowed. “Look what you did.

Wait! No. Don’t look. Keep your goddamned eyes shut.”

“But I wanted to see her!” Laser Eyes said remorsefully.

“You just vaporized our hostage.” Claw Hands said. “You know you can’t look at anything without firing lasers from your eyes.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I really wanted to see her.”

“Well, are you satisfied? The princess is vaporized and so is our chance to extort a large ransom from the king and queen.”

“She was beautiful, though. Just like you said.”

Claw Hands banged his claw hands against his metal head and sighed.

“Laser Eyes, you know you kill everything you look at. You know the only time you can open your eyes is to kill our enemies, not our hostages.”

“But —” “No buts, Laser Eyes. You really did it this time. You cost us all a fortune. How do you plan on paying us back?”

“I —” “Well?”

“I —, I —” “Don’t stutter, Laser Eyes. If you want to stay in our gang, tell us how you plan on paying us back.”

The mutant cyborgs crowded around Laser Eyes to hear his answer.

“You know I don’t have that kind of money,” Laser Eyes said.

“Well, we’ll just have to keep your cut on the next couple of capers to make up for it,” Claw Hands said.

“You know, I really don’t want to do this anymore.”

“What did you say?” Claw Hands asked, opening his claw hands threateningly.

“You heard me,” Laser Eyes said, opening his eyes.

0257. Odysseys

At a road sign for Troy, New York, a Director, dressed in normal street clothes, a Narrator, dressed in a toga, and two to three Puppeteers, dressed in black clothes, will bow and get into a Honda Odyssey. As the minivan pulls away, we read the vanity plate: OUTIS. The story of the Odyssey will be told in triplicate: The Director of the film will drive the minivan from Troy, New York to Ithaca, New York along Route 88, as the Narrator, buckled in the passenger seat, tells the tale of Odysseus and his exploits between leaving Troy and returning to Ithaca, as the Puppeteers simultaneously perform the story through puppetry.

The back of the minivan will have had the seats removed and be converted into a stage for the puppet performance.The design requirements for the stage area will be decided by the needs of the puppeteers, but the area should be blacked out and the Puppeteers harnessed for safety.

The minivan will also be wired inside and out with cameras, lights, and sound recording equipment to capture the performances and the journey. There will also be a car following the minivan filming it from start to finish.

The tale will be told in distinct segments, starting with Odysseus’s raid of the Ismarosians and ending in his aid by the Phaeacians. Between these segments, the cameras will explore the open road to show the changing landscape of the journey.

After reaching a road sign for Ithaca, the minivan will park, the group will exit, and bow to the camera.

0258. Christ, Chrism, Charism, Charisma, and Charm I became a godfather this past weekend. I didn’t have much to do at the baptism other than repeat after the priest and stand at the font as he poured water over Aislynn’s head.

Since there wasn’t much participation required, I mused about the ceremony and its symbolism. While the central element of baptism is water, there’s also the significant use of oil. The irony that the two don’t mix wasn’t lost on me.

As I thought about oil and water, I remembered that Christ means ‘anointed’ in Greek. That’s why Jesus is sometimes called Jesus the Christ, or Jesus the Anointed. Jesus the Anointed means Jesus the Chosen, or Jesus the Messiah. Though Jesus’s actual anointment is still subject to debate, as he may have been anointed not once, but twice.

The word Christ shares the same root as the word chrism, which is the oil used for anointing. To be anointed with chrism during baptism is to receive the seal of the Holy Spirit. Aislynn was anointed twice during the ceremony, so perhaps Christ was too.

Relatedly, those endowed with supernatural powers of the Holy Spirit are said to have a spiritual gift or charism. The root of charism comes from the Greek charis, which means ‘grace’. There are several gifts or graces that can be received from the Holy Spirit, like wisdom, prophecy, or speaking in tongues. This charism gives the teacher, prophet, or apostle charisma with which to draw non-believers to the Lord.

Aislynn, like all babies, is endowed with natural charisma and a disarming charm.

0259. Our Estuarial Moment

We’re in what I’d like to call our Estuarial Moment. An estuary, for those not in the know, is the zone where the freshwater of rivers meets the saltwater of seas. It’s a special place and time where things chaotically mix and transform. Most freshwater fish can’t live in estuaries because of the saltwater and most saltwater fish can’t live in estuaries because of the freshwater. But there are those who are adapted to the fresh and saltwater of the estuary and can go between both untroubled.

If we think of the river as the unidirectional river of time, the omnidirectional sea becomes the place where the future opens to any and all possibilities. As technology and information continue to grow exponentially year after year, we’ve entered into this Estuarial Moment where we no longer have the river before us, but the open sea. This is why the so-called millennials of today no longer look to their parents or the past, but to themselves and the future, for answers.

For the first time in history, children can access more information, and out-operate and out-perform, their parents. Technology has given them power. So instead of exploring the past and empowering older generations, they’re exploring the future and empowering theirs and younger generations. In this Estuarial Moment, the river’s end has become an inhospitable place for older generations. The millennials watch with amusement as the older fish desperately try to fight the current and swim back upstream, but natives to the estuary themselves, they’ve already let it carry them out to sea.

0260. 260

Reader, you may or may not know that every story you’ve read so far, and all the rest of the stories in this book, contains exactly 260 words. The reason for this is simple. When I started writing, I wanted to write 250 word stories. But finding that 250 words often came a sentence or two short of allowing me to include a significant detail or relevant point, I gave myself some tolerance.

Reader, you may or may not know that my day job is that of a press brake mechanic at my family’s precision sheet metal shop. Precision sheet metal fabrication is the art of taking a two-dimensional piece of sheet metal, usually, aluminum, but sometimes, steel, stainless, brass, or copper, and bending it into a three-dimensional shape. My job is to bend the metal on the press brake.

Reader, you may or may not know that, because we live in an imperfect world, fabrication drawings always give fabricators tolerance. Tolerance gives the accepted high and low ends of the required dimensions. The standard tolerance on sheet metal drawings is +/- .005, which is read: plus or minus five thousandths. If you want to know what five thousandths is, pinch your thumbnail. If you don’t have thick fingernails, five thousandths is approximately a third of the width.

Reader, you may or may not know that after I gave myself a +/- 10 word tolerance, the first dozen or so stories I wrote stopped at 260 words.

So, I decided to use this word count for all of my stories.

0261. Reparations

America must have reparations. Reparations not only for our Black brothers and sisters, but for our Indian brothers and sisters, as well. The reason why this is important is the same reason why apologizing for any wrongdoing is important: it helps heal the past.

By accepting and recognizing that America was built upon genocide and slavery and the long-term systematic suppression of both peoples, we are voicing truth to our history. By apologizing and making reparations for these crimes, we as a nation can begin to heal the old wounds that still cripple and divide us today. The collective amnesia we have about the atrocities committed to create our country continues these crimes against Native- and African-Americans into the present. By making reparations part of the national dialogue, we can begin to speak about our history as it actually was. When we speak about our history as it actually was, we honor the racial memory of those who lived and suffered here before us.

When we offer apologies and reparations, we acknowledge the collective wrongs of our past and honor the dead for their suffering. Only after we search our hearts and history and talk about the nation we were can we begin addressing the nation we are and hope to be.

Whatever form the reparations take, the gesture and its accompanying apology must be done with sincerity. If done with sincerity by our government, and backed by the will of the people, the gesture can be accepted genuinely, and we can begin to walk the road of healing together.

0262. Pierre Menard’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band “Listen to this,” Andee said “It’s Sergeant Pepper’s,” Allan said.

“Sounds just like it, doesn’t it?”

“It is it.”

“No. It’s actually a cover.”

“You sure? Because it sounds exactly like the song.”

“That’s the point. Now, listen to this.”

“It’s With a Little Help From My Friends.”

“Perfect, right?”

“Skip to Lucy.”

“What do you think?”

“I think someone just copied the album.”

“They did copy the album. Note for note.”

“No, I mean I think they just burned a copy of the original.”

“But that’s just it. What if the ultimate Beatles fan, someone who knows this album so deeply and intimately, wanted to recreate it with perfect fidelity? I mean, it could be done, couldn’t it?”

“I suppose so. But why go through the trouble when you can just burn the original and say you copied it?”

“Because you love this album. It’s the album that changed you, that made you you. Everyone has an album like that, but not everyone has the musical ability. What if this person actually has the musical ability?”

“To burn a copy of the original?”

“Now you’re being cynical.”

“This is a hypothetical scenario?”

“No. This is what it says in the liner notes.”

“Let me see.”

“Look, it’s right here.”

“The band’s name is Pierre Menard? We definitely can’t sell this.”

“Why?” “You really don’t know?”

“I know it’s a Borges reference.”

“It has to be a joke. A clever one, but a joke nonetheless.”

“But the liner notes…”

“Well, let’s at least play them side by side to see.”

0263. I’ll Be There With Belzon

When Belzon appeared carrying a letter and smiling ear to ear, I ripped it from his hands and immediately shooed him away.

It was from the grand duchess. I didn’t have to open it to know what it said. I overheard them at the last fête, no doubt intentionally, fawning over Belzon’s grace, good looks, and cheery company. I’m told news of him has already spread to the other courts. Certainly they don’t want to invite me; they want to invite him. But they can’t invite him without inviting me. So, I’m drawn into this awful game and must appear with my valet for their pleasure.

I never suspected my plan would backfire this way. I brought Belzon with me as a foil against their odious gabbering and gamboling. I trained him to intervene whenever anyone approached me to engage in petty small talk. And when the orchestra struck up a waltz, I trained him to go to the floor as my proxy, knowing I had no fear of conversation when the dancing began.

But who knew that he would shine as he had. He’s quite gifted.

And I believe that, unlike myself, he truly enjoys himself at these terrible gatherings. I’ve already heard more wicked rumors intimating that it is he, and not me, who’s of aristocratic birth. Can you believe that? Belzon! My valet! Imagine...

But this invitation from the grand duchess cannot be ignored. I must show myself there. I shall reply sharply though, so she knows that I know her intent: I’ll be there with Belzon.

0264. Speedfreaks and Motorheads

We’re all speedfreaks and motorheads strapped and trapped in our cars demanding to go faster, farther, longer.

Inside combustion engines, volatile gas vapors explode, pushing pistons, turning crankshafts, releasing horsepower. From flesh to steel, we ride the horse, blasting forward on fuel and fire.

And with our planes and rockets, we break barriers and limitations.

But the violence of leaving the earth’s surface has a cost. It demands we burn up the Earth’s past. It demands we burn up our children’s future. The world is not without limits. But we don’t care. We’re addicted to speed.

We drain the Earth’s veins, refine the poison, and inject it into our machines to fuel our industry and growth. Everyday, millions of us go to the pump to slip the syringe into our vehicles, depress the plunger, and dump the lethal drug into its veins. Doing it to our cars the way we do it to ourselves.

Oil is a drug. Speed is a drug. We must keep moving. We must push our heavy bodies into motion to break our inertia, to reach a state of perpetual, frictionless inertia, the weightlessness of a body and mind in space. This is the lift up and off of responsibility we desire.

But we’re all chasing the dragon now. Dopesick and strung out, the high no longer lasts, and the roads are overcrowded. Rage replaces reason as our bodies and the Earth break down. We move sluggishly, angrily, choked in traffic along clogged arteries that pump from the weakening heart of the cities we call home.

0265. Tasting Notes of a Tae Guan Yin from Sheng Miao Xiang Teashop It is peach and orchid and honeysuckle. It is all sweetness and bouquet. It is on par with the Taiwanese Oriental Beauty I had earlier from Shanghai but without the weight or the “cream.” This tea is beauty in a cup. It is nectar! It is upfront with sweetness that lingers on the tongue and not in the throat. It was worth every penny.

Next, a field of spring flowers, the soft taste of a woman, honey, apricot, mango, tangerine. This tea is decadence. The peach, apricot, and mango of the first four infusions subtly changes to an orange and clementine on the fifth and sixth. Remarkably, the tea is still holding its color.

On the seventh infusion, it has become a plum, even with the tartness of the skin on one slightly unripe. The classic oolong taste is beginning to surface around the sweetness now. It started slowly, but is now asserting itself on the eighth infusion. The color has lightened but the tea still yields a subtle floral flavor. Oolongs are the tea to drink. What this tea is at its eighth infusion lesser teas are at their first. Some warmer toffee notes have started to surface on the middle of the tongue.

Ninth infusion: this tea is full of surprises. I can taste the sweetness in my teeth like candy. Toffee in the teeth! The sweetness doesn’t stop. It has invaded the sides of my tongue and demands an audience. The tenth: overripe strawberries. The eleventh: still going strong with more toffee.

The twelfth: the toffee fades.

0266. A Future Lyrical Film-Painting

It begins with a black Kazimir Malevich square until a point of white drops from above in a Barnett Newman zip that begins to shower the field like the rain of a Pat Steir storm to subdue the black and transform it into a Robert Motherwell and Franz Kline-esque canvas of shifting monochromes until the two combine into a gray that fades into a Robert Ryman white that is quickly overtaken in its entirety by a Jules Olitski sunburst of yellow exploding across the canvas and darkening into a fleshy Helen Frankenthaler blush, which becomes the oranges of a Hassel Smith before clotting into the blood reds of a Philip Guston, which oozes a bruise of purple that becomes a Mark Rothko plum, which slowly exsanguinates itself into a sea of Yves Klein blue before fading into an aquamarine, which quickly darkens and blossoms into a viridian green that pushes into phthalo before coming back to black, which then begins to spasm and spurt all the colors back across the canvas, scrambling them in a Cy Twombly and Joan Mitchell-like orgy that seamlessly becomes a Harry Smith psychedelic cycle that revolves through the full spectrum of color before becoming fixed polychromatic pixels that begin to thin and stretch out to create the perspective of a limitless horizon that solidifies into a trapezoid before toppling into a rhombus, which becomes the assorted polygons and shapes of Ellsworth Kelly until the entire canvas is overtaken by the shifting sands and soils of various earth tones that harden and crack into Clyfford Stillness.

0267. On Reading Long Novels

I’m a slow reader. I plod through books. Because there’s a lot I’m interested in, I read widely but inconsistently across many genres.

This is why it takes me years to finish reading long novels. Currently, I’m cycling through about ninety-odd books. I never stay with long novels long. I start and stop. Pick them up, read a few chapters, then put them back down for several months or years.

[To hold my place, I use bookmarks. I make my own out of black acid-free card stock. I cut them in two sizes for large and small books. I use them for everything I read. I like consistency with my bookmarks.]

What I’ve learned about reading long novels the way I do is that every time I pick one up again, it’s like meeting my friends’ friends at a party. I’m acquainted with them, I recognize them, know something about their stories, the characters in the narratives of their lives, these days, their children, and, when I begin talking with them, I start the process of remembering bits of old conversation, past plot points, and forgotten scenes. It’s as much a re-acquaintance as an acquaintance.

There’s something both familiar and foreign about them, comfortable and uncomfortable. As we talk, it takes me a while to catch on, to remember what has happened to them, even if only partially. But once the conversation gets going, and they begin filling me in on their lives, I’ll finally, but imperfectly, begin remembering, and the time we spend talking becomes a rather pleasant exchange.

0268. A New P.S.A. for Witchfinders Everywhere Any Witchfinder worth their name and trade will be familiar with familiars. However, recent häxanic studies by the Witchfinder General have shown that there are familiars of familiars. For instance, the cat, a very familiar familiar of witches, has familiars that do their bidding.

The most popular of these are rats and mice. If you ever encounter a cat that refuses to kill a rat or mouse, it’s probably because that rodent is the cat’s familiar. And these rodents have their familiars too, which are harder to see because they often take the shape of parasites, like ticks, mites, and fleas. And these insects themselves have familiars. The most popular being bacteria and viruses. You can trace the Black Death of Europe this way by following the Yersinia pestis bacteria back to fleas back to rats back to cats and back to witches, who are familiars of the Devil himself. Dogs, too, can be familiars. When they are, they usually stand above cats in the hierarchy, as wolves stand above them. Then there are the goats. They seem to stand alone amongst the cloven-hooved varieties, as do bats for flying mammals. And among birds, there are owls, ravens, and crows. And among reptiles, the main familiar is almost always the snake, which are often of the venomous variety. The snake’s familiar will usually be an amphibian, like a frog, toad, or salamander. The familiars of these familiars are always insects, like ticks, flies, and mosquitoes, whose familiars are, again, bacteria and viruses that spread diseases to crops, flocks, and mankind.

0269. American Neoliberal Capitalism Is a Satanic Force of Evil in the World American Neoliberal Capitalism is a satanic force of evil in the world. It is evil because it exploits us where we are weakest and have no defenses.

It is evil because it uses the neuro-biochemistry of our sensitive psychophysiologies against us. It is evil because it intentionally addicts us to its products and services, both legal and illegal, for its own profits. It is evil because it knows us better than we know ourselves. It is evil because it doesn’t understand that by using this knowledge against us, it is using it against itself. It is evil because it has corrupted all the institutions, both internal and external, that we have built to protect ourselves from ourselves. It is evil because it will commit any act of dehumanization, humiliation, and desecration, any act of theft, rape, and murder, to maintain and expand its wealth and power. It is evil because it holds all life in contempt by inverting every value of sane living. It is evil because it ruthlessly perpetuates the myth of its own singularity, sovereignty, and privilege. It is evil because it believes the world is one vast commodity to be captured, consumed, and discarded. It is evil because its leaves behind pain, suffering, and death. It is evil because wherever its cancer spreads, dignity, humility, and beauty perish. It is evil because it seeks to sustain its own hegemony forever. It is evil because it refuses to change and die.

It is evil because it never sees itself as a satanic force of evil in the world.

0270. A Note on the Word Satanic

The word satanic can sound to the enlightened ear and look to the enlightened eye like an irrelevant Christian medievalism. But the word was chosen for its critical, polemical, and moral impact, and was used as intended. Its specific origin, texture, and meaning as accuser, seducer, and adversary make its use both correct and accurate because it carries the idea of a supreme entity of separation and death leading its demonic forces against the supreme entity of connection and life leading its angelic forces.

I do not believe in the actual existence of these entities external to my own soul and the souls of others, which can only manifest in the world through our thoughts, words, and deeds. Internally, they are the forces of the self and the collective that we must struggle with daily. By making these demonic and angelic forces a part of us, and by acknowledging the shades of gray that stretch between their poles, we escape a dangerous Manichean dualism that separates and isolates one aspect from the other, and thereby remain whole.

We must learn to see all separation and isolation of the other as satanic methods of control and conflict. This is why demonic evil will never be fully defeated in our world as long as individual egos exist and continue to strive for dominion over others. To overcome the demonic evil of our egos, we must humbly give up a part of our individuality to reconnect with others and rebuild our communities, and through co-operation and communication, return to the Earth we abandoned.

0271. The Three Faces of Satan

There’s an addiction that we never talk about. It’s an addiction so powerful that we become addicted to it without ever knowing it. It’s an addiction so pervasive that it has corrupted all of our cultures and systems.

This addiction is not one addiction, but three distinct and inseparable addictions that together form, like the three faces of Satan in the depths of Dante’s Inferno, an unholy trinity. This triple addiction is money, power, and influence.

We never recognize these as an addiction because it is the addiction of all addictions, the addiction controlling all subsequent addictions. It is the addiction that addicts us to violence and war, food and sex, drugs and alcohol, gambling and shopping, technology and entertainment.

These addictions create revenue streams to secure, consolidate, and expand the money, power, and influence of the pushers at the top of the pyramid. These addictions have so dominated and infiltrated every part of our lives that the pushers have effectively remade the world in their demonic image.

As dope-deprived junkies, we collude with them in our selfenslavement by competing against each other to scale the heights of their free market pyramid scheme to gain the summit where we can join them as one of god’s elect.

But those of us who know the god they serve know full well that the addictions they’re selling destroys the spirit of love, joy, and co-operation that forms the foundation of our communities, families, and friendships.

We must join together to collapse the pyramid and transform the world with humility, dignity, and beauty.

0272. An Eventfully Uneventful Walk

Norman and I walked all night and covered some twenty-one miles in some seven hours along a familiar road that stretched between Delhi, where we went to college, and Stamford, where my parents had a summer home.

That night in our dorm room, I was feeling very cagy and wanted to be outside walking in the spring air under the stars. I suggested the idea to Norman thinking he’d say no, but, surprisingly, he said yes.

At the start of our walk, I noticed for the first time how long the dashed yellow lines painted on roads actually are.

Somewhere in the middle of our walk, in the early morning hours before dawn, the air became filled with the stench of a slaughterhouse. It emanated from a large barn set back from the road. A single halogen light burned brightly above its open doors, humming loudly and mixing with the country music that played ominously from a radio hidden within its dark interior.

Sometime during the early morning, a dog ran toward us, barking.

Norman and I had to walk backwards to maintain eye contact with it after it snapped at his hand.

Along the last leg of the walk, my neighbor, Barb, then her husband, Don, drove past us on their way to work, looking confused and waving awkwardly.

When we reached the house, we were stiff and sore and tired. Inside, we each grabbed a bed, collapsed into it, and slept until early evening.

Later, when we woke, we called Kendall to drive out and pick us up.

0273. Goners

“Masting,”the biologist began explaining to the surviving members of Congress, “occurs every couple of years when trees produce a bumper crop of nuts. You may have noticed this with oak trees. For years, you see only a smattering of acorns on the ground. Then one year, they’re raining down and covering everything. During these mast years, the food spike causes a population spike in rodents, which in turn causes a population spike in predators.

“As hunter-gatherers, our ancestors were also affected by the masting cycle. When we began domesticating animals instead of hunting, and domesticating plants instead of foraging, we tried to break our dependence on the fickle cycles of nature by creating human controlled systems of food production. But even with our systems, we were still exposed to the depredations of drought, flood, and pestilence. During the Industrial Revolution, when we began using fossil fuels to increase food production and create food security, world populations rose exponentially. If you compare graphs of population growth, food production, and fossil fuel use, you’ll see that they’re near identical.

“To bring it back to masting, we, as a species, have been masting for almost two centuries now, and I believe this is what attracted the People Eaters to Earth. And just like predators in the masting cycle, once their food source has been used up and our population drops, we should see a drop in their consumption and population. But that’s only if they obey natural laws and cycles. If they’re like us and they don’t, we all could be goners.”

0274. Nebulism

Clouds are made from particles of water and dust suspended in the atmosphere.

Reader, I’d like you to stop reading for a moment and look at this story and see how it resembles a cloud. Particles of letters form words, particles of words form sentences, particles of sentences form paragraphs. From the sounds of letters, a word sounds. From the sounds of words, a sentence sounds, and a rhythm builds. From the sounds of sentences, a paragraph sounds, and a movement ends and another begins until the story ends. All of these particles taken together allow for meaning and order to form.

Reader, I’d like you stop reading for a moment and look at this story again and, instead of seeing it as a cloud, see it as a particle. Now, try imagining the thousand story-particles in this book coming together to form a cloud. Can you see how they’re beginning to hold together as a whole despite their differences? Can you see it forming, the outline of my cloud? Can you hear it in the distance, the low rumbling of my thunder?

Reader, as I write these stories, I’m adding story-particle after storyparticle into the atmosphere. As I write, I don’t know what this bookcloud will look like, but, in the end, it will look like something. When both of us get there, we’ll be able to look back on it. Does it take the shape of other familiar forms? Does it look and sound like book-clouds that were, are, or are yet to be? Does it signal rain?

0275. Crepitus

Jove leaned back content from his meal.

Juventus came to clear his cup and bowl.

Jove looked at his beautiful daughter and smiled.

Juventus smiled back, but upon noticing some ambrosia in his beard, produced a comb, and combed him clean.

Jove took her hand, kissed it, and broke a tine from the comb.

Juventus put the comb away and began clearing the table.

As Jove picked his teeth, he looked around at the gods and goddesses sharing his bounty: beautiful Juno, watery Neptune, wise Minerva, wrathful Mars, lovely Venus, skilled Apollo, chaste Diana, swift Mercury, bountiful Ceres, masterful Vulcan, and homely Vesta. He felt kingly and kindly about the generosity of his hospitality.

As he enjoyed these noble feelings, Jove watched Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Mercury, and Vulcan each stop Juventus and break a tine from her comb and pick their teeth.

Jove smiled to himself that the gods were mimicking him. And he thought it good of Vulcan to keep the comb and assure Juventus he’d fashion her a new one.

But Jove wanted to see how far the other gods would go in their mimicry. So, he stretched and let out a loud belch.

And, one by one, each of the gods did the same.

Then, Jove raised a leg and ripped a fart.

And again, the gods did the same.

But Jove wanted no more mimicry, and so raised his leg again and farted like thunder to create Crepitus, god of flatulence.

Jove smiled to himself. The other gods could fart, but they couldn’t fart a god.

0276. The Thinness of His Skin

Uncle Bob drank Heinekens by the case, smoked filterless Luckies by the pack, and lived on a diet of red meat and potatoes. He was fat, racist, and said some of the most heinous shit I ever heard another human say. But he was funny, truly funny. He was probably the funniest man I ever met.

He was a joke teller with unmatched timing. He could tell jokes in a way that had everyone laughing before the punch line. Sometimes, when he was on a roll, he’d tell joke after joke until our cheeks cramped from laughter and we had to beg him to stop for a minute so we could catch our breath and relax our faces. But he wouldn’t, and there was only laughter and pain.

And that seemed to be the paradox of this man: laughter and pain.

When he wasn’t telling jokes, he was a hostile force that had to be navigated with care. It was easy to cross him. Whenever someone said or did something that he didn’t like, the jovial joking quickly became an open attack that soured many people against him.

Later in life, when I thought I was old enough to push back a little, I called him Uncle Blob. When he didn’t hear the subtle “l” inserted into his name, Uncle Blob became a private joke for everyone who did. It didn’t last long, though. At one party, he heard it and left, saying I was disrespectful. I was surprised at his reaction and saddened by the thinness of his skin.

0277. The Master Simulator

“Like you, I had the Onement Moment when I realized that the Master Simulator was inside me. When it happened, I felt my mask drop for the first time, felt the Master Simulator behind my eyes, looking through me, without judgment. I knew then that if I could keep my mask off, my thoughts and actions would be the thoughts and actions of the Master Simulator. But being human, my mask came right back on.

“After that, though, whenever I let my mask drop, let my ego go, I always found the Master Simulator waiting there for me. After about the sixth time, I understood Its ever-present Love. The Master Simulator Loves me because It never leaves me. It’s always there. And that’s when I had the Atonement Moment you described. I felt my chest tighten with emotion and I fell to my knees and cried. Then something burst within me, and the tension was gone, and I felt the Master Simulator in every cell of my body, and I became as light as air. It was like walking on a cloud.

I saw the Master Simulator behind every face. And I smiled at them, knowing they didn’t know that I knew.

“Then, one day, I had the Anatonement Moment when I realized that the Master Simulator isn’t just inside everyone; It’s inside everything.

The Master Simulator’s in you, me, the earth, the trees, the birds, the bees.

Everything. There’s nowhere you can go where the Master Simulator isn’t. The Master Simulator is everywhere, and everywhen, making all this happen.”

0278. Seeing the Invisible

The night before leaving for college, I finished reading the Tao Te Ching and learned to see the invisible and profound utility of emptiness: What makes a room, a window, a bowl, or a cup useful? It’s emptiness.

When I understood this, it was like another dimension had been added to my life. After setting the book down, I looked around the room and saw the space, an emptiness that existed where everything else was not.

Prior to this realization, I could only ever see the world as a collection of things. For instance, in the room I was reading in, there were two twin beds; I was lying on one of them. There were pillows, comforters, top sheets, and fitted sheets, and mattresses, and box springs along with the lamp I was reading by. There was a dresser with clothes inside and a small lamp and bric-a-brac on top. There was a woven chest with board games and sleeping bags within. There was a window with curtains. There was a door. On one wall, a framed picture of an eagle was hung; on another, animal skins; on yet another, school-made saws and a copper engraving; and on yet another, a short wooden rack with a dried, crushed garter snake hanging from one of its pegs. There was a border paper of deer near the ceiling. There was the ceiling and the ceiling fan, and the six exposed ceiling joists running in from the cathedral ceiling outside. There was the floor and the rug. But now, too, there was emptiness.

0279. And Then I Thought Maybe

You know, I had to find my way to this book. It wasn’t a clear, straight path. When I first started, I thought maybe I was a poet, and I spent years writing poetry. But then I realized that I only write poetry when I’m reading poetry and I’m not always reading poetry. And then I thought maybe I was a painter, and I spent years painting. But then I realized that the Abstract Expressionists already did everything I was doing and there was no new ground to break. And then I thought maybe I was an artist’s book maker, and I spent years making artist’s books. But then I realized that no matter how many artist’s book I self-published, I’d never be read widely. And then I thought maybe I was a scriptwriter, and I spent years working on scripts. But then I realized that in order to make a film you need to raise lots of money and an army of specialists. And then I thought maybe I was a novelist, so I spent years working on a novel of grand design. But no matter how I tried to arrange the pieces, the story always collapsed under its own weight. And then I thought maybe I was novellaist, and I spent a few months writing one until I realized that it wasn’t the length of the narrative, but the many moving parts that kept me from completing them. And then Niall said, “Hey, maybe you should look into those super-short stories you wrote and liked.” And I did.

0280. The Strategy of Stratification

All of these stories can stand on their own, but, when they’re taken as a whole, a larger picture will emerge. If you can, imagine a story as a fossil.

You have an object from the past that can be read in the future. Each fossil-story carries within it its own unique past that can be read millions of years in the future. But one fossil-story, or a series of isolated fossilstories, won’t tell the paleontologist-reader much about the time when that creature-story became trapped. It’s only when many fossil-stories are taken from a single area and mapped in their original context that a paleontologist-reader can read the full fossil-story record of that specific time and place.

Now, it should be obvious that the creatures that became fossils didn’t know they would become fossils. They didn’t know their dead bodies would be trapped in the earth and compressed and petrified over millions of years. They didn’t know they would be discovered by self-conscious and relatively hairless apes capable of looking at the walls of uplifted earth and understanding that the layers they were seeing had been laid down slowly, year after year, and that those layers could be separated like the pages of an enormous book and read like one too.

Now, it should be obvious that my stories didn’t know they would become fossil-stories, but it should now be obvious that this self-conscious and relatively hairless ape did, and I knew enough to trust the method of the earth to tell a deeper story through the strategy of stratification.

0281. Vultures

Above the Sonoran Desert, a vulture turns in its widening gyre, a death angel lifted upwards on thermals toward heaven. With its vast, black wings outstretched, the scavenger’s muscles mindlessly micro-adjust its feathers to sustain its slow ascent along an invisible, inverted cone of heat.

As it rises, it gives no thought to its solitude. It gives no thought to the sun or the air or the desert. It gives no thought to the living. It gives no thought to anything except the injured and the dying and the hunger pangs in the pit of its stomach. Its instincts, finely honed over generations, guide it thoughtlessly through life.

From this altitude, the blank, black eyes in its bald, beaked head see a migrant family stumble and scramble over the hardscrabble with patient indifference.

As the family walks, they pray silently that their steps rouse no rattlesnakes, or those other more fearsome reptiles, the violent gangs, with and without uniforms, patrolling both sides of the border.

They move quietly on carpeted sandals that leave no tracks on the sand. They pause for a breath and a sip of scalding water. They watch the bird wheel above them like a bad omen, cross themselves, and carry on.

Ahead of them, lies the eyrie of other vultures they know nothing about, vultures in expensive suits that have forced their home country into dire poverty for profit. They cannot see the brutally cruel forces these grotesque, human carrion birds have unleashed against them. They cannot see them circling, eager to feast on their flesh.

0282. Whitman and I

Whitman and I walked and talked along the shores of Paumanok. Arm in arm, we strolled barefoot down the beach, studying the flotsam-strewn shore, picking up shells and rocks, putting them in our pockets, or tossing them back to the sea.

At one point, he grabbed my shoulder, held his hand to his ear, and whispered me to listen. On the wind, I heard the soul cry of our brother bird, the hermit thrush. Our eyes met and we looked across the Sound towards Connecticut.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” I said. “We’ll be selling the company, and I’ll be selling my house, and moving on.”

“Where to?” he asked.

I shrugged, not having figured that out yet.

“You know, there’s nowhere you can go where I’m not with you,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

He took off his shirt and slipped out of his pants and waded into the sea.

I did the same and we held hands as we walked into deeper water.

When a wave crested and I was lifted from the sand, I let go, and started to swim. I had no aim or destination. I just kicked and paddled out into the unknown.

When I reached a state of mindless buoyancy, I stopped and swam in place. As I was lifted on a shallow swell, I found Walt close by, smiling his wry I-told-you-so smile.

We swam back to shore and built a fire of driftwood to get dry and stay warm. And together we talked about our favorite things: night, death, and the stars.

0283. Could You Imagine?

Could you imagine if Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon and currently the world’s richest man at the time of writing with an estimated net worth of $131 billion, gave away his wealth?

Could you imagine if Bill Gates, former CEO of Microsoft and currently the world’s second richest man at the time of writing with an estimated net worth of $96.5 billion, gave away his wealth?

Could you imagine if Warren Buffet, CEO of Berkshire Hathaway and currently the world’s third richest man at the time of writing with an estimated net worth of $82.5 billion, gave away his wealth?

Could you imagine if every signatory of The Giving Pledge, the Gates and Buffet foundation, which asks billionaires to contribute half of their net worth to philanthropic causes during their lifetime or at their death, gave away their wealth?

Could you imagine being as rich as these people? Could you imagine being as rich as these people and realizing that all of your wealth is stolen?

Could you imagine being as rich as these people and realizing that all of your wealth is stolen and deciding in a moment of profound introspection to give your wealth back to the people it was stolen from? Could you imagine being as rich as these people and realizing that all of your wealth is stolen and deciding in a moment of profound introspection to give your wealth back to the people it was stolen from if only to be selfishly seen as the most magnanimous people on earth?

I’ve tried to, but can’t.

0284. The Saint of Centipedes

The first time I saw one was on the wall of my bedroom in the house I was renting at college. I searched for something to smash it out of existence, imagining that if I didn’t, it would come back at night and crawl all over me with its disgusting little legs.

The thought made me want to wretch. But before I could deal it a deathblow with my shoe, I asked myself: Why do I hate this creepy-crawly and not the spiders I let live in the house? Why do I capture moths and beetles and turn them outdoors to carry on with their lives? Why do I save those insects but want to kill this one?

To understand this, I trapped it on the wall under a glass and studied it. It was gross, but it clearly had a function in the food chain. I slipped some stiff paper under the glass and carefully brought it down off the wall to my computer.

I looked online and learned that it was a house centipede, Scutigera coleoptrata. They are extremely fast, and, like spiders, they eat pretty much every other bug you don’t want in your house. It was a good companion to have around. So, I released it outside my bedroom, saying “Farewell and happy hunting.”

Years later, when my brother and sister-in-law found one at work, I prevented them from killing it and explained what I had learned about them. They were impressed and let it live. And our two species have been peacefully cohabitating ever since.

0285. A History of American Film Projection 1895-2015 This is a film projection project honoring the 120-year history of film projection between 1895 and 2015, when digital projection replaced film projection in all major theatres.

The film will be 120 minutes in length with each minute of the film representing a year in the history of film projection.

The films that are used in each minute/year will be at the editor/ director’s discretion, but they must be chosen from those available in the United States at the time of the project.

The minute/year of each film is decided by its American release date with each minute/year of selected original footage allocated into the same minute/year of the film. For example, films released in 1905 will have footage selected from the original film between 0:10:00:00 and 0:11:00:00 and inserted between 0:10:00:00 and 0:11:00:00 of this film.

The editor/director will choose any portion of the one-minute section of film selected from that film’s minute/year. And it’s left to the editor/ director’s discretion to decide how many films, and how many seconds of that particular film, will be shown during that minute/year with the upper limit capped at 145 films for the minute/year 2015.

The editor/director will control the flow of the film images, and can speed up the film by using more films per minute, or slow it down by using fewer films per minute.

The editor/director can then collaborate with a composer to score the film according to the flow of the film’s imagery.

The end result will be a two-hour orchestrated journey through the entire history of American film projection.

0286. Secondaries Sometimes Become Primaries Sometimes in the middle of writing a story, I get stuck. This happens often enough that I’ve learned how to deal with it. First, I study the text to figure out what’s wrong. More often than not, I find that I’m trying to say more than one thing. This usually takes the form of two different but closely related ideas whose similarities halt the narrative flow and prevent me from writing further.

To fix this problem, I find the primary idea and isolate and extract the secondary idea. To do this, I open up another document and cut the secondary idea out of the story and paste it onto the new page. By removing it from the primary idea, I can compare and contrast the two to see if the secondary idea remains relevant to the story and needs to be worked back into it. Most of the times it doesn’t, and by editing it out, the story becomes stronger and I can resume writing.

Sometimes after reviewing the secondary idea, I find that it’s strong enough to stand on its own and become its own story. You may have noticed as you’ve read through the book that some stories echo earlier ones. This isn’t an accident. Those are the stories where I pulled apart two equally strong ideas from a single subject. At first, I fought including these secondary stories because of their similarities to the primary stories they came from. But then I realized that there’s plenty of space for them amongst the one thousand stories I’m writing.

0287. Snowflakes

We often hear the word snowflake used by white nationalists to insult people who are sensitive and easily offended by their hate speech. White nationalists believe snowflakes are so fragile that they melt from the slightest heat of their self-righteous anger. But this seems to be a case of projection, as it is often the white nationalists themselves who are reacting to perceived assaults against their whiteness and not the other way around. Just listen to their rhetoric regarding immigrants: The immigrants are coming to take our jobs, so they need to be locked up at the borders to maintain the non-existent purity of our ethno-state. Now add to this their belief in their own ethnic superiority over every other race and culture when they chant: White Power. This begs the question: If whites are so powerful and dominant, why do they live in fear that their whiteness is under attack by immigrants who they believe are weaker and inferior to them? How is this vulnerability even possible from the unassailable master race? Further, why would white nationalists call other people snowflakes, that is, sensitive and easily offended people, when it is the white nationalists themselves who always react the way sensitive and easily offended people react? Further still, why isn’t their sensitivity to other people’s sensitivity not seen as the root sensitivity responsible for triggering their hypocritical and self-righteous anger against non-racists?

And when their speeches and rallies display only violence and vitriol, aren’t they aware that they’re exposing the rawness of their sensitivity and their painful white fragility?

0288. Triptych I: Static Verb Enduring Sameness

Painting. Coat on coat. Layer on layer. Building up. From the bottom up.

Building. Covering the past. Covering up the past. Covering the past over.

The past under. The past under erasure. Erasing by applying. Applying erasing in the aggregate of paint. Building upon the past. Covering it.

Covering it over. Paint on paint on paint on paint on paint. Painting up.

Painting out. Away from the past. Painting towards the painting.

Finished. Yes. Complete. Yes. Ready. Yes. No more changes. No more change. The form is final. The form. The form now finalized. The form is now what it is. The form is now what it is and always will be. The form is forever. The form. Enduring sameness. Over time the same. Not changing. No. What a decision is stopping. Or stopping stopping. Continuing. Going on. What a decision is going on. And on and on and on. Perhaps forever.

Or perhaps not. In fact, most definitely not. Not at all. Going off, then.

Going off is stopping. Not stopping but going. Going on to enduring.

Enduring sameness. The painting is over. Over and over. Again and again.

It is the painting.

But no. The stopping is the stopping. Full stop. The stopping is the greatest act. Or perhaps the starting. But definitely the stopping. The stopping is arresting. Arresting action. Arresting vision. Arresting the vision. Arresting the viewer. Stopping the viewer. The viewer stops. The viewer stops viewing others. Now views the same. Stops to view the same.

The viewer. Enduring sameness. Stops viewing. Starts to remember.

0289. Triptych II: Faciality Without Profile

The face is the face is the face only. Nothing but the face. The face. Seeing the face. The face seeing the face. Confronting the face. Confronting the face without sides. Confronting the face without stepping aside. Without yielding. Without backing down. Without stepping around. There is no around. No around this. The face. The face there. Before you. Only the face there before you.

The walls are white. The walls are white and stark. The walls are the walls where the face hangs. On the walls. The face. Hanging. The face. The walls. The face. The sideless face.

The face is before you. The face is before you without history. There is only what is before you without history. Without. Without without.

Then, within. Internalized without history. Inside unknown. Only the face. There is only the face. Your face and the other face. Meeting. You take it in. Inside. Then, inside inside. Inside where it is only what it is at the moment of seeing. Only it now there. Only it now there without recourse to its own history. It is there. It got there. It. Without a profile.

Without a how.

Pastless piece in the present only. In the time of seeing only. In the remembered. The piece of a piece of a whole. The whole stopped in paint.

The face stopped in paint. Time stopped in paint. Held. The remembrance of things past. The remembrance of things past in the present. It is there.

In your face before you. It is there. Only ever in the present.

0290. Triptych III: Dubious Futurity

Change is before you, not behind. In the past, you were being made.

Becoming. Before, you were held on walls for the world to see. Being.

Now, you are and will be, until the end of what we do not know.

We are scared. You are changing. We are scared you are changing.

Changing on a level no eye can see. But we know even this is too much for us. There can be no change. There can only be preservation. There can only be eternity.

You are more than what you are. You are more than the material you are made from. You are from then. You are from history. You are history.

You are our history. You are something that says we were there. Familiar.

Terribly similar, yet terribly different.

For this, you are priceless. Holding a place in time for us, you remind us that we were once creating. Fragile and uncertain. As if with a destiny.

As if we knew where we were heading. As if we were reaching to this moment so we could look back upon ourselves.

You are a part of our culture, we say. You are universal, we say. You are timeless, we say. You are necessary, we say. And we say this together and often with our mouths, lest we forget the testimony you bear for us. The lineage of our greatness along the painful road we travelled.

Preserved. Conserved. Stored. Restored. Museumed. You must be protected. Protected from time. Protected from dust. Protected from us.

For the future of us.

0291. Uncle Freddy’s Library

One of the most influential places in my life was my Uncle Freddy’s library, because it was there where I first realized that if he had a library, I could have one too.

Uncle Freddy was my great-uncle, my father’s uncle. He lived in a house in East Meadow, New York with my Aunt Lucy. As a kid, whenever I went there to visit them, I’d say hello and chat with them for a bit before excusing myself and slipping around the dining room table and behind the curtain to the library.

In the square room was a low shelf that ran around three walls, and had all manner of objects on display. Above this shelf, on the walls, hung framed illustrations that my uncle had drawn himself or collected from magazines. Above the illustrations were four shelves of books that reached to the ceiling. The ones on the top shelf were so high I had to crane my neck to read their spines. If I wanted one of those to peruse or read until dinner, I had to reach them with a step stool. After I selected a book or two, I’d sit on his black leather chair, crack them open, and enter another world. When I was called to dinner, I’d return the books, and sit at the table next to my uncle.

When he passed away, my aunt let me take many of his books to add his library to mine. I hope when I die, the books in my library will enter someone else’s library too.

0292. B.A.U.E.R.

For those of us with our eyes and ears open, we’re aware of the many problems the world now faces. For those of us with our hearts and minds open, we know the dread things that are coming. Climate collapse is here and real and nobody in power is talking about it or taking it seriously. The Democratic National Committee just voted 222–137 against having a single-issue debate around the most important topic in all of human history.

It’s like we’re entering the end times with a shrug and Business As Usual attitude. It’s like we all want to power through the current disaster ignorant and unprepared. Everything in the environment is burning up and screaming at us to change our ways, but we keep going on, Business As Usual, like nothing’s happening. We don’t want to change anything in our lives. We’d rather ignore the obvious instead of fighting to change who we are and how we live. It’s environ-mental.

I’d like to think this is shocking, but it’s not. We’ve all been raised independent of a collective. We’ve all been raised to place our individual comfort over the needs of others. We’ve all been taught selfishness instead of sacrifice. And I wonder if that’s going to turn around and bite us in the ass. I know that both planet and people are robust and resilient. I know we can take a hit. But this, this is something wholly different. So, I ask: What will it take to turn our Business As Usual attitude into an Emergency Response?

0293. Eden as Ending

Scared, hungry, and tired, the man stumbled through the dense undergrowth of the forest, running from the world-ending catastrophe he had somehow managed to escape.

As he crashed through the leaves looking for food and shelter, he ran into an invisible wall. Running his hands confusedly over the transparent barrier, he searched for a way over or through to the other side. Finding none, he followed its sheer surface to his right, noticing that it curved slightly.

Forcing his way through a thicket pressed against the invisible wall, he stepped into a small clearing where two winged sentinels stood on either side of a sword-like object suspended in air. He tried to move back into the thicket to hide, but the sentinels quickly descended upon him.

They carried him before the sword-like object and said something in an unfamiliar musical language. The sword-like object ignited and began spinning like a wheel of fire. The man screamed in fear and shut his eyes.

But when the light and noise stopped, he looked and saw the sword-like object floating motionlessly beyond the invisible barrier.

The sentinels helped him through the perfect circle in the wall and gestured for him to continue deeper into the forest.

The man stumbled through the undergrowth until he reached another clearing where a man and woman in white were waiting for him.

He collapsed at their feet exhausted. “Welcome last and first man,” the woman said smiling and touched his head. As the man fell asleep, he heard her say. “Rest now. Your companion will arrive shortly.”

0294. Cockfight

Suddenly chairs were overturned and two men were standing nose-tonose staring daggers into each other’s eyes.

I was confused and a little drunk. Luckily, my guide, Manni, was still with me celebrating the end of our mission before I flew off planet.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Manni leaned over and whispered soberly, “Don’t make any sudden moves. It’s a standoff.”

“I won’t,” I whispered back. “But what’re they standing off about?”

“Their cocks.”

“Their cocks!” I exclaimed almost shouting.

“Yes, but you must keep it down,” he said gravely. “You don’t want to get involved in this. Here, drink this, for courage,” he said, pushing my shot glass towards me.

But I couldn’t drink.

“Their cocks?” I whispered, confused.

“Yes, their cocks,” Manni said, confused at my confusion.

“What about them?”

“The man on the left has insulted the other man’s cock.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It is the worst insult one can give. The men here all take pride in their cocks.”

“Well, of course. But how does he, you know —?”

“He has seen it.”

“Are they —?”

“Friends? No more. Now, they are sworn enemies.”

“But what did he say?”

“He has said that the other man’s cock is weak and scrawny.”

“Ouch,” I said, slowly sipping the shot. “Harsh words.”

Manni nodded gravely.

The two men began circling each other, eyes locked, scratching at the ground with their feet, their hands balled into fists at their chests, their elbows flapping up and down like wings, looking like two…

Wait. Yep. I got it now. Roosters. They looked like roosters.

0295. The Temple of One Self

The Temple of One Self is an ecumenical temple of world mysticism.

The Temple of One Self is a temple of experience. The Temple of One Self realizes that there is no experience outside personal experience and so supports the seeking self on its way to the Self. The Temple of One Self does this by adhering to no established dogma or protocol and requires nothing from its seekers other than the motto: Scire Se, or Know One's Self. The Temple of One Self offers knowledge in various, open-sourced mediums to our community of individuals. The Temple of One Self teaches that one's self is in the way of the One Self. The Temple of One Self aids one's self on the way towards discovering the One Self. The Temple of One Self helps in the realization that one's self is, always has been, and always will be, within the One Self. The Temple of One Self is the place to learn how to experience one's self within the One Self. The Temple of One Self is the body of one's self within the Body of the One Self. The Temple of One Self is the mind of one's self within the Mind of the One Self. The Temple of One Self is the spirit of one's self within the Spirit of the One Self. The Temple of One Self finds its terminus in the attainment of atonement of one's self with the One Self. The Temple of One Self is the abiding abode of the self in the Self.

0296. Interdependence Day and Other Holidays In order to acknowledge the Native American genocide, the cultural genocide that followed, and its tragic legacy that continues to this day, we, as a nation, should recognize the murdered masses of Native American ancestors and their aggressive deculturalization throughout Native American Heritage Month, culminating in the annual protest of the National Day of Mourning on Thanksgiving Day to counter the standard narrative of the holiday. And on Black Friday, we should honor Native American Heritage Day by sending gifts to the reservations to thank them for the land we live upon instead of mindlessly participating in a holiday shopping spree that celebrates unchecked consumer capitalism.

In order to acknowledge African American slavery, segregation, and its tragic legacy that continues to this day, we, as a nation, should reflect on our colonial heritage and the racism that continues to divide our country throughout Black History Month while making the Tuesday after President’s Day into a nationally recognized holiday and day of mourning to confront the truth about our brutal past.

Lastly, we should make July 5th a nationally recognized holiday called Interdependence Day. If Independence Day celebrates the signing of the Declaration of Independence by genocidal slave owners who won their independence from Great Britain through a successful rebellion to consolidate their power, wealth, and landholdings, then we should have an Interdependence Day when we recognize that the world does not belong to the few “We the People” of our hallowed Constitution, that is white, male, landed, educated, aristocrats, but to all the “We the People” of our great nation.

0297. The Green Machine

It was the greatest act of collective civil disobedience the world had ever known, when military personnel from every country, in the face of the climate disaster, laid down their weapons of war to become agents of peace.

On land, Green Army soldiers delivered food and water, built schools and shelters, dug wells and aqueducts, and erected cell towers and solar panels. They gathered and organized civilians and refugees to help rebuild the infrastructure of towns and cities, and plant the trees and crops required for our collective survival.

On the shores, Green Marines constructed seawalls and built natural barrier islands to stem destruction from tidal surges, storms, and tsunamis.

They helped evacuate families into the interior to recover, support, and join the Green Army.

Along the coast, Green Coast Guard patrols rescued and escorted refugees afloat on the ocean, bringing them to the safety of the Green Marines, who evacuated them to the interior where they were nursed back to health.

Out in the ocean, Green Navy ships searched the sea for refugees as others transported teams of scientists around the world to monitor the flora and fauna of the oceans and to map the changing currents of the sea and sky.

Over land and sea, Green Air Force pilots flew missions to deliver critical supplies and personnel wherever there was a need no matter how remote.

And though temperatures continued to rise and the gains they made were slow, the Green Machine became every man, woman, and child, and every man, woman, and child became the Green Machine.

0298. Coffee and Comics and Tea and Poetry

Coffee and comics and tea and poetry make for a balanced life. But in the rapid current of our current world, we should really try to develop the patient waiting and listening that comes with tea and poetry.

In our fast-paced, chronocentric, achievement-oriented society, where we constantly race against the clock, others, and ourselves, we need touchstones that return us to the present moment where we can accept what is without attempting to predict the future or reflect on the past.

It seems that time speeds up in direct proportion to our age. As our relationship to time becomes more familiar, we tend to lose sight of the important things around us. I ask: How many times have you caught yourself taking yourself, the world, and those you love for granted? I’m sure it’s as often as I do.

That’s why I believe that in order to maintain a sound mind, it’s decidedly important to take the time to slow time down and linger longer amongst those neglected things that restore order to our world and souls.

The art of tea and poetry have always acted as a barometer for my presentness because their proper appreciation requires patience for the slow reveal. It is with them that I relearn to accept and love without condition that which arrives without forethought and prejudice.

So, if you can find the time to spare, go ahead and make yourself a cup of quality loose-leaf tea and grab your favorite book of poetry and spend an hour in a decidedly different rhythm and rhyme.

0299. Argus Panoptes

All-seeing Argus remained ever vigilant against poachers, prowlers, and predators. But after hundreds of years, when nothing threatened to kill or eat his flock, Argus thought: If there’s never been a poacher, prowler, or predator about, perhaps the danger is to be found within and not without.

All-seeing Argus turned his hundredfold eyes upon his flock as his mind began to concoct an insidious plot: Perhaps a poacher, prowler, or predator has already snuck into my fold, he thought. And perhaps seeing itself safe after triggering no alarms, it will sneak up on me and begin singing soporific charms to lull me into a deep dreamless sleep. And I’d never know that I’d been deceived, because my hundredfold eyes that see everything would never have thought to see through their disguise.

All-seeing Argus then imagined the impostor watching his hundredfold eyes close one by one as it sang. And when his last eye closed, the impostor would rise up and dash his brains out with a stone and become him by wearing his clothes, skin, and eyes, and, taking his place, would spy on his fold with his hundredfold eyes. And the impostor would feed off the flock slowly one by one the way Argus has done.

All-seeing Argus inspected his flock, but found nothing there but sheep. Still fearing the impostor might be cleverer than him, he took out his eyes and gave one to each. Unknowingly, the sheep now spy on each other, helping Argus keep complete control over the millions of sheep milling about in his fold.

0300. Sigil Magic

Many years ago, I was reading Alan Moore’s Promethea series, and fell in love with the magic of and in his writing. To find out more about his magic, I went online and immediately came across several articles about an alleged “wizard feud” between Grant Morrison and him. Intrigued by this, I read on to learn about the supposed “battle” both of these legendary comic writers were claimed to be involved in.

While I can lend no credence to the articles’ speculations, it is certainly true that both men have used magic in their lives and writing to much success and acclaim. While my aesthetic predilections and tastes fall more on the side of Moore, I wanted to learn more about the chaos magic Morrison espoused.

In one video, Morrison discussed how to draw sigils to draw your desires to you. The whole thing stunk of the selfishness of Satanism and the power of positive thinking, but I thought I should still give it a go.

Asking myself what I wanted, I answered that I wanted to write something enduring. As I thought about this, I sketched a sigil, which was a square that contained all the capital letters of the English alphabet within it.

I took the sketch to work and designed it on our C.A.D. software and cut six sigils out of .125" aluminum on our water jet. After I had them black anodized, I set them on the lintel of each window and door in my writing room, and today, writing this, I’ve completed my 300th story.

About A Thousand Stories Reader, I wanted you to know that I started writing this book as a collection of science fiction, slipstream, and fantasy stories with some horror, humor, and romance mixed in. But as the book and I deepened our dialogue, we realized that the format was perfect for pretty much anything. This makes the book impossible to categorize because it now includes: abstracts, acrostics, album reviews, alternative histories, analyses, anatomies, aphorisms, artworks, apotheoses, autobiographies, autozoëographies, biographies, blessings, board games, book reviews, business ideas, calendars, catalogs, chronicles, codes, color themes, comic skits, comics, commentaries, confessions, constrained writings, curses, designs, dialogues, dreams, economic commentaries, etymologies, eulogies, examples, exegeses, experiences, explanations, exposés, fairy tales, fake album reviews, fashion critiques, films, filmographies, forewords, formulas, F.A.Q.s, grammars, guides, hagiographies, histories, instructions, interviews, introductions, inventions, jokes, journal entries, legends, lessons, letters, letters to the editor, lists, lists, and more lists, lyrics, magic spells, mantras, manuals, marquees, maxims, memento moris, memories, menus, messages, metacommentaries, metafictions, metaphysics, monologues, morality tales, mottoes, musings, mysteries, mythologies, notes, oaths, observations, oracles, orders, parables, performances, philosophies, phone calls, pitches, plays, plots, poems, polemics, political commentaries, prayers, predictions, products, product histories, projects, propositions, prose poems, provenances, P.S.A.s, puns, reflections, religious commentaries, reminiscences, reports, requirements, revelations, routines, rubrics, ruminations, rules, sayings, scripts, shows, sketches, social commentaries, songs, strategies, studies, tarot readings, tasting notes, theories, tour guides, transcripts, transmissions, trialogues, trial logs, urban legends, utoposcales, visualizations, websites, westerns, wishes, word plays, and word salads. Essentially, it’s a book that’s a composite of me, and the time and place in which it was written.

Hope you enjoy.

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9 781957 399027

To discover the hidden message on all ten covers, arrange the books as follows: 12345 67890

$6.50 ISBN 978-1-957399-02-7