Monday, November 6, 2017

the grotesque honesty of violencia

Over my bed hangs the neon sign which reads: "The World is Yours."

There's something honest in violence.  Something you can't fake.  Honest like a broken arm.  You don't forget it.  No.  Lessons learned the hard way are not forgotten easily.

clear as an unwounded leg

Mil Lesions shoots-up a Mexican roadhouse on the weekends.  Sometimes he annihilates everything moving, even the women and children.  And you'd be surprised.  There's always some kids hanging around.  Mil Lesions counts them for quarter point-value.

Cholos.

A cholo can't get ahead without some help.  Mil Lesions gave one chewing tobacco.  He gave another a side-arm.  That was Vincente Fox.  He got famous a while back.  You could make like a modern babe's mobile out of Mil's gifts, hanging and slowly turning like bad dream.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Junk Science: The Out-of-context Simplicity of Synthetic Pluralism.

"There are three Kims" says one.  "There are three Michaels" says another.  I'm supposed to file this away, or simply discard their talk as muddled nonsense, gibberish about people I've never met.

There were four Kims.  There are now two Kims.  There has been a culling.  I guess.  There are six Johnnies.  An entire small army of Patricias.  Two Kevins.  Three Scotts.  Two Darrells.  There were a lot of people, man.   Gooks attacking the bridge.  Hendrix blaring.  Tracers flying, a flare hovering over, slowly falling.  Me on the boat, going up the river with Doug to kill the colonel.  And there was one Doug.  Some would say there were two or even three.  You don't know them all, so don't pretend you do; include only the Doug you know in the tally.  So, one Doug.

Only one Brantley: rare and strange and beautiful.  She's gonna be a MILF soon.  It's like, in a month, you only poo on yourself once, and you toss away one pair of hopelessly ruined underwear.

One rude Jenna, who thought she was queen of it all.  I usedta blog about her.  Then she went away.  For reasons unsaid.  "Good luck" she was wished by her coworkers, and with me saying "good riddance" over old grudges.

The truck was screaming through the night, hood on fire, raw flame spewing from the straight pipes, burning pure hellfire as fuel, ripping, tearing, jagged bared dog teeth of the driver, heading straight for the mountain pond and sweet sleep.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Torquemikl and Bnastasia: but characters in the human drama.

My ass.

Out of nowhere, Torquemikl!  From the darkness: Bnastasia!

Torquemikl represents the doctor from the college, while Bnastasia is the refined female living on 13,000 a year.  The Jamesian golden bowl catches Torquemikl's after dinner gleat as if it were a treasure.  Bnastasia cringes from the tips of her slippers to the top of her head.

Conqueror of worlds, yon left foot which shimmies to make Elvis jealous.  Two vampires making love on a park bench after midnight, arrested, thought to be vagrants.

Bnastasia cracks the golden bowl against the stone fireplace, making a stand, at once, for herself and her sex. #iwishicouldbreakitagain

Torquemikl's stratagems within the politbureau have him tuckered out quite a bit of the time, and unable to give Bnastasia her accustomed saddling and reading of the Browning.   He had his smoked picnic and sherry and went out into the winter, to take the air.  All you could see was scraps of his dark coat in the snow, shards of black.  He was freezing, but enjoying it, and at the penultimate moment, he actually began to feel warm again, which was a final trick of death, with the derangement of the faculties, the senses, and the mind at large.

Bnastasia was with child, and would have to raise the child on her own after Torquemikl was gone.  The Labor Party held a celebration at Torquemikl's passing, and the House of Lords had a costume day.  There was only Roald Pogue, somewhere in the clotted butthole of Europe, to come forward and revenge Torquemikl.

Friday, October 6, 2017

having starfished Mikl into multiple Mikl

Earlier in our discourse, I spoke of story-telling compression, in reference to a film.  We took around a dozen characters, and boiled them into just two or three. I called this compression.

Now let's look at a technique that we could call expansion or de-compression.  We take one or two characters and turn them into a microcosm on whatever scale we wish.  Our imaginations are our only limitation.

In the matter of Mil Lesions and his familiar T.T. Boy, we've taken Mikl and sliced a bit of his arm off.  On the first Mikl, the arm grows back, good as new, but on the second bit, the disembodied arm, another Mikl grows from it.  We've completely starfished Mikl, expanding him, like breathing him full of air, and inside: a universe.

The true measure of technique is to work the opposite of compression and build that world up from a dull ball of dust into something vast and complicated.  Here it sounds rather God-like, but the stakes are lower; the work is but a trifle.  Who will notice?

There was a comic character, under-utilized, under-realized in most of his carnations.  He was called the Multiple Man.  He could make copies of himself and those would work co-operatively with him.  Fighting him, then, would be like fighting an army.  The finer points were once explored when they took him out of the spandex and put him into a more mundane role.  That was X-Factor(third series?).  Time itself was put out of alignment.  A lot of strange conversations were to be had.

*Of course we look at Ralph in Friday the 13th as an independent character, the "doomsayer", purveying his unwanted wisdom all over, volunteering his own estimate of a given situation.  "You're all doomed!" he would say, then impotently trudge away on his bicycle.  So he is not to be compressed, de-compressed or generally fiddled with beyond being a storytelling device, and a cause for Harry Manfredini to throw in a ghostly piano riff.

Monday, October 2, 2017

Augusto Morricone and his son Thadrach, and the building of quality motorcars.






Augusto Morricone began with bicycles in his bonus room at his home in Waukegamunga, Wisconsin.  But soon, the automotive revolution had begun, and he looked to the future.  At the time, he had a young son, and he envisioned his son, Thadrach, becoming like a pharoah of old, overseeing vast complexes of factories, filling the world with his fine motorcars.

"People don't always know what they want until they see it", Augusto Morricone told an investment banker from the northeast.

"People have a taste for crap" said Augusto, "but they also instantly recognize the good stuff when they see it.  That's what we're gonna do: fill up dealerships with high-quality motorcars."

And a legend began.  The Great American Success Story, 1908.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Automobili Abaddonicus.

Mona was driving along in her SUV while also on her phone playing the classic Atari game Breakout when she hit a semi head-on.  Head On: Apply Directly To The Forehead.  State Troopers at the scene said was killed on impact, and also hopelessly behind in the Breakout game.

An angel got its wings.

There was a trail of blood in my semen.

Poetry is not lost, it is merely sickened and bedridden.

I cavorted naked in the black pond water letting the parasites caress my corpse-white flesh.


Saturday, September 16, 2017

Granny snakebit and talking gibberish.

Grandma got bit by a snake one morning while working in the garden, weeding the tomato plants.  The snake crawl right out of the peas and got her in the middle of the thigh.

When we found her, she was sweaty and talking gibberish.  We helped her to bed, with no hope of the horse buggy making the hospital in time.  We called the doctor and he said to ride it out and hope the snake wasn't one of the more deadly varieties.

Grandma lay in bed mumbling, and the whites of her eyes turned yellow.  She was a pitiful vision laying there trembling on her white sheets with lace fringes.

But then she started talking where we could understand her, and what she said sunk us all low.

"Pernell Roberts, I'm so glad you found me when you did."  Crying, Deddy walked out of the room.  "That horse like to durn near killed me.  Thank goodness there was a big, strong man like you nearby."

You would know the words "Pernell Roberts" across her lips would come out clear as day, where it was all gibberish when we tried to talk to her earlier.