Skip to main content


Showing posts from January, 2023

Pockadoodle: 2023 Badminton at the Pine Straw dome.

Juan was "The Middenorf Badminton King".  He would enter on an El Camino, play a few rounds to appease the fans, then get craned out like an emperor, he would even scale the boom of the thing, with some rope looped around his arm, and wave like Errol Flynn. It was Hunter S Thompson that observed of the lights of Las Vegas, "this would be ever Saturday night, if the Nazis had won the war." This was not, of course, every Saturday night, at the Pine Straw Dome, but a rarified, annual event, something marked like rings in the circumference of a tree.  Pockadoodle.  "It's been a good year." Juan's son was a porn star in Tijuana, and much of the year, Juan was scarce, too, working away at whatever it was that Juan and his handlers hid from the general populace: things that made money, dubiously or not, no one could rightly say. It was a brilliant stroke of non-marketing, kind of a Velvet Fog, the way subversives talked in Free Mason code using popular so

Clyde Devlin 1b.

Walking upon Robert Macnamara Square, every one of those Little Miracles assailed, hundreds upon hundreds of souls, teeming, piling over one another like hungry kittens, and those Little Miracles were become somewhat insistent: low thunder in the distance that shook him such that he felt it in the bottom of his stomach. Greer was somewhere in the buildings beyond, and Clyde was hoping to touch base with him one more time, that with an insistence of its own, them having kind of what the magazines called a "Bromance", something of spermless anal sex, and kissing without holding hands, or watching the news at 11 at night without bothering to cover the nakedness--and yet they barely tolerated one another, a kind of see-saw motion of personalities shoving against one another in a kind of drunken rhythm, and a comraderie that bespoke something of loneliness rather affection. MacNamara Square had been initiated sometime in the 1980s, sometime when they say things were kind of civil,

Yes, Virginia Woolf, there is a Claude Raines.

"Such a rapture--for by what other name could one call it?--made Lily Briscoe forget entirely what she ahd been about to say.  It was nothing of importance; something about Mrs Ramsay.  It paled beside this "rapture", this silent stare, for which she felt intense gratitude; for nothing so solaced her, eased her of the perplexity of life, and miraculously raised it burdens, as this sublime power, this heavenly gift, and one would not disturb it, while it lasted, than break up the shaft of sunlight, lying level across the floor." -Virginia Woolf "What is the meaning of life?  That was all--a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years.  The great revelation had never come.  The great revelation perhaps never did come.  Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.  This, that, and the other; herself and Charles Tansley and the breaking wave; Mrs Ramsay bringing them together; Mrs

Dick Virginia's fake novel To The Blighthouse.

Mr Ramsay circled the house muttering of failures, things stagnating and dismal pools of the water under the eaves, things begging, positively dying by the minute, waiting to be taken unto the air.  Along came Verne Gagne and Mr Ramsay tossed his own ball onto the ground, like a challenger, Equatorial Guinea or Ancient Nippon, these things spoke to them, stupids they were. But what was it?  Chris's Better Angels, right?  Yes, there was always that at the offing, a sacrificing, pure Camelot, Dulce De Leche poured into our unwitting ears, any excuse, the lesser of two weevils, always an excuse, a prevarication, some precept that weighed more and need more of a place on the trailer; "hell with the couch" they said, and tossed it aside.  They were going for an easy chair, somewhere in the grand scheme. Kierkegaard the Broken Sequel completed his circle of the house, coming all the way back around, having seen the whole thing, proved his health, and showed something of his own

Movie: Clint Nosterham's Flags of Our Feathers, "Towers to Tunnels" Edition.

  In the little "c" catholic sense, unholy.  Positively unholy: an unbroken surface of things flopping and flipping around, a kind of life spirit flicker that mimicked the energetic flashing of television screen on a back wall. Said the Tunnel, directed to the Tower, in the indolence of late Summer, "for the flags of our fathers, we commend ourselves to posterity." Virgil Effstein, and others, Johnathan Silverman, Andrew Kevinsly, and introducing Reynolds George as Corporal Oreilly.

The Little Miracles part of The Brown-Eyed Medusa, an old unfinished story of minesown.

     “They’re all Little Miracles” said Clyde Devlin, staring at the waitress’s ass as she worked the plates on one of the tables across the room—the elastic looked uncertain, and this bemused Clyde.  “Each one, markedly dignified, with a right to exist and choose freedom. What was it Doctor Manhattan said?”     “God bless these Southern States?” said Effie, in a fog of induction, a kind of stew of words with the meat of the thing strangely absent; one could go hopelessly mad in conversation with Clyde Devlin.     “Thermodynamic Miracles” said Clyde, turning back, a kind of resumption in his face and clarity in his eyes.  Effie shuddered, but looked at him, not quite at all able to match his sudden intensity.  “In all the universe, we put to questioning probability, but we are each, a billion-and-one shot, each so unlikely as to be perceived by each other, that we are, each and every one, miraculous.”     “Ketchup for your hashbrowns?” said the thinner waitress, taller, meandering over

wakey-wakey ray: the I-7 killer.

The blessings had flowered and went into the wind so long ago, much earlier in the season, and possibilities hanged from the branches, beginning to rot in the summer swelter. Meghan Meade had perched beside the highway, neatly on public property, still, bestriding the line between truth and evidentiary proofs of the human state, torrents of vomit and other bodily fluids. She told the nation what was known that day, the popular line between the department press officer and Fox, what was between a packaging foreman, hitch hikers, the alligator sent away, set neatly aside, stomach cut open to hunt for evidence, scat parsed like scripture fragments. In the heat of that summer swelter he had disappeared nine into the back of his Nissan Juke. (Paypal link

I am a Wonder. one of sixty-six thousand.

I wonder and mayhap, I am a wonder. God said, "I am."  And further, "I am that I am."  "I am the great I am". Talking theology wise of the pursuit of knowledge, on the ministry page, i think there is a contramanding tendency at self condemnation and knowledge for impure ends: it reeks of original sin, where some pursuit of knowledge is that terminator, that remote edge between day and night, the tug of war between wonder and the unholy side of knowledge--not unethical against laws, but unjust and unfit for man existentially, such as the world-destroying paradox created in California, Woodlow Park, fusion, fission, a'fishin' and a con'fusion underwritten in the pursuit of a perpetual, inexhaustable resource. Of this, it too, I suppose is a wonder. Franz Tost was building a fire pit behind his property, at the rear, in relative seclusion, security, and presumed privacy, a fire pit for pulled pork, pizzas, and all sorts of fun food fodder.  I peed

Behind the counter at the Choking Rooster food vendor.

Catey.  Robert Catey. He was watching me as I worked at the desk, making my calendar.  I was digging through Google Docs and help pages, trying to find something, an advisory on how to actually sell a Google Calendar file, if there could be such a thing, to sell access to a super calendar.  I was working at it, pulling at it with both hands, and at the end, a little flotsam of my shame. That little smile of Robert made it almost worthwhile. He was talking about Chic-Fil-A, and I was calling him a c*m-guzzler in a soccer mom SUV. We had our differences, but what made it all worthwhile, set a hue to the prism, was our similarities, and that little smile almost put lead back into my pencil, where all the lead had squirted out just moments prior.  Hell, it was sweet icing for his little Waffle Fries. "You like my itinerary?" "It has a certain caveman dignity--a monolithic kind of sense about it." I got under my caveman blanket in the other room and ruminated, I put it t

Robot Dickens: "potable potpourri"

"phew, for a minute there, I lost myself.... I lost myself.... I lost myself..." strangled by yards of sentence surrounding like crime scene tape, something of a Mary Collinsworth sweet ripening party, while her own dying body was about to grow ripe, raped and "mine" carved into her neck. Matt Dillon would scour the territories for miners, perhaps, strays, dry-gulchers, panners that may have had the nagging little precipitate to bring it off horrorshow.  Remember Grandma was horny all those years for Pernell Roberts, and in her later years, the edge blunted of her sanity, she would full admit the truth in any company whatsoever, as if it were as plain a fact, her thing for Adam Cartwright: Adam Cartwright and her thing. "should'a been dead on a Sunday morning in my head...." The raw novelty of the thing was that it had to be intricately documented, the finery of the thing recorded for posterity, to be stored in libraries, searched over years later, and

Kingdom Cone: a rap commemorating twenty-five years of glacial melting and dissipation.

Having my own "data analysis firm" and sitting in a pool with 220 candidates for single positions on the internet; this consolidation reeks inflation by unemployment, death by lack of use, and dare is say, Rust . Woken to find my socks off my feet, those sitting part way up, past my ankles.  Some friendly ghost had undressed my feet and left me pedantically nude in the night, and I had those same puzzle-solving dreams, problem-solving dreams, my mind working out solutions to unreal problems, my mind, even in slumber trying to pitch-in. And "Woke" being misappropriated by popular culture.  I think of Shane, living by the popular dollar, and conversely, obversely, dying by the popular dollar the way Glenn did; it can happen, as so many put their lives on a thread.  I thought myself perhaps lucky to be outside of the "cash and carry" economy, but where do my resources come from? Return of the Prodigal Methodical, Chronological. Captain in the doorway, selling

Movie: Jeepers Beepers.

  "If it moves, kill it..." -Darnell Strafford-Lisenby, The Lesser. I stepped into the world as one partaking from here to there, or was it there to here? but nevertheless, a transitory sort of bird, coagulating between two junctures, at a pace, a happenstance plopped-down and push-pinned between several more determinate points. It was Friday morning. I un-knotted my colon, lost in thought in the outside air, to be sustained by pure clean air, and have those as it were, influence my thoughts; I was somewhere between Stunt Driver Bo and Henry David Thoreau, with probably more Stunt Driver Bo in my colon than without. I was thinking as such that all news was not about the President, and I turned away to better my perspective, as I was not paid to generate content for a network, not fill so many hours a day with pointed perspectives for or against; I had the luxury to reserve my own judgement, as it were. One could pay dearly for independence of mind, so to speak, in the modern

Underhill on Creation and a shading of Original Sin.

"Here is our little planet, chiefly occupied, to our view, in rushing round the sun; but perhaps found from another angle to fill quite another part in the cosmic scheme.  And on this apparently unimportant speck, wandering among systems of suns, the appearance of life and its slow development and ever-increasing sensitization; the emerging of pain and of pleasure; and presently man with his growing capacity for self-affirmation and self-sacrifice, for rapture and for grief.  Love, with it unearthly happiness, unmeasured devotion, and limitless pain; all the ecstasy, all the anguish that we extract from the rhythm of life and death.  It is much, really, for one little planet to bring to birth.  And presently another music, which some--not many perhaps yet, in comparison with its population--are able to hear.  The music of a more inward life, a sort of fugue in which the eternal and temporal are mingled; and here and there some, already, who respond to it.  Those who hear it would

the inviolate violet and the outrage innocence of the well-intentioned webmaster.

So she had been the world's oldest person at the ripe-old age of 118.  Now the oldest person is 117, and probably has a new goal for her life, that being to equal 118(her birthday is in March) or eclipse that. 119? Sour, sour mood this morning, a deflation of my usual optimism.  Thinking of my books, and how its sort of given to some that if you write a book, people would eventually read it. I published in 2013 and made, over the course of five years or so, the princely sum of about 4 dollars, during the whole time. But think of that assumption, like if you write a book, someone's gonna read it. I've disproven that, but I kinda got cursed on my efforts, with my father saying I would be the worst-selling author of all time. Then that guy that made 13 thousand in one month publishing spreadsheets on Gumroad.  I've done that and only got two views, with zero sales. Seems like so much of this stuff is just a gloriously crazy waste of time. Even the ministry page.  No one re

Planning when its time for planning, doing when its time for doing. #productivity

*You either carry over a to-do list from the next day, or make that to-do list the night before. I love hitting my Google Calendar the night before. It reinforces a sense of structure. But don't forget too, to include "whitespace" for brainstorming and inspiration. Mind inspiration isn't idle time, because a lot of that will come when you're busy, but make time to chase those leads, which is what inspiration is: a nexus of leads.

Plato and Batsmaglion 2: The Log Flume.

"They will begin by taking the State and the manners of men, from which, as from a tablet, they will rub out the picture, and leave a clean surface.  This is no easy task.  But whether easy or not, herein will lie the difference between them and every other legislator--they will have nothing to do either with individual or State, and will inscribe no laws, until they have either found, or themselves made, a clean surface. They will be very right, he said. Having effected this, they will proceed to trace an outline of the constitution? No doubt. And when they are filling in the work, as I conceive, they will often turn their eyes upward and downward: I mean that they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human copy and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive according to that other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God. Very true, he s

Cabaret Savagenun.

Count the stars or drop shafts beneath the crust of the earth, we do, but understand mankind? Why, it was otherwise, "as flies unto wanton boys are we to the gods"/this Bud's for you! and it was kind of a twiddle widdle play purdy kind of microwaving under a hard glare of pallid indifference, and for all it was, this humanity thing, a scholastic undertaking, but for breathing hard enough, a kind of puff of boredom, such that it could snap the wings right off a butterfly. I personally had a week, and was having a weekend, procured three favorite beverages; three remained yet.  I wanted to try dimestore Cabaret Savignun. In my being birthed a proletariat, I but smelt the earth, time to time, at my fingers, poo on my shoes, cuticles bloody rosettes, and I came to prefer as it were, not to "taste the barrel", but to enjoy the grape, which meant to me I would have the more convenient single man's screw-on aluminum cap rather than the more effete cork. Last cork I

Are you intimidated or inspired?

In any confrontation, there is either intimidation or inspiration.  You choose how you react: whether to cower or rise to the occasion.  We can become complacent in our dictums, and we become lazy, we can become slaves to our circumstances.  We can react with hostility, defensiveness, envy, and maybe even fear. Do we regroup and come back better, or do we hide under the porch, my friends?  An orphan became the Emperor of most of the known world.  He said in his private journal that he retained the mindset to react to anything, not by whim or instinct, but reflectively, that he could choose how to react. Our modern leadership guru wants us to be lions, but even the lion's great majesty is just an image, for the lion is a scavenger, an opportunist.  How much of that should we employ? Certainly we should take advantage of circumstance, when our principles are observed.  Should we lapse into complacency at the expense of core business?  Do we spend the work day dreaming of

Eddie Munster emailing pictures of his try at Italian cuisine. "day in the life".

I was skeert as sheet 'cause Cheryl had hit it with the pasta sauce. I was listening to these lipstick lesbians talk about Mayor Pete being a reasonably attractive younger politician, but I thought of him as like a kind of "junior Bela Lugosi", kind of a Pugsley Adams.  Or Little Eddie from the other show. But you know how it goes, you know how the whole thing gets strewn around, and one man's trash, you know, and he's kind of strange in a "secret" way, like when I was rolling around with the tree-fif, and I was silently doing intercessory prayer for my brake pads. "He has a nice smile" but so do lawn gnomes. I bought myself a gift, a small gift, sub-eleven-dollar gift, after doing some part-time work, kind of like the "spend some, save some, give some".  I spent some. I gave some, and to the very best cause I knew, a cause I believed in probably more than most anything else. Of saving some, well, I hit a period of temporary indebtedn

frisson imagnetique; drops of honey drowsily drooping from an ear lobe.

I saw Paige on AEW with the eye make up and the milky white skin and the cascade of midnight colored hair.  My manhood rose up so suddenly, it almost flapped my eyelids like wild spinning window blinds: it was the coherence and cumbersome ease of sociology in the western world. Why, we didnt need sociology or HR; we needed anthropology.  We needed the symposium when we had chosen the ampitheater, and the stoa when we had chosen the cinema varete of streaming enigmatically prolific and abundant data--lifetimes of it.  It had come across that SQL remote pull sessions costed hundreds of dollars from disinterested third parties; they had free trial periods, but it was so off putting as to make one forget and yearn for the server-in-the-bathroom of yesteryear. I wotted a kind of netherworld, a space of odd gravity pockets, where spoken words were not heard, they found no purchase, but the thunk word was far more substantive, it lived and breathed like a monster created in secret, but on the

On self care when you don't even deserve it.

Try to be good to yourself, and it's especially important to treat yourself well during those times when you don't think you deserve it.    

Tozer on politics.

It is not complimentary to the masses that they are so easily led, but we are not interested in praising or blaming; we are concerned for truth, and the truth is that for better or for worse religious people follow leaders. A good man may change the moral complexion of a whole nation; or a corrupt and worldly clergy may lead a nation into bondage....   - AW Tozer  

Dora Neale Marston: Children of a Lesser Bacon.(Snap of the Chain, #100)

"My God, my God, what have I but to curve inward on myself, pointing the accusing appendage back at my own sins and the balance, recompense of a life, such as is the fires of hell awaiting." The other cops got out of his way like being repelled by magnetic force, repulsed: they parted like the Red Sea, but they were blue and slightly stupid, too, for their own balance--they got out of his way, and he wasn't a particularly big man, either, but that sort of Angry Inch of unction repulsed them in some fundamental innate animal way, like bacon drippings or sweat or teenager's sex-evidenced bedsheets. "I'm the f*cking Inspector, the ranking officer on site, Willbarger."  Jerry was right there in a big clump of them, lording over like the top-dog, the biggest vulture.  His polo shirt was pure discount store, but his attitude was PGA or Ivy League, trying to put ownership on the thing. "Report to him, Will" seconded Detto, hoping just to hold the peac

William Hazlitt on William Godwin. or "Hazlitt the Professional Hitman."

The author of the Political Justice took abstract reason for the rule of conduct, and abstract good for its end.  He places the human mind on an elevation, from which it commands a view of the whole line of moral consequences; and requires it to conform its acts to the larger and more enlightened conscience which it has thus acquired.  He absolves man from the gross and narrow ties of sense, custom, authority, private and local attachment, in order that he may devote himself to the boundless pursuit of universal benevolence.  Mr Godwin gives no quarter to the amiable weaknesses of our nature, nor does he stoop to avail himself of the supplementary aids of an imperfect virtue.  Gratitude, promises, friendship, family affection give way, not that they may be merged in the opposite vices or in want of principle; but that the void may be filled up by the disinterested love of good, and the dictates of inflexible justice, which is the "law of laws and sovereign of sovereigns".  Al

Being good to yourself, and not being revisited by past bad acts done to others..... karma...

What if all those ppl you knocked down fell into your pathway forward? Remember, the universe cleans itself, and karma is a great wheel that will eventually make a full rotation: it will all come back around.   And if you won't be good to yourself, could you reasonably expect others to be good to you, in turn?   site tip jar.    

two kerfluffles in one plastic bag. "reverence and due gravity"

This lady i know was feeling lonely, and had a smart phone at hand.  She put on her make-up and trucker cap, and there was a flood of selfies. She felt good, for once, and also felt pretty.  She was conscious of her beauty and her ample buttocks. She put out an open call for companionship, having become narcissistically sexually aroused by her own beauty. Anyway.  Thing two.  To work out the salvation with fear and trembling;  i work it up to revence and due gravity, such that a life has, a kind of respect, how "fear" in the arcane tongue equates to respect.  It seemed of the covenant with Moses, they didnt stray far from real fear and apprehension, living as it were, in times of old with signs and wonders. In modernity we have the Holy Spirit, and as is thought, the spirit works through us, its only flesh claim, our actions: to love God as He first loved us.  Prophesying for the benefit of the hearts of the masses. Working through not terror and threats, but reverance and du

Her boyfriend Tea Pitcher.

He was a howdy-doo of a man, hair in great strings, police watching him, victims' families cajoling and caterwauling about police inaction. But there was a spreadsheet of Tea Pitcher's comings and goings. They knew and had extrapolated more from Tea Pitcher's doings, than Tea Pitcher himself ever could, a man sliding along, both hands on his own ass, and his mind nowhere to be found, neatly out of sight and without contention, except for the straw, the piece of little paraphernalia that would hang him up for the duration of all of his remaining days. He would buy a fountain drink for the purpose of getting a straw, a plausible conquest in the Southland, for the purpose of taking drugs, with the straw. This little howdy-doo of a somebody, behind KFC, parked neatly on his buttocks beside the dumpster, thinking he was safe, ensconced, wrapped about, but actually, without his knowing, surveilled, documented, and that bubble-wrap encasement was handed to him, unknowingly, by a c

BWV: 267 "Once More Unto The Breach."

Amor Fati, Memento Fati.... The bootless cries of a man against his destiny, and other such, the theme of failure as a watchword of the day, leading into the big anniversary tomorrow, Teresa Du'Tres and Felonge De Castille. but a poor player that struts and frets its hour upon the stage.... Cutting through a sort of melange of stuff, minutia, a sort of "virtue", a sharpened tendril of impetus cavorting and gnawing into the fiber moral, temporal, and so forth, having at the gutty works, and getting chased away like a beggar. A kind of "honed edge" which meets the material that are put to it, such is to exercise a kind of superlative in a world of flats, but sharps in a room filled with weather balloons. A kind of prolonged lukewarm birthday party for Kevin. Out out brief candle... Wee. In the dominion of the static universe, perhaps I somewhat floated, or lensed as to have specific gravity, I sat like a lump of iron or a millstone, but all the way, the objective

The Strange Case of Self-loathing and self-abasement, wrapped in a cult of Self, in which the central Ego controls....

  And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, pede claudo, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, least by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. - Robert Louis Ste

Brain Fog!

"There are, however, no sharp lines or demarcations between the various operations just outlined.[thought and belief] The problem of attaining correct habits of reflection would be much easier than it is, did not the the different modes of thinking blend insensibly into one another." -John Dewey, How We Think "We ought to consider no only that our life is daily wasting away and a smaller part of it is left, but another thing which must be taken into account, that if a man should live longer, it is quite uncertain whether the understanding will continue sufficient for the comprehension of things, and retain the power of contemplation which strives to acquire the knowledge of the divine and the human. For if we being to fall into dotage, perspiration and nutrition and imagination and the appetite, and whatever else there is of the kind, will not fail; but the power of making use of ourselves, and filling up the measure of our duty, and clearly separating appearances, and

Rising Fog.

    The gas hand in my truck. I was praying, hoping, petitioning God Himself that I would have enough gas in my truck yesterday to get back and forth to work.  On the way there, I was tying myself in knots, in my own thoughts, going back and forth on the matter, whether to just turn around, or press on. All along the way, Hwy 9, the farmland in Dillon and Marlboro counties in South Carolina, part of the so-called "Cotton Trail", flat land, between the piedmont and the sea, very well-watered and fertile, great for growing cotton every year. The fog was rising. I was thinking: I could see the sun through the remnant of the fog, and thought, not the Sun but the Son. Christ was the solar body, burning off the fog of sin and doubt, and metaphorically, fog can easily be equated to doubt, and more thinly to sin, an obscuring force between ourselves and Christ. That fog was all the prior dead souls coming up, the dead souls and the doubts, dead souls rising into the air,

auld lang writer.

But but but.... i made a New Year's resolution, and everything.  I decided to get started on a whole menu of positive, beneficial changes, like: Only healthy food, and none of what tastes good. Boring lovers that are stable in their moods, and probably b elong in a stable, regardless of their mood. But it was a New Year.   And I, like Tony Llama, feel cheated that all this miss in the New Year has that familiar reek to it, like a bad potato in the bag, of a soiled baby diaper somewhere hidden in the bottom of our garbage can. But then i think, if i had gotten it right last year, I'd be prepared for new stuff this year, and it seems i'm not prepared for new changes, completely unequal to that mark.

Tozer on New Year's....

Every new year is an uncharted and unknown sea. No ship has ever sailed this way before. The wisest of earth's sons and daughters cannot tell us what we may encounter on this journey. Familiarity with the past may afford us a general idea of what we may expect, but just where the rocks lie hidden beneath the surface or when that "tempestuous wind called Euroclydon" may sweep down upon us suddenly, no one can say with certainty....  -AW Tozer

Of Stardust and Ditchweeds, a play fragment.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Number Two: Commander of the Alien Craft. Number Four: Subordinate, presumably a "think-tank" person, high ranking intelligence officer. SETTING: On The Ship, having just taking aboard some reluctant and confused humans. (FADE IN) Number Two: We’ve stuntified the light barrier, traversed across the endless void, defied time and circumstance.  Exploration budget.  Military budget.  Our very best among us sent across the stars.  Did all that to hide among them, the earth people.  And eat them. Number Four:  Hey Number Two. Number Two: Yes. Number Four: Rabbit Stew.  A Warner Brother’s cartoon. Number Two: What are you on about?  Explain. Number Four:  Well it goes like this.  Seven and I were watching the old cartoons, the ones where they try to cook the rabbit. Number Two: Television?  Your idle hours paid off for our cause? Number Four: Yes, indeed.  They would have a big cauldron of water sitting on a roaring fire. Number Two: Boiled would be good, yes.  H

Happy New Year. Hello 2023!

"...sunlight, though it has no favourites, cannot be reflected in a dusty mirror as clearly as in a clean one."   - CS Lewis Ah, another year, another opportunity to repeat the same mistakes, or an opportunity for the glorious quixotic pebble-toe half-nature of the impetus towards self-destruction and the love of pure noise and disturbance. We claw through and breathlessly make our way to the exit sign on 2022, hoping for the first rays of dawn on January 1, 2023. Another opportunity to get it right or go up in flames. Another opportunity. Happy New Year!