Monday, October 5, 2015
Monday swings around again with the faeces-tinted gleam of a droolball dangling from a worm-arsed bulldog’s lower smacker.
With grim heart and befouled spirits, we muster our ravaged musculature into a feeble slaction replay of Fridays’s least unenergetic total bodily collapses and swipe toothbrush across teeth like a lumberjack sawing down Jack’s beanstalk with Hillary Clinton’s petitest nail file.
Agonising and lumpen are the steps we take to haul ourselves through the day, with deep sea diver boots chained to an escalator speeding the wrong way.
And when night falls, it falls on our faces, suffocating all hopes and dreams from our thumping skulls.
Ere long, ‘twill be Tuesday — and motherfucker shall pile 'pon motherfucker before Holy Bejesuspants! Wednesday’s Saturnine drag screeches its fingernails down the blackboard of all conceivable horizons.
So, yeah, back blogging on Thursday.
Enjoy the rest of the week, you scintillating muskrats...
Thursday, October 1, 2015
My world has turned all Deep Space Worm Hole.
At heart, I’m a Thomas the Tank Engine kind of guy, drilled down on a track, chuffing and a-puffing, smiling out at the faces smiling my way.
I ferry stuff from place to place, often along a narrative arc; I pick people up, and I set them down, sometimes providing the same service for circus animals and contraband.
Whistles blow, steam billows into the sky, and everyone is happy.
Or they were — myself included.
Now, where once stood a furnace aglow with burning coal, a baboon anus vacuum has opened up to purse its lips and deep throat my current reality.
Certainty mutates into chaos, reliable shaving equipment prepares to morph into junk, and even the one cat in my neighbourhood who goes out of his way to ignore my advances has begun muttering, “don’t forget to pack fur-lined underpants, Whirl. It’s freezing cold in that there parallel reality, and I can’t bear the thought of your private parts shrivelling to the size of a caterpillar asleep on a walnut.”
No need to hire a precog on this one: I’m about to undertake a journey like no other, possibly wearing underwear with ursine exterior origins.
Should I pray to the Lord? Or Richard Branson’s stylist?
And when I emerge on the flip side, will there be curly kale to purify my blood and stave off scurvy?
Monday, September 28, 2015
When you’re hellbent on sourcing some killer mayo, and your freezer is empty as the supermarkets are closed, there’s no point trying to strangle a duck.
But how does hellbentness sit with any kind of hiatus?
Till the supermarkets open?
Or a yolk-laden duck slips its rear end over the edge of your mixing bowl and points a feathered wing at the whisk dangling from your utensil gazebo?
This is where it pays to make with the zen, the kung fu, the deep space karmic wizardry.
No kind of hellbentness ever sat anywhere.
It exists and persists only to strain at the leash till it burns the raison d’être of its bendy through part of the cosmos.
(Or it would, if you could break into your neighbour’s house, raid the fridge, and rustle up a cheese salad sandwich.)
So you have to stay on your feet, on the move, on the hop, like a pregnant gazelle.
Allow the foal of your bendy to roll and tumble in the womb.
Yes — you have a gazelle foal in that hellhole, because nothing makes sense when you can’t still your bendy.
And you mustn’t still your bendy, not for some while yet, or it’ll burn out through your navel, roll onto the floor in a ball of flames and maybe incinerate a Dachshund.
Make with the Haka like the All Blacks!
Go crazy with a sword like Sulu rampaging through the corridors of the Enterprise back in the days when the input knobbery for warp drive consoles was sourced from toasters and junked hifi!
Dance like Victoria Beckham trying not to pee down her leg!
Lull that bendy into submission.
Roll it, rock it, lower it gently to the ground.
If there’s a Dachshund nearby, instruct the owner to run for cover, along with the dog.
If there’s more than one Dachshund nearby — what in hell are you doing being hellbent in a kennel in the first place?
There’s more to life than pooches shaped like Bratwurst!
Get back on the Haka before they come runnin’ over to lick your ankles.
And if there are no Dachshunds in the immediate vicinity, do the Haka anyway.
In addition to helping you roll your bendy, it’s great for developing your pelvic floor muscles and dating anyone with hairy shoulders.
Keep rolling, keep rocking.
There’s no hiatus here.
No stillness, no stuck, no immobility: Just a gentle shaking of your gazelle womb, teasing the fire from your bendy, snuffing out the flames, cooling down the embers, flipping the temperature down a farenheit at a time.
Till the bendy, the hell, is all gone.
And you can walk on, free.
Pet ducks, open fridge doors at will, visit your neighbour.
Zen master, Kung Fu Hero, Venusian Wand Lord.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
As it rolls in life, so it scrolls in writing.
(Or ‘goes’, if you’re using pen and paper.)
Most things #amwriting are catalysts — ammed into being to be checked out later to figure if they’re worth anyone else seeing.
Most things #amediting are keepers — ammed because they’re the only words left standing after all the unwitnessible elements have been cut.
This is why first drafts must be catalytically audacious and unafraid to behold all miracles.
You can’t KEEP all that stuff — but you must generate it till it vomits sparks from your every orifice.
This is why final edits must be be meticulously conservative and bold enough to convey one single message brilliantly.
You can’t ADD MORE to all that stuff — and you must trust its capacity to ignite all it touches.
In writing, as in life, there are catalysts and there are keepers.
You #amwriting or #amediting today?
Roll your wheels out appropriately over the sleepers.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Vampires suck out your blood, we all know that.
They persuade you to invite them into your home, make with the dental floss on their first visit to the bathroom, and before you know it, you’re spreadeagled on the floor having your lifeblood vacuumed from your neck by some weirdo in a cape.
As relationships go, it’s a very one-sided affair.
But what about the people who want you for more than your blood?
The people who cross your threshold because you invited them in — and there’s no catch?
Maybe you’ve known some of these people for years. Or maybe they’ve only recently arrived on the scene.
But they’re here now, all of them, hopping and up and down on your doorstep, ring a-dinging frantically on your doorbell.
It’s fine to turn away vampires if you can — but what do you do when all the good guys come knocking, for all the bestest reasons, and multiple acts of turning away are a MUST?
Personally, I hate this scenario.
I exist only to slay evil.
So while nothing pleases me more than laying honey traps for vampires, and working out ever more cunning ways of spraying odourless garlic-rich contact poison onto dental floss, I am loathe to spurn genuine visitors simply because I’m mortal and time is finite.
The easy solution is to blow kisses and say, “thanks for your interest, I’m busy right now, try again tomorrow.”
If you answer the door holding an iron and a lace doily, this tactic works every time.
Problem is, tomorrow your doorstep will be more crowded than ever.
Easier still is not answering the door, but unless you’re prepared also to seal off your chimney and lavatory, a few resourceful people will find their way to your inner sanctum, possibly wearing wetsuits.
In my experience, plans resulting in the spontaneous appearance of people wearing wetsuits and the invasion of your inner sanctum are best avoided.
The only solution is to train up a cutesy piglet, and send it out into the throng with a chocolate-laden silver tray strapped to its back.
Let it trot, let it mingle, let it oink.
As people pluck chocolates from its back and mutter things like, “oh, what a cutesy piglet,” or, “may I swap my Montelimar for your Cock & Balls Hazelnut Whopper?”, maybe they’ll forget for a moment why they showed up.
If perchance they remember to knock on your door once they’re done — who cares if you don’t answer, because HEY! CHOCOLATE!
AND A CUTESY PIGLET!!!
Maybe in the future, they’ll show up just to take in the sideshow.
Maybe they’ll show up in droves.
Meanwhile, you get to speculate in your inner sanctum, free from the distraction of having to deal right now with people who are falling over themselves to feast on your time because they love you more than piglets and chocolates.
You get to work.
Some time in the future, you may peer from behind the sanctum curtain.
Some time in the future, you may choose someone from outside.
When that day comes, you hide away your dental floss and your cape.
And you smile, and say, “would you mind awfully if I invited you in?”
Thursday, September 17, 2015
I have no problem whatsoever with A.I.
Actually, that’s not true: I do have one problem, one very big beef.
!!! Why is most A.I. so crap? !!!
Either it’s hopelessly uneasy to use, or if it’s supposed to replicate or simulate a dog (for example), the very last thing it ever does is replicate or simulate any kind of actual dog, real or simulated.
Most of the simulated dogs I’ve seen in action look to me either like cats or monkeys.
So I don’t figure on the world being overrun by robots any time soon.
Case in point: My new ultra hi-tech printer is so sophisticated that it’s impossible to get it to do anything properly.
Tell it to print three sheets of A4 — and it prints six (twice).
Tell it to max on the colour — and it scans the carpet.
Tell it to add labels — and it invades Liberia, firing off lasers and sucking the brains of children into its Chimera Genesis Pod.
I’m convinced The Singularity is a myth invented by right wing politicians to keep down workers’ wages.
“Be grateful you’re lucky to be granted three bucks an hour for what the Japanese kids’ toys of tomorrow will shit in milliseconds — and while you’re at it, MAKE ME A GODDAMN CUP OF CAPPUCCINO.”
See? I shouted that out loud, and my printer did nothing — because that Chimera Genesis Pod is a fiction.
Who needs a Terminator for that kind of prissy crapola?
Monday, September 14, 2015
Yeah, so right now, there’s a whole bunch of abandoned monkeys loafing around on a whole bunch of circus tent fabric, twiddling thumbs and looking kinda pissed off.
This bunch of monkeys ain’t even a united bunch.
This bunch of monkeys is an amalgamation of a whole bunch of monkey sub-bunches.
And even the amalgamation is more of an unlucky accident than any kinda meticulously deliberated mass primate welding.
Don’t even get me started on the rag rug mismatch of circus tent fabric colours.
No one’s in charge of these rejected primates, and pretty soon they’re all gonna start pecking at one another’s bumholes and pulling on fur for fleas.
Then the food will run out, some of the bigger monkeys will start bossing the rest of the assembled apehood around, and a suffocated human cannonball will roll from a flap of tent fabric to provoke a bloodbath.
Maybe then, the ringmasters responsible for this whole debacle will figure the folly of their ways and rush to reclaim their monkey and circus combos, cracking the whip anew and parading around in top hats till every last chimp knows its place in the grand scheme of things and can juggle bananas to order.
My problem here is this:
With so many monkeys whooping and a-dooping about the place, and crumpled circus tent after crumpled circus tent barfing up blue strongman after strangulated acrobat troupe after asphyxiating mother of three, how will the ringmasters successfully round up all of their own monkeys — and only their own monkeys?
Now they’ve been given the freedom to hang out long enough to want to kill each other or riot, those monkeys are going to fit back inside their respective tents like unleashed genies slip neatly back into bottles.
Bet none of the ringmasters thought about that when they nonchalantly dropped their circusloads of monkeys on the world to writhe and scream in a pre-insurrection cesspit of primate fear and anger.
But hey — not my problem...