Check this out.
P.S.-Sorry, no story, but I'm working on it.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Seven: For No Tomorrow
Yeah. Here's an incomplete page seven. There most likely will not be a page eight tomorrow unless I managed to somehow pull it off. We'll see.
****
After the fire that spontaneity had instigated burned out, a new burning began on the long walk back to the casino. It was the burning of the dream, of being tossed by the queen into the depths of an embracing hell. He walked in silence next to pretty Mary K. They did not hold hands. Damien looked intently on the ground, watching the grass and dirt that had betrayed him. He felt dizzy, and hot, and charge-less. Ionized into neutrality. He could not look at her, and he knew that she would not look at him. The term that he so loathed, the feminine term that rang of purity could no longer be applied to him, a product of reproductive loss. He decided that all there was left to do was play poker.
Thus, after poking her, he played poker. After holding her, he played Hold ‘em. He saw no away around it—Darius had forwarded the buy-in of $10,000 (business was very very good he seemed to say with a wink from across the table), and he could stand to win $250,000. He played Hold ‘em often, often enough to pick up the ins and outs of the game, how to read the amateurs, when to fold.
He liked the game. The outcome was hard to anticipate and somehow predictable, it was individual and communal, it was easy and yet complex. He could not explain the joy he got from winning a hand when it was just dumb luck, nor could he explain the feeling of loss when someone else had dumb luck. Damien considered himself good at the game. It required more skill and know-how than betting on sports, but it was more of a gamble. Maybe Darius was right.
There were a majority of amateurs at tonight’s tournament, pretentious and pretending that they knew what they were doing. The dealer often had to tell one of the players at the table, laughing at some abstruse joke about the David Hume’s death being the birth of our nation, that he was in the big blind. The player would then put in the wrong amount of chips, and when the dealer corrected the error—"sorry, sorry. I thought we were further along in the game." Damien, annoyed at the poor affect of this player, decided to take him out as soon as possible. A spade flush dug him his grave. Damien knew that this old, rich man would not see it coming. Damien relished in his dumb luck.
Darius was a good poker player as well. He was on the conservative side, but when he had it, one could never tell. Darius was sitting next to his "client," so Damien assumed, and Darius would occasionally whisper to the man on his right and laugh. Darius’s client, a youngish man of about thirty, was not much of a poker player, but he continually got lucky, knocking out various players with straights and sets and flushes. Darius semi-bluffed on a pair of twos and took a big pot, nonchalantly showing his cards afterward to get the guy sitting next to the dealer on tilt.
"I had a pair of kings!"
"You shoulda called." Darius smiled. Darius always smiled. Even when he lost a big hand to this twenty-one year old kid (most likely a son of a member) three seats down, a set of twos falling to a full house (nines full of twos), Darius smiled. Darius doubled up when the kid did not see a four card straight on the table. Darius was like that, smiling, but vengeful.
****
After the fire that spontaneity had instigated burned out, a new burning began on the long walk back to the casino. It was the burning of the dream, of being tossed by the queen into the depths of an embracing hell. He walked in silence next to pretty Mary K. They did not hold hands. Damien looked intently on the ground, watching the grass and dirt that had betrayed him. He felt dizzy, and hot, and charge-less. Ionized into neutrality. He could not look at her, and he knew that she would not look at him. The term that he so loathed, the feminine term that rang of purity could no longer be applied to him, a product of reproductive loss. He decided that all there was left to do was play poker.
Thus, after poking her, he played poker. After holding her, he played Hold ‘em. He saw no away around it—Darius had forwarded the buy-in of $10,000 (business was very very good he seemed to say with a wink from across the table), and he could stand to win $250,000. He played Hold ‘em often, often enough to pick up the ins and outs of the game, how to read the amateurs, when to fold.
He liked the game. The outcome was hard to anticipate and somehow predictable, it was individual and communal, it was easy and yet complex. He could not explain the joy he got from winning a hand when it was just dumb luck, nor could he explain the feeling of loss when someone else had dumb luck. Damien considered himself good at the game. It required more skill and know-how than betting on sports, but it was more of a gamble. Maybe Darius was right.
There were a majority of amateurs at tonight’s tournament, pretentious and pretending that they knew what they were doing. The dealer often had to tell one of the players at the table, laughing at some abstruse joke about the David Hume’s death being the birth of our nation, that he was in the big blind. The player would then put in the wrong amount of chips, and when the dealer corrected the error—"sorry, sorry. I thought we were further along in the game." Damien, annoyed at the poor affect of this player, decided to take him out as soon as possible. A spade flush dug him his grave. Damien knew that this old, rich man would not see it coming. Damien relished in his dumb luck.
Darius was a good poker player as well. He was on the conservative side, but when he had it, one could never tell. Darius was sitting next to his "client," so Damien assumed, and Darius would occasionally whisper to the man on his right and laugh. Darius’s client, a youngish man of about thirty, was not much of a poker player, but he continually got lucky, knocking out various players with straights and sets and flushes. Darius semi-bluffed on a pair of twos and took a big pot, nonchalantly showing his cards afterward to get the guy sitting next to the dealer on tilt.
"I had a pair of kings!"
"You shoulda called." Darius smiled. Darius always smiled. Even when he lost a big hand to this twenty-one year old kid (most likely a son of a member) three seats down, a set of twos falling to a full house (nines full of twos), Darius smiled. Darius doubled up when the kid did not see a four card straight on the table. Darius was like that, smiling, but vengeful.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Have You Seen Her?
I finished page six, and there looks to be a page seven for tomorrow.
****
She showed him the casino. She took him inside the plain building, and found plain art-work sparsely littered about the room. There were eight to ten rounded oblong tables, indented on one side to mark where the dealer sits, black rims encasing a green sea as smooth as velvet. There was a fireplace directly across the entrance, with fancy pokers off to the right in a golden holder. That was all that was in the casino. Damien noticed the stark contrast from the hall and the casino, and Mary explained that members had complained of too much distraction while gambling—they even had to remove the bar (it instead being replaced with a register to cash in one’s chips). One could, however, still order food and drinks from the dining hall. He nodded in a vacant agreement. The casino had a wonderful view outside of the man-made lake near the sixth hole of the golf course.
She showed him the pool area, the massage parlor, the sauna. She showed him the garden with its botanical marvels. She showed him the walk-in humidor. She showed him the stables with the faux race track, and the trails that extended into the hills of the 158 acres. She told him that some of the members would hunt those fields, killing small game. She showed him the monument to the original members and the owner of the club, a huge bronze Xerxes, fiercely holding a sword high in the air, charging at nothing but stuffed bank accounts. She showed him wealth, status, and power. She showed him a superficial life, where caprice was the order of the day. She showed him a life that he very much despised, a life that Darius very much wanted to lead. It dawned on him fuzzily that he and Darius would soon be parting ways.
The sun was about to set when pretty Mary K. said, "there’s one last place I need to show you." They left the inaccurate monument, (Xerxes fought no battles, but would rather watch the results from afar) and headed past the casino toward the golf course. Damien was more sober: his steps were sure, although he was now holding Mary K.’s hand. In the cool air he felt flushed, hot, and charged. He felt like lightning striking; he had a feeling of falling fast, faster, fastest. He was being pulled downward by a gravity that only sobriety would recognize.
They headed toward the sixth hole, onto the green, the rough, and then out of bounds. They were behind the lake, past the bushes, and came upon a tool shed.
"How do you know about this place?"
"I started here as a caddy; you discover things when you’re a caddy."
"How old are you?"
"Old enough."
They embraced. They kissed. They removed garments as if they were on fire, and they were on fire. Damien was no longer tame or shy, but alive, electric. Everything was moving—the sun setting, their hands, the bushes in the wind—everything was mercurial. They did as spontaneity mandated, and it mandated much. It ordered them to thrust, moan, rise, and fall. It commanded them to live and die. It pushed them to know each other. It coerced them into frantic motion, a silly, awkward dance stuck on repeat. And when they thought they were finished, spontaneity demanded it again.
Pretty Mary K. was more beautiful with her eyes reflecting the rising moon. She didn’t know his secret, or at least he thought she didn’t—he never knew what women knew when they knew someone. He noticed a locket in the shape of a heart around her neck, and said, without thinking:
"You’re my queen of hearts."
"You should go, it’s almost time for the tournament." She got up and began dressing.
"Okay." He followed suit.
****
She showed him the casino. She took him inside the plain building, and found plain art-work sparsely littered about the room. There were eight to ten rounded oblong tables, indented on one side to mark where the dealer sits, black rims encasing a green sea as smooth as velvet. There was a fireplace directly across the entrance, with fancy pokers off to the right in a golden holder. That was all that was in the casino. Damien noticed the stark contrast from the hall and the casino, and Mary explained that members had complained of too much distraction while gambling—they even had to remove the bar (it instead being replaced with a register to cash in one’s chips). One could, however, still order food and drinks from the dining hall. He nodded in a vacant agreement. The casino had a wonderful view outside of the man-made lake near the sixth hole of the golf course.
She showed him the pool area, the massage parlor, the sauna. She showed him the garden with its botanical marvels. She showed him the walk-in humidor. She showed him the stables with the faux race track, and the trails that extended into the hills of the 158 acres. She told him that some of the members would hunt those fields, killing small game. She showed him the monument to the original members and the owner of the club, a huge bronze Xerxes, fiercely holding a sword high in the air, charging at nothing but stuffed bank accounts. She showed him wealth, status, and power. She showed him a superficial life, where caprice was the order of the day. She showed him a life that he very much despised, a life that Darius very much wanted to lead. It dawned on him fuzzily that he and Darius would soon be parting ways.
The sun was about to set when pretty Mary K. said, "there’s one last place I need to show you." They left the inaccurate monument, (Xerxes fought no battles, but would rather watch the results from afar) and headed past the casino toward the golf course. Damien was more sober: his steps were sure, although he was now holding Mary K.’s hand. In the cool air he felt flushed, hot, and charged. He felt like lightning striking; he had a feeling of falling fast, faster, fastest. He was being pulled downward by a gravity that only sobriety would recognize.
They headed toward the sixth hole, onto the green, the rough, and then out of bounds. They were behind the lake, past the bushes, and came upon a tool shed.
"How do you know about this place?"
"I started here as a caddy; you discover things when you’re a caddy."
"How old are you?"
"Old enough."
They embraced. They kissed. They removed garments as if they were on fire, and they were on fire. Damien was no longer tame or shy, but alive, electric. Everything was moving—the sun setting, their hands, the bushes in the wind—everything was mercurial. They did as spontaneity mandated, and it mandated much. It ordered them to thrust, moan, rise, and fall. It commanded them to live and die. It pushed them to know each other. It coerced them into frantic motion, a silly, awkward dance stuck on repeat. And when they thought they were finished, spontaneity demanded it again.
Pretty Mary K. was more beautiful with her eyes reflecting the rising moon. She didn’t know his secret, or at least he thought she didn’t—he never knew what women knew when they knew someone. He noticed a locket in the shape of a heart around her neck, and said, without thinking:
"You’re my queen of hearts."
"You should go, it’s almost time for the tournament." She got up and began dressing.
"Okay." He followed suit.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I'm Already Full of These Useless Stories...
Time is running out. I am running out of pages to post. This fifth one here is complete, but I have not yet completed the sixth. I may be able to get to the sixth one done by tomorrow, but I do not know about the seventh, eighth, ninth, etc. I don't even know how many pages this story will be. I have five more days left until this is due, so conceivably it could be about ten or eleven pages total. However, there is only one more scene I have to write (with some summary), so it could be shorter than that. I guess I can only try as best as I can and see how it turns out. Do not be surprised if a day goes by and I have not posted another page. I may have to keep posting pages after August first until the story is complete. I don't know. Enjoy page five.
****
Damien was confused, "I thought you were paying."
"You didn’t get her number, therefore you have to pay."
"But you said that all I had to do was ask her, and I did." His voice steadily rose, despite Mary K.’s presence. Courage uplifted while the body made low.
"Well," a moment’s hesitation this time, no drama or philosophy, "I’ll pay you back. Can you get this one for me?"
Darius had never done this before. Darius was one for his word, albeit he rarely made a promise to anyone. If he told you he would do something, he generally would do it. Like the time that Damien had placed a bet on the San Diego Chargers in some play-off game. It was obvious that they would lose, given the history of the team with the opponent (Damien could not remember the team now), but he placed the bet anyway. Darius told him, "if the Chargers win, I won’t take any cut– you get the whole enchilada." The Chargers had won by one. A field goal in the last quarter– gripping, really. Damien didn’t have to pay for lunch that day, and he got all the money due to him.
Now that he had to pay, the blurry tab looked like $250, Damien felt confused, and all the more so because his head was reeling. He had lost. Mary K.’s eyes were dancing between the two guests, but her expression was flat. He conceded. He pulled out his wallet, a plastic card, and handed it to Mary K. who in one sweeping motion took it and walked away to swipe the card.
With that, Darius smiled, got up, and left heading right. He passed Hermes and some nudes bathing, down the great hall to disappear into greatness. He did not care where his bookie was going. Mary K. returned, smiling somewhat. She was certainly old enough now. He smiled. He sighed as he signed. He asked where the bar was.
"You’ve had enough."
"Well, I have been abandoned, so I will drink with abandon."
"Cute." She smirked. "Why don’t you go home?"
"I’m here for the Hold ‘em Tournament."
"Ah. Well, my shift ends in an hour. If you want to meet me afterward, I can show you around."
Damien didn’t fully realize the situation. He nodded.
"Where?"
"Just go out the hall, exit from there," she pointed to a door at the side of the building that Damien did not notice before, "and walk around behind the building."
"Okay...okay." She left him, and he was alone.
He stumbled to the place where he thought they would meet, and found her a hundred yards off, waving and laughing. He had found the bar in the meantime, and drank with the abandon of the zealot alcoholic, drowning the dream with the hope of a delirium tremens. Every sip made him hate this place more. Every sip made his dream more clear, and the world more blurry. Every sip made him and destroyed him. Every sip was billed to Darius.
"So you found the bar." She was smiling fully now, exposing perfect teeth in a perfect mouth, made less perfect by jaundiced eyes.
"You seem happy... to be off...of work."
She giggled. How old was she?
"Let’s walk around and sober you up."
****
Damien was confused, "I thought you were paying."
"You didn’t get her number, therefore you have to pay."
"But you said that all I had to do was ask her, and I did." His voice steadily rose, despite Mary K.’s presence. Courage uplifted while the body made low.
"Well," a moment’s hesitation this time, no drama or philosophy, "I’ll pay you back. Can you get this one for me?"
Darius had never done this before. Darius was one for his word, albeit he rarely made a promise to anyone. If he told you he would do something, he generally would do it. Like the time that Damien had placed a bet on the San Diego Chargers in some play-off game. It was obvious that they would lose, given the history of the team with the opponent (Damien could not remember the team now), but he placed the bet anyway. Darius told him, "if the Chargers win, I won’t take any cut– you get the whole enchilada." The Chargers had won by one. A field goal in the last quarter– gripping, really. Damien didn’t have to pay for lunch that day, and he got all the money due to him.
Now that he had to pay, the blurry tab looked like $250, Damien felt confused, and all the more so because his head was reeling. He had lost. Mary K.’s eyes were dancing between the two guests, but her expression was flat. He conceded. He pulled out his wallet, a plastic card, and handed it to Mary K. who in one sweeping motion took it and walked away to swipe the card.
With that, Darius smiled, got up, and left heading right. He passed Hermes and some nudes bathing, down the great hall to disappear into greatness. He did not care where his bookie was going. Mary K. returned, smiling somewhat. She was certainly old enough now. He smiled. He sighed as he signed. He asked where the bar was.
"You’ve had enough."
"Well, I have been abandoned, so I will drink with abandon."
"Cute." She smirked. "Why don’t you go home?"
"I’m here for the Hold ‘em Tournament."
"Ah. Well, my shift ends in an hour. If you want to meet me afterward, I can show you around."
Damien didn’t fully realize the situation. He nodded.
"Where?"
"Just go out the hall, exit from there," she pointed to a door at the side of the building that Damien did not notice before, "and walk around behind the building."
"Okay...okay." She left him, and he was alone.
He stumbled to the place where he thought they would meet, and found her a hundred yards off, waving and laughing. He had found the bar in the meantime, and drank with the abandon of the zealot alcoholic, drowning the dream with the hope of a delirium tremens. Every sip made him hate this place more. Every sip made his dream more clear, and the world more blurry. Every sip made him and destroyed him. Every sip was billed to Darius.
"So you found the bar." She was smiling fully now, exposing perfect teeth in a perfect mouth, made less perfect by jaundiced eyes.
"You seem happy... to be off...of work."
She giggled. How old was she?
"Let’s walk around and sober you up."
Monday, July 25, 2005
Page Four
****
"She wants you."
Damien finished the rest in a gulp, and let the oxygen and carbon dioxide escape in invisible bubbles from his head through his mouth. He felt his blood pressure drop. It would be a long lunch, much longer than any they had ever had.
They ordered their meals, and plenty of wine, even though Darius whined plenty about the Bordeaux. Mary K. would glance or glare (slightly inebriated, Damien did not know which) while she served them, and she spoke little. Courage rose swiftly as the drinks were poured downward, and Damien found himself speaking to Darius, not whispering.
"So why’d ya bring us here?"
Darius smiled.
"Poker tournament tonight."
"Hold ‘em?"
"Hold ‘em."
"What time?"
"Eight thirty."
"We’re going to stay here until then?"
"Yeah."
"What are we going to do?"
Darius paused before he answered.
"Well, I’m going to meet with a ‘client’ [Darius made scare quotes with his fingers, Damien’s pet peeve], I don’t know what you’re going to do."
Normally, being thus abandoned would have made Damien upset, but he was still mildly drunk, and accepted his fate.
"Where’s the casino?"
"There’s a map somewhere. You’ll find it. Wander. Err. Become a planet. Have an adventure."
Darius was looking at his watch now. It was a much nicer one than Damien had known him to have in the past. Things were looking up for Darius. He probably suckered some high class businessman into gambling or gamboling or gaming. Darius probably became buddy-buddy with said businessman, hence the invitation to such a grandiose country club (that verged on empire). And Darius not knowing what to do with the guest of a guest pass, as he was girl-less and knew no one that liked him enough to join him, suckered Damien into playing at the tournament. So much for spontaneity.
The meal was finished in silence, with Darius glancing at his watch more and more frequently. Damien had lost interest in whatever it was that he had ordered (or had ordered for him) and focused primarily on the wine. He found himself staring uncontrollably at pretty Mary K. whenever she stopped by to retrieve dirty dishes or refill the wine. It might have been the torpor of the stupor, but he could not turn away. She either did not notice or did not mind. His reactions became sluggish. He began to think that he had had too much. Darius looked slightly different through blurred eyes. Movements seemed faster, time seemed slower. Hermes was mercurial, the maidens seemed unseemly. Like Darius, Damien was all smiles. He could not help but smile, and his mind did not mind this situation.
Mary K. brought the bill, hesitated between the two, and, following a nod from Darius, handed Damien the bill.
"She wants you."
Damien finished the rest in a gulp, and let the oxygen and carbon dioxide escape in invisible bubbles from his head through his mouth. He felt his blood pressure drop. It would be a long lunch, much longer than any they had ever had.
They ordered their meals, and plenty of wine, even though Darius whined plenty about the Bordeaux. Mary K. would glance or glare (slightly inebriated, Damien did not know which) while she served them, and she spoke little. Courage rose swiftly as the drinks were poured downward, and Damien found himself speaking to Darius, not whispering.
"So why’d ya bring us here?"
Darius smiled.
"Poker tournament tonight."
"Hold ‘em?"
"Hold ‘em."
"What time?"
"Eight thirty."
"We’re going to stay here until then?"
"Yeah."
"What are we going to do?"
Darius paused before he answered.
"Well, I’m going to meet with a ‘client’ [Darius made scare quotes with his fingers, Damien’s pet peeve], I don’t know what you’re going to do."
Normally, being thus abandoned would have made Damien upset, but he was still mildly drunk, and accepted his fate.
"Where’s the casino?"
"There’s a map somewhere. You’ll find it. Wander. Err. Become a planet. Have an adventure."
Darius was looking at his watch now. It was a much nicer one than Damien had known him to have in the past. Things were looking up for Darius. He probably suckered some high class businessman into gambling or gamboling or gaming. Darius probably became buddy-buddy with said businessman, hence the invitation to such a grandiose country club (that verged on empire). And Darius not knowing what to do with the guest of a guest pass, as he was girl-less and knew no one that liked him enough to join him, suckered Damien into playing at the tournament. So much for spontaneity.
The meal was finished in silence, with Darius glancing at his watch more and more frequently. Damien had lost interest in whatever it was that he had ordered (or had ordered for him) and focused primarily on the wine. He found himself staring uncontrollably at pretty Mary K. whenever she stopped by to retrieve dirty dishes or refill the wine. It might have been the torpor of the stupor, but he could not turn away. She either did not notice or did not mind. His reactions became sluggish. He began to think that he had had too much. Darius looked slightly different through blurred eyes. Movements seemed faster, time seemed slower. Hermes was mercurial, the maidens seemed unseemly. Like Darius, Damien was all smiles. He could not help but smile, and his mind did not mind this situation.
Mary K. brought the bill, hesitated between the two, and, following a nod from Darius, handed Damien the bill.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Just Starting to Make It My Obssession
I have finished "A Dead Man in Deptford." I don't know what to read next. I have about two more books from Burgess that I could read, but I think I need to read someone other than Burgess before I start on those--I think that would balance things out. I could read the new Harry Potter... Any suggestions?
This is page three.
****
"Take you for instance," again pausing, this time for dramatic effect, "What do you do for a living? You’re a gambler!" He spoke too loud. Far too loud. Damien looked to see if any one was looking. Darius edged close to him from across the table, nearly upsetting an empty wine glass.
"You, sir, take advantage of both aspects of life, merely by your existence. You accept the gamble of life, as it were, by gambling. And in gambling, you are making a gambol of life. Do you understand?" Darius’s near whisper somehow did not comfort him.
"Yes." He whispered, feeling sheepish and somewhat troubled by this conversation.
"So, why don’t you ask what’s-her-name for her number?"
"I don’t know." Weren’t they supposed to order now?
"If you ask her for her number, I’ll pay for lunch."
"Okay, I’ll ask her."
Damien figured that would end this awkward debacle of a conversation, and he would get rejected and prove to Darius, once and for all, that this matter should never be spoke of again. He also figured that they would not see the maitre d’ until the end of the meal, on their way out possibly, though he held a suspicion that this would be something more than a meal; that this was no ordinary lunch where he and his bookie would go about their lives afterward. He did not understand the whole "day pass" situation, and the thought of not knowing a key detail, and not having a good idea about the outcome left him uncomfortable. Why the Club Persai?
Lost in thought, he wondered why they still had not ordered yet. Darius was blabbing on, something about philosophical puzzles and Wittgenstein–Darius began to scoff, and Damien began to sweat. What was taking so long? The obligation of asking the maitre d’ was bearing down on him, and he could not bear it. He could only play with menu for so long, the linen tablecloth having lost his attention. He thought about his dream, his nightmare. Darius looked like one of the devils glad in his despair. He felt like he was falling again. The sweat was poring in copious amounts now; he wondered if anyone noticed. Darius did not. Darius never noticed anything. He was trying not to retch, despite how wretched he felt. The queen, the near omnipresent queen, forever pervading his thoughts, flashed behind shut eyelids, and when he opened them...
"I’m sorry for the wait, gentlemen." There was ice in her voice. She was not sorry at all.
"We are a little short-handed today, and we just noticed that your section of the restaurant has not been served yet. I will be your waitress this afternoon. My name is Mary."
Pretty Mary K. She seemed older, and it seemed like ages when he first saw her. He felt he already knew her, and that she already knew him, and they already hated each other from previous experience. He couldn’t ask. But Darius would not let it go. He knew that Darius would not let it go. They ordered wine first: a Bordeaux for Darius, and Pinot Grigio for Damien. Damien would need a lot of wine. When Mary K. left, Darius said, "You didn’t ask for her number."
"I was taken off guard."
"I won’t pay for the meal if you don’t ask her number."
"By when?"
"The next time we see her." Darius was intent. It may have been the first time Damien had not seen Darius smile. Hesitantly, he responded.
"Okay. Okay."
She came presently with the wine, and he asked. It was a fumbling, stumbling, mumbling request, followed by much wine. A half glass in a gulp. She responded by walking away. Darius was smiling villainously.
This is page three.
****
"Take you for instance," again pausing, this time for dramatic effect, "What do you do for a living? You’re a gambler!" He spoke too loud. Far too loud. Damien looked to see if any one was looking. Darius edged close to him from across the table, nearly upsetting an empty wine glass.
"You, sir, take advantage of both aspects of life, merely by your existence. You accept the gamble of life, as it were, by gambling. And in gambling, you are making a gambol of life. Do you understand?" Darius’s near whisper somehow did not comfort him.
"Yes." He whispered, feeling sheepish and somewhat troubled by this conversation.
"So, why don’t you ask what’s-her-name for her number?"
"I don’t know." Weren’t they supposed to order now?
"If you ask her for her number, I’ll pay for lunch."
"Okay, I’ll ask her."
Damien figured that would end this awkward debacle of a conversation, and he would get rejected and prove to Darius, once and for all, that this matter should never be spoke of again. He also figured that they would not see the maitre d’ until the end of the meal, on their way out possibly, though he held a suspicion that this would be something more than a meal; that this was no ordinary lunch where he and his bookie would go about their lives afterward. He did not understand the whole "day pass" situation, and the thought of not knowing a key detail, and not having a good idea about the outcome left him uncomfortable. Why the Club Persai?
Lost in thought, he wondered why they still had not ordered yet. Darius was blabbing on, something about philosophical puzzles and Wittgenstein–Darius began to scoff, and Damien began to sweat. What was taking so long? The obligation of asking the maitre d’ was bearing down on him, and he could not bear it. He could only play with menu for so long, the linen tablecloth having lost his attention. He thought about his dream, his nightmare. Darius looked like one of the devils glad in his despair. He felt like he was falling again. The sweat was poring in copious amounts now; he wondered if anyone noticed. Darius did not. Darius never noticed anything. He was trying not to retch, despite how wretched he felt. The queen, the near omnipresent queen, forever pervading his thoughts, flashed behind shut eyelids, and when he opened them...
"I’m sorry for the wait, gentlemen." There was ice in her voice. She was not sorry at all.
"We are a little short-handed today, and we just noticed that your section of the restaurant has not been served yet. I will be your waitress this afternoon. My name is Mary."
Pretty Mary K. She seemed older, and it seemed like ages when he first saw her. He felt he already knew her, and that she already knew him, and they already hated each other from previous experience. He couldn’t ask. But Darius would not let it go. He knew that Darius would not let it go. They ordered wine first: a Bordeaux for Darius, and Pinot Grigio for Damien. Damien would need a lot of wine. When Mary K. left, Darius said, "You didn’t ask for her number."
"I was taken off guard."
"I won’t pay for the meal if you don’t ask her number."
"By when?"
"The next time we see her." Darius was intent. It may have been the first time Damien had not seen Darius smile. Hesitantly, he responded.
"Okay. Okay."
She came presently with the wine, and he asked. It was a fumbling, stumbling, mumbling request, followed by much wine. A half glass in a gulp. She responded by walking away. Darius was smiling villainously.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Page Two (I Wrote It By Mistake)
Two notes before I post page two. First, I bought "Figure 8." Second, I have about five pages done. Comments welcome, as always.
****
While waiting for the maitre d’, He whispered to Darius:
"How’d you manage to get us into this place?"
"Don’t you worry about that dear friend," Darius said boisterously, "I have connections, and business is good. Business is very good."
The volume of Darius’s voice attracted the maitre d’, an attractive girl who looked no older than sixteen. Her name tag read, "Mary K." Darius winked and nudged him, and smiled. He smiled and smiled. From behind blue eyes she asked, "Your day passes gentlemen?"
"Day pass–"
"Right here." Darius stepped forward and produced two cards, followed by a driver’s license. Mary K. looked them over and cooly said, "You didn’t register your guest."
"I did, I called in an hour ago."
"I need to see his identification." Darius looked at him.
Baffled, shocked, and somewhat ashamed, he pulled out his wallet and clumsily handed his license over to the girl.
"Damien... Aleksey?" Her brow furrowed, making her seem angry at the name.
"Yes," was all he could mutter.
"Let me check the records." She stepped away, down the hall to disappear in the greatness.
"A day pass? Why are we eating here?" Damien was still whispering, as if he didn’t deserve to speak.
"You check out the fox? You should get her number." Darius was smiling and looking down the hall to see if he could see her.
This comment cut the conversation. He could not stand when Darius would suggest that he call, talk to, or stare at women. Damien would not admit it, but he was still a virgin. The term itself was so feminine, he felt emasculated just thinking of it. It was a pure term, and yet it was something that left him ashamed. He remembered the smile on the queen of hearts’ face. He remembered the fall. Suddenly pretty Mary K. appeared.
"Yeah, he checks out. This way, gentlemen."
"Life," Darius paused for philosophical import, "is but a gamble, a gambol."
They were sitting at their table, waiting. They had not yet ordered. There were two glasses before him, a salad plate, an excess of forks and knives and spoons. There was a fine linen table cloth that Damien could not help but play with, and he was distracted because Darius was affected. Darius was always affected when he played philosopher, always discoursing gambling, its honors, its virtues. One lunch he spoke of probability. He called upon Karl Popper’s theory that probability is a propensity in nature, that it exists, and Darius concluded that one should accept it. He spoke of the gambler’s fallacy at another meeting, and Hume’s treatment of induction on yet another. Damien knew that he didn’t really know what Darius was talking about when he was thus affected, but nodded and agreed. Damien liked it better when Darius would talk about scores, or politics, or religion. Damien continued playing with the tablecloth while Darius continued, oblivious to Damien’s obliviousness.
"One must understand this, and take advantage of both aspects of life. The gambling, and the gamboling." Darius was pleased with his pun, so he would iterate it ad infinitum.
"I guess." One of the glasses shuddered from the movement of the tablecloth
****
While waiting for the maitre d’, He whispered to Darius:
"How’d you manage to get us into this place?"
"Don’t you worry about that dear friend," Darius said boisterously, "I have connections, and business is good. Business is very good."
The volume of Darius’s voice attracted the maitre d’, an attractive girl who looked no older than sixteen. Her name tag read, "Mary K." Darius winked and nudged him, and smiled. He smiled and smiled. From behind blue eyes she asked, "Your day passes gentlemen?"
"Day pass–"
"Right here." Darius stepped forward and produced two cards, followed by a driver’s license. Mary K. looked them over and cooly said, "You didn’t register your guest."
"I did, I called in an hour ago."
"I need to see his identification." Darius looked at him.
Baffled, shocked, and somewhat ashamed, he pulled out his wallet and clumsily handed his license over to the girl.
"Damien... Aleksey?" Her brow furrowed, making her seem angry at the name.
"Yes," was all he could mutter.
"Let me check the records." She stepped away, down the hall to disappear in the greatness.
"A day pass? Why are we eating here?" Damien was still whispering, as if he didn’t deserve to speak.
"You check out the fox? You should get her number." Darius was smiling and looking down the hall to see if he could see her.
This comment cut the conversation. He could not stand when Darius would suggest that he call, talk to, or stare at women. Damien would not admit it, but he was still a virgin. The term itself was so feminine, he felt emasculated just thinking of it. It was a pure term, and yet it was something that left him ashamed. He remembered the smile on the queen of hearts’ face. He remembered the fall. Suddenly pretty Mary K. appeared.
"Yeah, he checks out. This way, gentlemen."
"Life," Darius paused for philosophical import, "is but a gamble, a gambol."
They were sitting at their table, waiting. They had not yet ordered. There were two glasses before him, a salad plate, an excess of forks and knives and spoons. There was a fine linen table cloth that Damien could not help but play with, and he was distracted because Darius was affected. Darius was always affected when he played philosopher, always discoursing gambling, its honors, its virtues. One lunch he spoke of probability. He called upon Karl Popper’s theory that probability is a propensity in nature, that it exists, and Darius concluded that one should accept it. He spoke of the gambler’s fallacy at another meeting, and Hume’s treatment of induction on yet another. Damien knew that he didn’t really know what Darius was talking about when he was thus affected, but nodded and agreed. Damien liked it better when Darius would talk about scores, or politics, or religion. Damien continued playing with the tablecloth while Darius continued, oblivious to Damien’s obliviousness.
"One must understand this, and take advantage of both aspects of life. The gambling, and the gamboling." Darius was pleased with his pun, so he would iterate it ad infinitum.
"I guess." One of the glasses shuddered from the movement of the tablecloth
Friday, July 22, 2005
Page One, Page One...
This is the first page of the story that I am writing that will be due on 1 August 2005. I don't have a title yet. I have three pages so far, but I won't post all of it at once, as that might make the entry too long. I will try to post a page every day until the story's end for those of you who have nothing better to do than check my blog every day. Let me know what you think of it.
****
He woke up gasping, reaching, retching. He was soaked in sweat (piss?), a vinegar-like film that made him smell and slip. He slid in his own sheets, the dream still real in the fuzz of new dawn. In his dream, He is about to fall down a rabbit-hole; he is clutching the dirt, twigs, and grass for dear life, for below was the City of Dis, ready to consume him in flames that torturously burned the heretics, the pagans, the atheists. In his dream, he ends up slipping down because the queen of hearts (an apparition most apparent) sentences and sends him there, much to the glee of Beelzebub and Mephistopheles. He falls into the burning light, and awakens.
This dream occurred and recurred, a current current in the streams of sleep. He would usually wake up relieved, glad the near-real was denied by the real, and go about his daily business. But he felt off this morning, still hot, the dream a little more fresh than usual. He could not efface the smug smile on the queen of hearts’ face, still vivid in a mind capable of producing and reproducing images; the fall itself; and the intense heat just before wakening. They were all uncannily real. A cold shower would help.
His daily business was not truly a business, other than it kept himself busy. He would wake up at dawn, sweating from his dream, and, in a dream-like stupor, smoke a cigarette for breakfast. After a shower, he would check the scores in the paper, or on television, of all the teams in various sports on which he had placed bets. He would call his bookie. He met is bookie daily for lunch at a sports bar, or a grille, or a fast food chain—whichever place that spontaneity mandated. His bookie would pay for lunch or have him pay for lunch, and they would discuss politics, religion, philosophy—whatever spontaneity mandated. At the dinner hour, he would head towards the nearest casino at the reservation and play Texas Hold ‘em into the early hours of the next day. He would go home, drunk, tired—whichever his spontaneous body mandated—and would sleep, perchance to dream a different dream. He never dreamt a different dream.
"So, the Club Persai?" He almost forgot that he was on the phone with Darius, discussing lunch plans.
"I guess. Have I eaten there before?"
"No, I thought we’d go someplace different. I feel like being spontaneous."
"Okay. We’ll go then."
"Great. Get dressed up, this place is high class, and you’re payin’!"
Bewildered, he checked the scores for the Red Sox game; they had lost, which meant he had lost.
So, two hours later, donned in a black coat, white shoes, and a black hat, he met Darius in the parking lot outside the Club Persai. Darius was all smiles, all the time. He never lost, no matter who won. He would take a hefty cut from winnings, and he would take all from losings. Darius fixed his tie, patted him on the back, and then led him inside.
The Club Persai was a large, grand hall, filled with fine tables, fine china, fine people. There were intricate, baroque paintings of maidens in pools or rivers or oceans all over the walls; there was a bronze statue of Hermes or Mercury with his shield and his shoes with their wings, and he stood still, posing for an infinite minute. The Club Persai was a country club that looked over a vast country of one hundred and fifty eight acres. It had a golf course. It had a casino. He was impressed with the place, unlike any place he had ever been to, and yet very familiar.
****
He woke up gasping, reaching, retching. He was soaked in sweat (piss?), a vinegar-like film that made him smell and slip. He slid in his own sheets, the dream still real in the fuzz of new dawn. In his dream, He is about to fall down a rabbit-hole; he is clutching the dirt, twigs, and grass for dear life, for below was the City of Dis, ready to consume him in flames that torturously burned the heretics, the pagans, the atheists. In his dream, he ends up slipping down because the queen of hearts (an apparition most apparent) sentences and sends him there, much to the glee of Beelzebub and Mephistopheles. He falls into the burning light, and awakens.
This dream occurred and recurred, a current current in the streams of sleep. He would usually wake up relieved, glad the near-real was denied by the real, and go about his daily business. But he felt off this morning, still hot, the dream a little more fresh than usual. He could not efface the smug smile on the queen of hearts’ face, still vivid in a mind capable of producing and reproducing images; the fall itself; and the intense heat just before wakening. They were all uncannily real. A cold shower would help.
His daily business was not truly a business, other than it kept himself busy. He would wake up at dawn, sweating from his dream, and, in a dream-like stupor, smoke a cigarette for breakfast. After a shower, he would check the scores in the paper, or on television, of all the teams in various sports on which he had placed bets. He would call his bookie. He met is bookie daily for lunch at a sports bar, or a grille, or a fast food chain—whichever place that spontaneity mandated. His bookie would pay for lunch or have him pay for lunch, and they would discuss politics, religion, philosophy—whatever spontaneity mandated. At the dinner hour, he would head towards the nearest casino at the reservation and play Texas Hold ‘em into the early hours of the next day. He would go home, drunk, tired—whichever his spontaneous body mandated—and would sleep, perchance to dream a different dream. He never dreamt a different dream.
"So, the Club Persai?" He almost forgot that he was on the phone with Darius, discussing lunch plans.
"I guess. Have I eaten there before?"
"No, I thought we’d go someplace different. I feel like being spontaneous."
"Okay. We’ll go then."
"Great. Get dressed up, this place is high class, and you’re payin’!"
Bewildered, he checked the scores for the Red Sox game; they had lost, which meant he had lost.
So, two hours later, donned in a black coat, white shoes, and a black hat, he met Darius in the parking lot outside the Club Persai. Darius was all smiles, all the time. He never lost, no matter who won. He would take a hefty cut from winnings, and he would take all from losings. Darius fixed his tie, patted him on the back, and then led him inside.
The Club Persai was a large, grand hall, filled with fine tables, fine china, fine people. There were intricate, baroque paintings of maidens in pools or rivers or oceans all over the walls; there was a bronze statue of Hermes or Mercury with his shield and his shoes with their wings, and he stood still, posing for an infinite minute. The Club Persai was a country club that looked over a vast country of one hundred and fifty eight acres. It had a golf course. It had a casino. He was impressed with the place, unlike any place he had ever been to, and yet very familiar.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Doe-Rae-Mi
Beware leechers of wireless networks!
On another note...
I saw something that made me angry. It was a Toyota Prius with the following bumper sticker:
Tax the Rich
SUV=WMD
Aside from the non-sequitur, and the obvious problem with equating two abbreviations, it just seemed superfluous to have a bumper sticker such as this on a Prius. By driving a Toyota Prius, you are already making a statement about your political philosophy: who would want to drive an expensive, hideous, and powerless car other than those who really want to stick it to their SUV driving peers? And why would someone want to "Tax the Rich" when he spent an inordinate amount of money on his Prius? It boggles my mind.
On yet another note....
Here's the first draft of Mike's logo for the graphics/clothing company he wants to start; he wants to call it "Stellas."
I wanted to add something about language and pronunciation, but it's late. So all you get are my three notes, which, if turned into chords and sped up, might become a horrible punk song.
On another note...
I saw something that made me angry. It was a Toyota Prius with the following bumper sticker:
Tax the Rich
SUV=WMD
Aside from the non-sequitur, and the obvious problem with equating two abbreviations, it just seemed superfluous to have a bumper sticker such as this on a Prius. By driving a Toyota Prius, you are already making a statement about your political philosophy: who would want to drive an expensive, hideous, and powerless car other than those who really want to stick it to their SUV driving peers? And why would someone want to "Tax the Rich" when he spent an inordinate amount of money on his Prius? It boggles my mind.
On yet another note....
Here's the first draft of Mike's logo for the graphics/clothing company he wants to start; he wants to call it "Stellas."
I wanted to add something about language and pronunciation, but it's late. So all you get are my three notes, which, if turned into chords and sped up, might become a horrible punk song.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Creatively Non-Creative
I have not been very good--or creative--these past couple of days. Maybe the past couple of weeks. My posts evince this. Fortunately, one of my good friends sent me something via email that will serve as a post.
"I believe in adventure. I believe in backpacks instead of rolling bags despite the bruised hips and shoulders. I belive in hostels and internet cafes run by German-Indian men with bad b.o. I believe that one can live off of salami, cheese and bread and drink only water for weeks on end. I believe in the kindness of the Irish, the hospitality of the Swiss, the French, the Canadian, the Dutch, the Belgian, the English and the German. I believe in beautiful European children. I believe in falling in love over and over again with the world around me. I believe in spending long train rides with my MP3 player watching the world go by or sleeping on someone's shoulder whom I met three days earlier. I believe in stuffy noses, headaches, sore backs, tired feet, cuts, mystery bruises, sprained ankles and blisters. But I also believe that those things are nothing that a hot shower and a nap can't fix. I believe in Guinness, rosti, chocolate, waffles, crepes, anything with Nutella, coffee and bread for breakfast, and ice cream. I believe in love at first sight and kissing under the Eiffel Tower like a 1960's French movie. I believe in meeting someone and changing your plans for them. I believe that 5 weeks on your own can make you realize that everything you thought you wanted is not at all what you want. I believe in wearing the same outfit for three days in a row and the same jeans for three weeks. I believe in giant bags of Haribo gummy bears. I belive in being strong, independent, outgoing, kind, brave and lovely. I believe in deciphering strange keyboards. I believe in mountains, beaches, cities, museums, cafes, bars, clubs, pubs and parks. Ultimately, I believe in the right to travel on your own and the courage to do it. "
-Berlin, 2005
Meredith Sherwin
International Nomad
And if that doesn't get your mo-jo going, then I guess some of the links I added might.
The pact, however, is still in tact. So, by my word, I must produce something creative, complete, and good by 1 August 2005. And, as far as I know, pictures will still be coming soon, maybe within the next week or so.
"I believe in adventure. I believe in backpacks instead of rolling bags despite the bruised hips and shoulders. I belive in hostels and internet cafes run by German-Indian men with bad b.o. I believe that one can live off of salami, cheese and bread and drink only water for weeks on end. I believe in the kindness of the Irish, the hospitality of the Swiss, the French, the Canadian, the Dutch, the Belgian, the English and the German. I believe in beautiful European children. I believe in falling in love over and over again with the world around me. I believe in spending long train rides with my MP3 player watching the world go by or sleeping on someone's shoulder whom I met three days earlier. I believe in stuffy noses, headaches, sore backs, tired feet, cuts, mystery bruises, sprained ankles and blisters. But I also believe that those things are nothing that a hot shower and a nap can't fix. I believe in Guinness, rosti, chocolate, waffles, crepes, anything with Nutella, coffee and bread for breakfast, and ice cream. I believe in love at first sight and kissing under the Eiffel Tower like a 1960's French movie. I believe in meeting someone and changing your plans for them. I believe that 5 weeks on your own can make you realize that everything you thought you wanted is not at all what you want. I believe in wearing the same outfit for three days in a row and the same jeans for three weeks. I believe in giant bags of Haribo gummy bears. I belive in being strong, independent, outgoing, kind, brave and lovely. I believe in deciphering strange keyboards. I believe in mountains, beaches, cities, museums, cafes, bars, clubs, pubs and parks. Ultimately, I believe in the right to travel on your own and the courage to do it. "
-Berlin, 2005
Meredith Sherwin
International Nomad
And if that doesn't get your mo-jo going, then I guess some of the links I added might.
The pact, however, is still in tact. So, by my word, I must produce something creative, complete, and good by 1 August 2005. And, as far as I know, pictures will still be coming soon, maybe within the next week or so.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Happy Birthday, Suleyman
Hung up here on a web of comfort
Taking off with nowhere to go
Standing tall with but your new cloak armor
Making out like it's all been done
It's harder than it seems
You slip but never fall
They'll take you, when you wont come back to me
Tearing down what we built up so well
Layin' low as you came my way
Look alive with your head on backwards, goin off when there's nothin wrong
It's only in your dreams, but it felt like it was real
They'll take you, when you won't come back to me
Hang loose, my friend dont walk away from me, because i really think you're cool
Is it worth turning back despite these open hands?
You're tearing me apart.
They'll take you, when you won't come back to me
(you need to find yourself).
~Jimmy Eat World
Seventeen
(Ironically--fittingly--that is how old my brother is turning today.)
Taking off with nowhere to go
Standing tall with but your new cloak armor
Making out like it's all been done
It's harder than it seems
You slip but never fall
They'll take you, when you wont come back to me
Tearing down what we built up so well
Layin' low as you came my way
Look alive with your head on backwards, goin off when there's nothin wrong
It's only in your dreams, but it felt like it was real
They'll take you, when you won't come back to me
Hang loose, my friend dont walk away from me, because i really think you're cool
Is it worth turning back despite these open hands?
You're tearing me apart.
They'll take you, when you won't come back to me
(you need to find yourself).
~Jimmy Eat World
Seventeen
(Ironically--fittingly--that is how old my brother is turning today.)
Monday, July 04, 2005
Independence Day
future butterfly gonna spend the day higher than high
you'll be beautiful confusion
ooh once i was you
i saw you caught between all the people out making the scene
and a bright ideal tomorrow
ooh, don't go too far
stay who you are
everybody knows
everybody knows
everybody knows
you only live a day
but it's brilliant anyway
i saw you at a perfect place
it's gonna happen soon but not today
so go to sleep and make the change
i'll meet you here tomorrow
independence day
independence day
independence day
~Elliott Smith
you'll be beautiful confusion
ooh once i was you
i saw you caught between all the people out making the scene
and a bright ideal tomorrow
ooh, don't go too far
stay who you are
everybody knows
everybody knows
everybody knows
you only live a day
but it's brilliant anyway
i saw you at a perfect place
it's gonna happen soon but not today
so go to sleep and make the change
i'll meet you here tomorrow
independence day
independence day
independence day
~Elliott Smith
Sunday, July 03, 2005
The Nymph
"Kit read the title from the ill-ordered manuscript Raleigh took from his ill-ordered table: The Transformation of the King of Triniidado's two daughters, Madam Panacea and the Nymph Tobacco. He said:
-- This last name, which I do not know, seems not a feminine name.
-- Well, she may at first strike you with a masculine buffet, but thereafter she is gentler than love. And all that Hariot says is true. You know Hariot? No, but you will. There are many that you are yet to know. Are you willing to yield to the nymph? You look doubtful. Well, I will demonstrate.
And Raleigh opened up a cabinet under his window. It held rows of long tubes, as he showed, curved gracefully and ending in a shallow bowl. Clay, he said, as in Virginia, but here I have one especially fashioned in silver. It glinted in the firelight. And here is the nymph. From a drawer of the cabinet he took a fair pinch of a herb, strands of yellow, brown, black, and stuffed this in the silver bowl. Smell, he said, proffering. Kit sniffed. Heady, outlandish, altogether new. And now, Raleigh said, her enlivening and curative spirit riseth in smoke. He took from a pot a spill and enflamed it at his fire. Then he inflamed the herb, the herb smouldered, he drew in smoke and, in a blue jet, emitted it. The aroma sidled towards Kit; Kit coughed gently. Aye, you will cough more when you kiss her. But the cough will be in the manner of a cleansing, a disgorgement of the grosser humours, you may even vomit them up. There is a bowl beneath that table. And then no more coughing, only the bliss of inhalation. Curse it, my talking has doused her. And he refired his spill and relighted. The blue jet bore his words: Will you try?"
~ Anthony Burgess
A Dead Man in Deptford (pp. 126-7)
-- This last name, which I do not know, seems not a feminine name.
-- Well, she may at first strike you with a masculine buffet, but thereafter she is gentler than love. And all that Hariot says is true. You know Hariot? No, but you will. There are many that you are yet to know. Are you willing to yield to the nymph? You look doubtful. Well, I will demonstrate.
And Raleigh opened up a cabinet under his window. It held rows of long tubes, as he showed, curved gracefully and ending in a shallow bowl. Clay, he said, as in Virginia, but here I have one especially fashioned in silver. It glinted in the firelight. And here is the nymph. From a drawer of the cabinet he took a fair pinch of a herb, strands of yellow, brown, black, and stuffed this in the silver bowl. Smell, he said, proffering. Kit sniffed. Heady, outlandish, altogether new. And now, Raleigh said, her enlivening and curative spirit riseth in smoke. He took from a pot a spill and enflamed it at his fire. Then he inflamed the herb, the herb smouldered, he drew in smoke and, in a blue jet, emitted it. The aroma sidled towards Kit; Kit coughed gently. Aye, you will cough more when you kiss her. But the cough will be in the manner of a cleansing, a disgorgement of the grosser humours, you may even vomit them up. There is a bowl beneath that table. And then no more coughing, only the bliss of inhalation. Curse it, my talking has doused her. And he refired his spill and relighted. The blue jet bore his words: Will you try?"
~ Anthony Burgess
A Dead Man in Deptford (pp. 126-7)
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