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loraxbootstraps
David(ey) working at Taco Bell - requested by Emily.

Foreword - Dude, you can't just ASCRIBE the most self-destructive market position to a guy. You have to let the market sort him into it. Otherwise, it's just, "Hey, Davey's in a shitheap!" without any of the interest and succulent schadenfreuede of "Davey HAS FALLEN into a shitheap."

You don't get revenge and you don't prove points by pointing, "AHA!" conclusions around like rhetorical glocks. Read your Bible - even when God does that, he puts them there before they're suddenly there. Sure, it happens off-screen in boring expository "A messenger appeared!" monologues. But they weren't exactly the greatest of writers.

...oh, I get it. I have to put him there.

AHA! My plan HAS worked! YOU SEE?! I have learned and demonstrated a point of proper creative writing, from and of this process! MY PLAN WORKS AND THAT MEANS I WIN. DO YOU SEE?! I did not suddenly HAVE A PLAN THAT HAS WORKED! Nay! The PLAN WORKED AND YOU SAW IT WORK AND NOW I WIN!

Ahem.

Dedication - I dedicate this to Davey, because I still believe in the fundamental ability of Davey to figure out a way out of whatever Emily-ascribed mess he is falling into. According to Emily, who is an UNRELIABLE NARRATOR OF THE MOST NABOKOV PERSUASION. Yeah, that's right, E-Dog, none of that wonderful Mann's Faustus unreliable narration - NAY, that is too dignified. YOU GET NABOKOV. YOU GET THE KUBRICK CONTINGENCY.

THE MOTHERFUCKING HEART-SHAPED SUNGLASS CLOSEUP. The "SHE IS HOT AND YOU ARE HE AND SHE REMAINS SHE - THE SINS IS UPON YOU, VIEWER, FOR I AM KUBRICK, AND MY SUBTLETY IS MEASURED IN PURE GRAVITATIONAL ENERGY!!" For it was no longer enough that Kubrick would implicate his viewers in his marionette theater of new and exciting angles - no, not hardly. He would cast them INSIDE the puppets; trap them in plaster and plastic. He would paint lust in their eyes and say, "NOW YOU ARE HUMBERT, BUT I REMAIN KUBRICK!"

THE POINTING FINGER GATHERS NO BLAME

...Kubrick...

KUBRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK

I WIN.

And a-one, a-two, A-ONE TWO THREE FOUR -

[UNDER CONSTURCTION]
(IMAGINE YOUR OWN MID 90'S GEOCITIES
UNDER CONSTURCTION IMAGE HERE
YOU KNOW, THE ONES WITH THE CATS
LIKE THOSE HANG IN THERE CAT POSTERS
EXCEPT THESE DEMONSTRATE THE DIFFICULTY
OF HTML CODE AND CREATING CONTENT
RATHER THAN THE WILLINGNESS
OF MIDDLE-AGED OFFICE WORKERS AND
PUBLIC SCHOOL TEACHERS
TO GLORIFY AND EXPRESS THEIR LOVE
OF KITSCH - - - BROCH!!!
I HAVE YOUR BACK, DEAD FRIEND)

Federal Registry - Dept. of Forced Metaphor, Final Ruling
Davey Condemnation; Notice of Availability and Subsequent Revision

For further information concerning this action, please consult prior regulation under docket number 233-493-2329. Note that while revisions and additions are marked, deletions are not marked, and have been retroactively applied to all relavant action and policy.

"David, sweetheart, it's time to wake up."

The imagery receded. Thrown back by the grimy, scattershot sudden illumination of four fluorescent bulbs and imperfect Venetian blinds, it was gone. An epic space battle, a quest for resurrected love and friendship, the community of history - gone. 9 AM proved once again the greater power.

He tried to recall what he could. He tried to fix the whole affair in his mind's ten stone tablets. And he gave up. The whole damn thing flittered and ran in his fingers like wax, dripped down, down, and was gone. It was the same thing, the same pattern, repetition in the dark - and he chuckled.

Davey slumped out of bed, ran fingers through his hair, stared at his hands. And shambled into and out of the shower. He emerged down the staircase in his uniform, with his nametag. Somewhere, some poor narrator let out a sigh.

"Close the window, dear, it's going to be a windy day," said his mother. A vague sort of construct, she was. Maintained that way scrupulously, with the ethical wherewithal of a lawyer. No one knew if she was young or old, no one except a select few. A select few chosen on the basis of their unreliability, their compulsive secrecy and distortion.

Throw something into a pendulum that swings between Catholic confession and Korsakov's manufacturing. Somewhere in the oscillation lay the truth, the sacred fact of some inalienable irrelevancy, lost, now. Lost.

"I'll be back at 8," Davey whispered, slammed the door, and was gone. It is not known if he ate a Nutri-Grain bar, nor if he ate a bowl of cereal, nor drank a glass of milk. It is not known. It cannot be known. It is for the best and for the best of reasons.

AIM chat logs, scattered by entropy into decaying magnetic secotrs debate to this day the method and truth of Davey's showering. They infer from past experience, from best practice and academic integrity. It is not known. It CANNOT be known.

Davey drove in an expensive old car, a gift from his father. Records indicate he was Teddy Roosevelt, and was threatening in a nonphysical sort of way. A character in a family ties melodrama, he drifts in and out of record, dating younger women, bartering success for more. Assumptions indicate he grew old over time, and that he was disappointed by things. More cannot be known.

He drove to Taco Bell.

And he emerged there, from that car worth two to three months of his manager's salary, his signatory Taco Bell nametag and hat in place. They flashed in the California sun, those scarlet letters by which it is damn well established that Fatty McYahoo is the dominant power in the food service relationship. The shadowy narrator chuckled.

"Whooooooa! Little quake there!" screamed Jenny, giggling with excitement. She is named Jenny. It seems a viable assumption. She was undoubtedly average to above average in looks. She was conciliatory, and more likely to blame herself than others. Records indicate she had a nice smile, and sympathetic eyes. More should not be known.

The narrator dove into Davey's mind, then, wondering what his thoughts were on the girl. What did she imply by her smile? How did this get translated within the protagonist? It would be an important note to keep, in days to come - to see how this one would resolve itself. Resolution is not known.

Her name tag caught Davey's in a right triangle with Davey's tapered, pale hands, clenched into irregular white balls. And they held this diagram, awkwardly. Eventually absurdly. And then damn near vengefully. The world began to grow impatient. People passed by, looking at things, gesturing - talking to one another.

The world tapped its great, collective foot as one. In the back ways of Davey's mind, there were close-ups at work, silhouettes shots created by the manipulation of off-camera objects. Editing was being done. And the narrator came panicked out of Davey's mind, gasping for air, choking. He inhaled sharply and thirstily of the clean freshness outside, and exhaled, relieved.

A sharp wind blew up from around the corner of the Taco Bell. It ran along into the parking lot, turned, and slammed into Davey - he staggered, and remembered again that he had forced himself to become frail. Records indicate this is why stigmata are generally condensed into small and singular wounds.

This experience was posited by the narrator as an argument FOR further pursuit of internal monologue and construction by the narrator. This argument and position were rejected.

"Hello, Jenny," Davey whispered. He attempted to bore a hole in her eyes with his. Then, turned his gaze and stared with faux-telekinetic fierceness at some point to the left of her ear. Jenny smiled brightly. Records are confused as to why - they reference Nabokov, and then go silent.

"Well, uh, we better get to work!" And Davey leaned to his right, and pressed the door open with a straining of his fingertips. Jenny walked in first, under his armpit as Davey looked off to the side, at his car.

Davey was set to add cheese, lettuce, and all the various other stock products to the taco shells. It was steady work, like going to someone else's buffet for hours upon hours a day. It gave him time to think.

The manager, Rusty, had put Davey there after coming to a calculated decision. Rusty was a man for calculating decisions. He went to college, got a MBA. Started franchises and he brought in the green. He solidified his assets in every consumer electronics product there was, and several the IRS insisted there weren't.

"Well," he told his NAMELESS ASSISTANT over drinks after work one day, "Kid's smart - yeah. But he's creepy. Pale. Comes in on time, doesn't make mistakes, doesn't cause trouble. Keep him where he is, given him hours, act like you appreciate what he does - and he's yours, I mean, he's a LIFER! Just keep him the hell away from the register. He takes this job seriously, I mean, like a career or something. He'll scare the customers away."

"Think he's gay?" asked the assistant. The assistant has no name. The narrator found this objectionable, and attempted to go straight to the source. Diving into the protagonist's head he found himself restrained physically by the floor crew of the Taco Bell. Unkind and regrettable words were exchanged, and the narrator is no longer allowed to seek internal monologue. Further discplinary action is reccomended.

Davey placed some lettuce and a half-handful of shredded cheese inside a soft taco, and spooned in a helping of the ground beef product, slathered in Tabasco sauce. He slipped it into a paper sheath. And it was a taco. The narrator is relatively certain Davey believed this to be a taco, and has no doubt of its legitimacy as such.

"Gay?!" exclaimed Rusty, his head tilting backwards as he roared with the careless laughter of drunkenness and contempt. "Does it matter? Lemme, lemme tell you something, NAMELESS ASSISTANT, that kid - I mean, he's NOT gonna DO anything! He's fucking null, man. Put him somewhere, give him something to do, he takes pride in other people's work. Straight shooter, straight fucking arrow - gay?! Hahaha!"

The narrator argued extensively for keeping the gay baiting present, despite its inflammatory and extraneous nature. Regardless of the apparent weakness of his arguments, seemingly based around Rusty being a "FUCKING HOMOPHOBIC GANGSTER," his argument was accepted in the spirit of pre-existing rulings concerning MYSTERIOUS STRANGER, docket number 230-102-3123.

Davey pressed the button on the display, and an order request was blipped off the connected monitor. Jenny reached in, grabbed the pile of sheathed fast food tacos. She brushed against Davey as she took them away, slapped them onto trays. It is not known what this motion meant.

The UNKNOWABLE ASSISTANT grimaced as he took a shot, slammed the glass on the bar. "You mean to tell me, we can keep him there, FOREVER? Just, like, FOREVER? And he won't wise up, he won't get with the drift, find a real restaurant?"

Davey slapped the wet and soapy mop against the tiled floor. Bubbles swirled in the grimy water, and he wrenched it - back and forth, back and forth - across the floor. Questionable induction tells the narrator of a possibility that Davey was thinking of OTHER floors, and OTHER mops, possibly even of steam cleaning - but it cannot be known.

Rusty belched, grimaced, and turned to stare his UNKNOWABLE ASSISTANT WHO MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE A NAME, staring him full in the eye. Rusty pressed his thick, arthritic, calloused finger to his nose. And he grinned, shooting incongruously white, sparkling teeth, irregular and in need of serious orthodontics - but unfaultable by dentistry.

Records are unclear as to why Rusty is a gangster. It is assumed this has greater overarching, perhaps metaphorical import. See also relevant files on MYSTERIOUS STRANGER, under docket number 230-102-3123. Need to know basis only.

"You don't GET IT. He doesn't TAKE pride, he PUTS pride. PUTS pride into his work, into whatever the hell he's doing, PUTS it there. Like a, like an OVERHEAD PROJECTOR. BAM! PRIDE! You want thinking work- you want creative work? You get a man who TAKES pride, and if you want a LEADER, someone to CHOOSE THE WORK - you get a man who HAS pride. He-he's just a PUTTER. Fucking...fucking PUTTER."

Davey shouldered two massive trash bags on his thin, bony back, grimacing in the sudden heat of the day. The wind had died down. The air was still. A homeless man was rooting through the dumpster as Davey approached. The anonymous figure turned to regard the protagonist, and then - Davey - threw the bags in the dumpster, turned, and walked away.

The narrator's invisible eyes, full of Gnostic import, lingered on this stranger. Tried to focus on him, on HIS story, but no... No, the narrator was drawn back, waaay back, to Rusty, and his alcoholic metaphor.

"So, it doesn't matter if he's gay!" Rusty continued, his eyes twinkling in the electric lighting. "Doesn't matter if he's straight. We got him, GOT HIM! And now, for as long as you keep him putting his pride where his mop is, you got yourself a janitor. That's how you do business, MYSTERIOUS NAMELESS FIGURE."

They shook hands on this. The decision was reached, and the future was determined. AS always, there are those more than happy to make short and long-term decisions for other people if asked. And the career path of young Davey was laid out in this room, upon a decision reached between Rusty the gangster and MYSTERIOUS AND UNFATHOMABLE ENTITY, a decision that drew the narrator back to Davey, back again.

But with cynicism, now, rather than exposition, rather than development. With sadness, and boredom, and the lingering cramp of expectation crashing repeatedly into reality. The former would not stop running headlong forward. The latter wouldn't yield nor change. As to why, it cannot be known.

Davey...did something. Went somewhere. Grew up, looked up, put up, shut up, stood forth, stood tall. He decided to go to the movies and comment on them. Further action by Davey is unknown.

The Taco Bell began to tremble, its customers ran from the store, heaved each other out into the parking lot. They stared up to the sky, Jenny with them. And they watched as it grew red and ruddy, particulate and distinct. It was falling.

And the narrator fell with it. He burned up in the atmosphere as it was driven down to earth. His soul blinked itself straight on out and drank a cold glass of water. Where once a Taco Bell was was now a reality, metaphor concluded. On and anon.

The next time the narrator blinked himself into that area, it was to follow that bum from the dumpster scene. He stalked above and around him through the alleyways, keeping to the shadows.

As for what became of the ersatz protagonist - it cannot be known. Records indicate this is for the best.
 
 
Current Location: Air
Current Mood: quixoticquixotic
Current Music: ...none.
 
 
loraxbootstraps
I'm blanking for want of interest, both ways.

For anyone who is or may come to read this - prompt me. In some vague but still somewhat coherent fashion.

Something, anything. A sentiment. A scene. A concept. A relationship.

Prompt me, and I'll give you a storyette of it.

Like the humble circus caricacturist, I will learn to sketch before I dare to pull the baroque from my ass.

I will learn and develop of this, grow stronger. An in exchange, you get a little "MY NOSE IS THAT BIG?!" bit of whatever you can frame in brass and put in that damned blank space in the hallway where no other knickknack will do.
 
 
loraxbootstraps
The joke
Was told
With the
Cheap gall

The triteness,
And happy
Arrogance
Of a boor

Saying that when
Jesus Christ dies
Before the end -
The book goes on

Yes, we all get it
We understand now
You are so clever
For noticing this

At last, it is my turn
To return the favor
And I am here to say
Warhol was a shithead

The supercillious rubes
The adherents to his joke
Are the bottom of the scheme
The base of the pyramid

They pay in legitimacy
To Paris Hilton's college fund
Say that because standards are hard
They are incomprehensible

I posit here this loaded question
Who would win a fight between Ayn Rand
And the wonderfully dead Warhol?
Unlike in Freddy versus Jason

WE ALL WIN.

For the best gift a stupid thing can give
The highest tribute it can pay the world
Is to fight with another stupid thing
Of different view, on Wrestlemania

Seriously, now. Think about it. How could anything be more wonderful, more glorious, more eminently, aesthetically necessary? We could cleanse poli sci and economics of the Randites and her libertarian spawn, we could cleanse the arts of the jackalopes mew mewing that the intractability of universal standards (somehow???) means the lack of standards (somehow???) means there are or should be no standards. Because consensus is for pussies.

The avatara, the consiglieri, the mendacitata of these hard-line, hard-core, hardly worth a damn advocates of the easy out, the "WEEELP, LET'S US SHIT UP SOME SHIT BECAUSE CASE BY CASE NUANCE SUUUUURE IS FULL O' UNCERTAINTY!", let them meet eachother in the Zoroastrian apotheosis rather than the Ginsburg-predicted cash-in, jackout and off whinefests they would fashion. Let the rain wash them away, after they are broken, horns shattered, the matable goats of the herd running free across the mountains.

Let them lock paper swords on the homoerotic melodrama, the koine of the underclasses both would scorn. The victor's justice of zero sum, no-win fake conflict is the answer to their many questions, the repudiation of their many assertions, the deflating slap in the face to their asinine pretitions. Get the ghosts of Titian and Hume, Magritte and Reich, Toulousse-Lautrec and deToqueville, Durer and Nietzche front row seats. And let Orwell's spirit stand in the balcony to know that though the world may collapse, there is still some potential for justice to come, however unwittingly, perhaps unwillingly, from the proles.
 
 
Current Location: THERE
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Bojangles
 
 
loraxbootstraps
The eye of the hurricane
Cannot understand
The bewildering chaos

-- -- --

The pebble sinks in the stream
It asks itself, "Why?"
"Why do the ripples leave me?"

-- -- --

A tree falls in the forest
And the only noise
Is its blaming gravity

-- -- --

A bag alights on the wind
It rotates in place
And flips off the cameraman

-- -- --

The room was still and empty
No meetings that day
The podium blamed the chair

-- -- --

Only with seven syllables
Can five syllables
Work to bridge propositions

-- -- --

And she's afraid she might be useless,
Might be toothless, could be ruthless,
Should be completely beyond any aid!

Yes, she's the girl,
Of the shiny star brigade!

And she is devoted to her sleeping,
Eyes all shuttered, with the creeping,
And yet the nonchalant suspcision -
That she may be open to derision!
And then she's forced to the admission,

That she really, truly, simply
Doesn't care

An admission that will last
About a day, give or take -

(But mostly taking)

Yes, she's the girl,
Of the shiny star brigade!

And she can speak, sometimes, half-decent
Though it's never, ever recent,
Just a memory of a certainty
That in her, in there, there was something more.
A recollection of a time and place where she -
Had value! Purpose! Insight! And a core!

Yes, she's the girl,
Of the shiny star brigade!

And she will stop along the highway,
Yes that allegorical byway,
Out between the forest and the dark,
And brooding shore -

Throw down her hazard lights, all blinking
To leave you, her, and us all thinking
My god! It's an emergency! A desperation!
No time for memory, nor contemplation!
We have to rush and grin and splutter,
Full of words and help and more!

Yes, she's the girl,
Of the shiny star brigade!

And the measure of her measure,
Of her greatness, of her talent,
Her mighty treasure, and her gallant
Gift to you for all this trouble,
This life in asinine and mirrored bubble -

Is that she makes it seem brand new each time
As though you'd never been here just before
Debating whether caring, whether hating were a crime
To each and every repetiton, to SAME GODDAMN ENCORE.

Yes, she's the girl,
Of the shiny star brigade!
The float master of the old parade!
And somehow, somewhere, by the grace -

Of all that's paid and prayed and laid
Atop the bundle neath the braid
We shall pretend, again, anew each time -

That this game is anything but old, now,
Anything but done and staid.

For she's the girl,
Yes, the girl,
Always, the girl
Of the shiny star brigade
 
 
Current Location: ?!
Current Music: King's Crossing
 
 
loraxbootstraps
19 February 2007 @ 02:33 am
Shit's getting crazy, man.

Crazy ass shit.

-----

To do
laundry
- more clotheshangers? - research

computer shit
- ugh

verb/adjectivize more words
- Mephistopheles
Mephistophelian
Mephistophize
- Space
Spacify
Spaciate
Spacelike

space more words
Spacetime
Spacewar
Spacegod
Spaceword
Spacedude
Spacelove

lobby pope to canonize faustus
bribe?
offer of amnesty (need consensus from jewish elements re: inquisition/holocaust - must research)

learn more armenian
- oh god the vocal phenomes
- seriously why? WHY?
- learn to write crazy noncyrillic moonlanguage (moon words??? - research)

get more rifftrax *

try to get emily to be less of a useless(y?) faggo - prospects bleak :(

space emily? spacemily - research

call various people
- say what? - research (Happy president's day? ironic? cute? glib? do people take this holiday seriously - research)
- possibility of eking out nintendo ds from certain callgroups - research

look into specific phrases/shorthand for slippy slope references
- dystopiate?
- slip-slopin' it? - apostrophe helpful? a bit much?

search for meaningful independant variables in literary shit - none? abandon?
- temporary/permanent
- implications of former, meaningfulness of latter standards

finally watch borat?

shower - shave? - research
 
 
Current Location: here
Current Music: hard rock hallelujah
 
 
 
loraxbootstraps
18 February 2007 @ 07:03 pm
I was restless that night, unable to sleep, when I spoke with Luigi again. He approached me from behind as I studied the entrance to the temple, lost in those thoughts that seem so perplexing, only at the moment. The ones you can never recall later. Half-dreams, or whatever.

"I came through the forest," he began.

Startled, I spun around and found him staring at me. He had cleaned out his clothes, cut away his beard. He looked young and powerful, again, like he does in the tapestries, looming over his brother. So tall. You really don't understand the size of the man until you see him in person.

"But the forest is far away, to the east. You couldn't possibly have come here from there, not without turning back around and passing through the Kingdom proper."

"I...found another route."

"I'm unfamiliar with any pipe tunnels leading - "

"No. No tunnels. But a path. Let me tell you about the deeper parts of the forest, Master Toadstool."

I stopped him, and rushed to pull pen and paper out of my satchel. It seemed proper. He smiled accommodatingly, a little amused. His eyes softened. They were so harsh, so harsh. He seemed warm. Caring. This...this is what he said.

Young Toadstool stared down at his grandfather, clearly insane and rambling. He reached and grasped the old Mushroom's hand, hoping that some warmth and Mushroom contact might soothe him, bring him back to reality. But even so, he listened with total attentiveness.

I turned away from the road, and entered the forest, the outer regions of which I'm sure you're quite familiar with. The caterpillars bobbed around me, the great trees reached up around me. I slipped through the trees, the leaves, evaded those cloudmen with their spikies.

He chuckled, ruefully, a little nostalgically. They eventually came to avoid me entirely. Wandering around, at random. It was very odd. You know that neither Mario nor myself had ever gone there without some Koopaspawn urging the place to attack? I'm unaware of any Mushrooms doing that, either.

I shook my head. Why would we? After all, there was nothing of notice in the forests. Nothing to draw the interest of any proper Mushroom.

Grandfather Toadstool began to laugh, hoarse and wheezing, then to hack and cough. Young Toadstool put a glass of cool water to his lips and the old Mushroom drank hungrily, pausing before continuing his story.

"Luigi...told me of the INNER forest..." he began.

I passed into the increasing dark of the deep Mushroom Forest, where no fruit grows, where the caterpillars do not venture, where the trees and the leaves are too thick for the cloudmen to dart around. For the longest time, all was silent, save for the creaking of dead leaves under my shoes.

I...grew reminiscent. Of the old days, the storied days, you know. Mario and I, two heroes, falling down holes, leaping over great chasms. Heroics. More than once I considered turning back, giving up. I had found nothing in the forest but ever-deeper darkness and ever-greater solitude.

And then I heard a noise, the rustling of some other traveler, somewhere ahead of me. I stopped, and there, the littlest One-Up I had ever seen approached, rolling forward over the dead leaves and the giant root formations. It stopped, several paces ahead.

"And who are you, little friend?" I asked it.

"Kewpie!" it said.

"That's your name?"

"Kewpie!"

And I laughed. I moved forward, reached down, and picked it up, and it rolled over, off my hands, and up my shoulder, to rest there, snuggling itself against the side of my neck.

And I continued on.

Eventually, the forest grew stranger and stranger, maze-like. Coherent passages opened up in the foliage, singular paths carved out of the roots and branches of the trees. Habitually, I took the coin my brother gave me as I left the Mushroom Kingdom, to flip it and decide my course by chance.

But it was unmarked. No insignia of the Mushroom Kingdom, no printing date - nothing. An impossibly old coin, I realized. My brother - ever the sentimentalist.

So I chose at random, following these paths, until I heard, of all things, drumbeats in the distance. I moved towards them much as I could, left and right, right and left.

And the forest opened up before me, into a great clearing, sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky.

I looked up, and, for the first time in a long while, I was truly afraid.

And here, Luigi approached me slowly, intently, kneeling down to look me in the eye. I could see the fear reflected there, and, my grandson, I...was terrified.

The sky, he told me, was mottled. Great blocky protrusions shining by their own light, marred it, and the clearing was similarly...marked? Tainted? Corrupted?

The trees had blocks and patterns superimposed over them, spots of color, delineated by sharp, geometric patterns, blighted the surface.

And in the center of the clearing, around a great bonfire made of overlapping multicolored squares, danced a horde of wild Mushrooms, rectangular and corruscating, broken and overlapping. Round and round in wild occlusive patterns they whirled, shadows cast irregularly, the noise of their drumbeats oscillatting seemingly at random.

"Kewpie," said the little One-up, snuggling as far into the side of my face as it could.

"...wh-what happened," I asked Luigi, as he stood to his full height, turning his back on me and walking away to examine the ruins.

He whirled around to face me, staring through me, at some point far, far behind me.

"They attacked."
 
 
Current Location: Here
Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Current Music: Exlposions in the Sky - All
 
 
loraxbootstraps
18 February 2007 @ 06:05 pm
Luigi stumbled into our base camp during a sensitive portion of the survey, as we had just finished unearthing one of the oldest and largest tomb structures. The sandstone bulk jutted out of the ground, monolithic. He had aged and grown worn and frayed visibly, but there was no doubt who he was. The great L on his hat still shown vibrant and resplendent in the desert sun.

He wavered before us on the horizon, mirage-like, and slowly grew and grew, his lean, natural height becoming more and more manifest as he came. And as he collapsed before us, we lifted him up, we good Toadstools, and carried him to the shade of our tents, forced water and mushroom down his parched and aching throat.

And for many hours, he slept. His rest seemed dreamless, and he looked at peace.

I was in the tent with him, going over my field notes, when he awoke, soundlessly.

"This is the tomb?" he asked.

I turned and regarded him, surprised and inexplicably ashamed.

"I, yes, yes, Master Luigi. It is the tomb. You, you know of this place?"

"Tell me of it, briefly, my good Toadstool. I've been...away for a long time. I want to make sure I'm at the right place."

"It is the greater tomb structure of an ancient cult of Toadstools who worshiped causality in the abstract, believed that in the raw ability to change the universe there was some divinity, some...godliness proportionate to the power involved."

"Yes. And what became of them?"

"They fell under the sway of the Bowser and his power, and were destroyed or turned into the goombas that still - "

"NO."

"I, I beg your pardon, Master Luigi - "

"Tell me of the Ironists."

I gasped. Surely, I thought, Master Luigi did not refer to that oldest and direst of Mushroom Heresies, which was so thoroughly stamped out in the Mushroom Wars, so completely made unnecessary, exposed as false, rendered lethally redundant by the benevolence of the Mushroom Kingdom, by the heroism of Master Luigi himself!

"But, Master Luigi, they were a fringe group of madmen, Mushroom Nihilists! They were destroyed! They attempted to subvert the Mushrooms, and they were, well, they were destroyed!"

"No," said Luigi. "They were not. That is their tomb. This is the time, YES! This...this is the place."

"I...I don't know what you..."

"Don't worry, Master Toadstool. I will explain. But let me rest. I have...come a long, long way to be here. In time, you and I shall break that tomb open together, and we will both have our answers."

I opened my mouth to, I don't know. To ask more questions, refute his heretical claims about the Ironists, but he was already asleep. And now I must sleep, my grandson, for I...I now understand Master Luigi's weariness.

Toadstool stared down at his grandfather, aged and shriveling, resting easily on his sickbed.

Young Toadstool stared down at his grandfather, always one of the wisest of the Mushroom Kingdom, and he was afraid.
 
 
Current Location: Here
Current Music: Explosions in the Sky - All
 
 
loraxbootstraps
18 February 2007 @ 12:20 am
Through all the Mushroom Kingdom, there was celebration and rejoicing. The Toadstool people lined the streets, pouring out of their mushroom houses, thronging to the Mushroom Castle.

There, the feast had already begun. Bowser's descent in the lava was celebrated, the triumph of Mario and Luigi was heralded yet again as the beginning of a new era of peace and prosperity. Little Toadstools danced through the castle's courtyard and feasthall, as Mario and Princess Toadstool stole glances at one another over their summer Toadstool wine.

Luigi stared out the stained glass windows of Toadstool Castle, lost in thought. He had conquered, he had jumped higher and farther than was conventionally reasonable, hurled fireballs and hammers, and done his part.

The day was saved. But he was unhappy. He was...puzzled.

Mario approached from behind, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

"We did it, eh?! Ha ha ha! Prima victoria, and all that!"

Luigi turned and smiled, finding he had no words.

"What's wrong, brother?"

"I...don't know."

A sudden impulse gripped him, vague and compelling.

"I have to go away for a while."

The music ceased, the pattering of little Toadstool feet was silenced. The Princess, concerned, rose from her throne and padded over, her slippers swishswishing on the frescoed tile.

"I have to go away for a while. I have to find something. An answer, I don't know. I need...some time alone."

"But why?!" asked Mario, confused. "What's wrong?!"

Princess Toadstool reached over, took Luigi's oversized white-gloved hands in hers, and smiled.

"Be safe," she whispered.

Luigi smiled, nodded, and turned to leave.

Then whirled around, reached forth and grabbed his brother in a bear hug, held him close,

"I love you, little brother," he whispered, his eyes clenched against tears. "Take care of yourself."

And he walked through the silence of the Mushroom Castle, across the drawbridge, through the clamoring crowd. They seemed to sense his mood, and parted before him respectfully, silently.

"WAIT!" Mario yelled.

Luigi turned and found his brother standing atop a parapet, waving down at him. Mario reached back, and threw something, with all his strength. Luigi reached up, caught it, and held it to his eye.

A single, unmarked gold coin, shining in the light of the setting sun.

Luigi smiled, waved, and turned again, walking down the paths of the Mushroom City, through the gates, into the countryside, past the Mushroom Farms, and off, farther and farther.

He followed the paths as they led him, random and perplexed, until he came to a T-intersection, and kept on walking, straight ahead, into the woods and out of sight.

Mushroom history has no further record of Luigi, his subsequent travels, what he was looking for, where he was going. It is a great blankness in the history texts of the Mushroom classrooms. A hero rises up, falls, rises up again, through green tunnels, across Chocolate Lands, fighting evil at his brother's side.

And then he is gone.

In the villages and farmlands of the Mushroom Kingdom, there is a saying.

"He's walking with Luigi," a disapproving father will say of a particularly dreamy child, absent-minded to the point of conscious decision. It it a saying that reflects abstraction without indecisiveness, confusion without doubt, isolation without anomie.

History may be silent on the journeys of Luigi, but reality at large is not. For Luigi did not perish in some forgotten Mushroom Forest, did not throw himself off the cliffs of the Water Land, drowning softly and silently in the waters below. He fell into no lava, he died on the jaws of no monster plant, nor was he pierced by the teeth of a Chomp Chomp, the spikes of any mere Thwomp, or the mystic blast of any remaining magikoopa.

Luigi's wanderings led him far and away, astray from the conventional knowledge of the Mushroom Kingdom. But they are not totally unknown, not even nearly.

I met Luigi in the great Pyramidal Deserts, far from the Mushroom Kingdom, outside a patch of ruins. I was an archaeologist then, and an amateur historian. And I learned of his journeys and what he had learned from the man himself, before he wandered away from me, too, past my scope and sight.

I am Toadstool, perhaps the last record of Luigi. And this is his story as he told me, as I know it from the way he knew it.

Or, at least, the way he wished it known and told.
 
 
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loraxbootstraps
- THERE IS A DARKNESS HERE AND WITH YOU AND IT RISES IN YOUR NUMBED FINGERTIPS THE CHILL THE STIFFNESS -

- CANNOT WRITE CANNOT SOUND CANNOT -

COMMUNICATE

- LOST BOY LOST -

- CONCH IS SHATTERED PARLIAMENT IS ADJOURNED -

- IN THE SOUL OF IT THE HEART OF YOU -

- THERE IS NOTHING -

- WAKE UP BOY TIME FOR SCHOOL TIME TO WALK IN THE HEAT THE SWEAT TO BRING YOU DOWN TO ITCHING DOWN TO PAIN -

- TIME TO LEARN HOW YOU WERE WRONG AND WERE A CYNIC, AND THAT'S A FOOL, A FOOL BELIEVING IN A SELF AND IN A MEMORY WHICH IS AN ECHO LOSING PITCH AND FALLING FACE FLAT AND ALL LAUGHED AT OUT THERE OUT THERE ALL ALONE -

BUT DID YOU KNOW

- NOW PAY ATTENTION, KEEP YOUR BACK STRAIGHT AND YOUR EYES NAILED AND SUBMISSIVE TO MY TONE AND TO MY STARE FOR HERE THERE IS A LEARNING AN EDUCATION AND A CURE TO YOU AND YOURS -

THERE IN THE VIOLENCE OF THAT CLOSEUP SHOT IN SILENCE

- AND YOU CAN SEE NOW HOW IT'S WRITTEN HOW YOUR HANDWRITING IS SO SLOPPY, A CRUSHED JALOPY OF FAILURE PRONE TO FAILURE ONCE AND TWICE AND THEN AGAIN -

WHEN HOPKINS'S FACE IS DISTORTED AND BROKEN AND BECOMES A TERROR AND A TOKEN

- THIS HOW YOU CALCULATE THE MEAN AND THEREFORE OF THE SYSTEM OF YOUR FAILING, OF YOUR FLAILING AGAINST THE RAILING OF THE PROPER RHYTHMIC RHYME SCHEME, PENTRATEMTER TO THE RADIUS, A DIAMETER OF A CIRCLE MADE OF ANGLES -

DID YOU KNOW THAT IN THE CORNER OF HIS BLACK AND LIFELESS EYES

- PAY -

STIRRING AND WHIRRING FOR THAT DEMURRING PURRING FROM THE GIRL

- ATTENTION -

IN THE TINIEST STRETCH OF THE CORNER, BESET FOR ALL, AND FOR THE FORMER

- YOU -

IN THIS TERROR AND THIS FOCUS, AND IN THIS DRAMATIC HOCUS, THERE IS

- YOU MUST -

A GLIMPSE OF THE MAN, OF OUR BELOVED HOPKINS, LAUGHING WITH US THROUGH THE SCREEN!

- YOU MUST LEARN -

SHINING THROUGH THE SCREEN!

- MUST LEARN THAT -

THERE!

- MUST UNDERSTAND -

THERE IS MORE THAN ONLY YOU WATCHING, THROUGH A SCREEN!

- YOU ARE -

THE SCREEN IS NOT A MIRROR!

- NOBODY!!!!!! -

BUT WE ARE ALL NOBODY!

TOGETHER!

WITH HYPHENS!

HYPHENS HERE AND THERE AND HERE AND THE HANDS WARM THE COLD IS GONE THE HEATER THRUMS THE SCREEN IS MADE OF WATER THE THIRST IS GONE AND YOU CAN REACH ON THROUGH ON THROUGH ON THROUGH

BACK TO ME!

AND THERE'S YOU

STARING BACK AT ME!

- STOP PASSING NOTES -

LAUGHING!

- THE GRITTING OF TEETH, THROUGH THE CLENCHING OF EYES, THROUGH THE MOTION OF FISTS, PUNCHING INTO -

AIR!!!

EMPTY WHIRLING AIR!

- AND THE BREEZE SLASHES THROUGH THE TREETOPS AND THE SQUIRRELS RUN FOR COVER AND THE WORLD ITSELF BECOMES HINGED AND BANKRUPT PERCHED ON THE ANTICIPATION FOR THE DEPOSIT OF THAT MOMENT THAT RAW INSTANT AND YOU STAND IN PREGNANT WAITING, ALL ALONE -

AND FROM THE TREETOPS BLOSSOMS FALL!

- DID YOU BRING ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE AND FOR EVERYTHING AND CAN YOU ACCOUNT AND MEASURE FOR ALL THE WORLD -

THE TENSION IS ALWAYS BROKEN, THE FOURTH WALL ALWAYS FALLS, AND THEN YOU CAN SEE, WE CAN SEE!

YES, WE, ALWAYS WE!

THE SCREEN IS MADE OF CLASPED HANDS THE OCEAN IS NAVIGABLE THE STARS ARE A COMPASS THE LIGHT IS SLOWING DOWN AND WE!

ARE SPEEDING UP!!!

- ON A BLANKET ASSUMPTION THROUGH AN ALLEYWAY BESIDE A DIRTY BAKERY AND ABOVE AND THROUGH AND WITHIN SMOKE IS CURLING AND YOUR CONFIDENCE UNFURLING, BACK TO METER AND TO MEASURE, BACK TO THIS, AND ONLY YOU -

THE FIRE ESCAPES ARE MADE OF IVORY, THE HORROR RIDES ALONG BESIDE US, CARTOON SCRIBBLES CARVED INTO ITS FOREHEAD, ITS HANDS TIED BEHIND ITS BACK BY ITS SHOULDERS

- ITS SHOULDERS ARE DAGGERS, GUNBLASTS THAT WILL CATCH AND RIP YOU -

SHOULDERS THRUST SO COMICALLY FORWARD LIKE A CHEAP POLITICAL CARTOON LEANING ALWAYS AHEAD, TRIPPING OVER ITS SNIDLEY WHIPLASH MUSTACHE

-THE SCREEN IS IMPENETRABLE -

THE SCREEN IS MADE OF MOTION!

- THE SCREEN IS MADE OF GLASS -

AND WE ARE MADE OF HAMMERS

............

............

THE COLD IS CALLING.

"WITHDRAW!"

The Acolytes of the Emperor Worm stepped back from the Blanking Machine, their tenseness and uncertainty tangible, omnipresent.

"There is a rider in him, My Lord," hissed one.

"Indeed. We shall have to...go inside..."

"My Lord...the cold is calling? What was this? It sounds implanted, and had an accent of nothing I've heard."

"We shall see, acolyte...we shall see. There is more in this shell than I anticipated. This will prove...enlightening."

The masked figure, the Lord of the Order, Grand Vizier of the Emperor Worm, stared down at its comatose prisoner, and somewhere, behind the layers of cloth and the uranium mask, it smiled.

...

...

...
 
 
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loraxbootstraps
For two weeks Obama had trudged through the Illuminati's tunnel complex. His supplies were dwindling, and his mechatorches had long since pinged on empty, the warning lights on the handles giving off more warmth than the torchlight itself. It was an irony he dwelled on more than was healthy. Right-turn after right-turn, he had ventured through nondescript tunnel after nondescript tunnel, with nothing to show for his effort except a newfound respect for spike traps and collapsing walls.

For what must have been the hundredth time, he wondered what it was that lead him to trust him this apparent fool's errand. The boy had seemed so sure, and Dawkins himself was utterly convinced. And yet, this business of searching through the glorified sewers of megalomaniacal Freemasons seemed silly, at best.

"...damned collapsing walls," he muttered, as he turned right, yet again, and found himself, at last in the antechamber.

Two grimy sandstone statues loomed in the distance, framing a massive doorway of seemingly impenetrable rock. He approached, hopping down the weathered steps, passing through the improbably omnipresent cobwebs - "Where are the spiders," he wondered, "And what do they eat?"

And so Barack Hussein Obama stood before the statues, their worn faces carved in what was once certainly an excellent likeness of Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton, dropped his pack, stuck his thumbs in his worn and threadbare overcoat, and waited.

He began to whistle.

He stopped whistling.

He came to wish he had a harmonica, and that he knew how to play a harmonica.

And then he became bored.

"I AM BARACK OBAMA! BY THE RIGHT OF REASON AND THE AUDACITY OF HOPE AND PURPOSE ITSELF, I DEMAND DUE RECOGNITION! I HAVE KILLED AND I HAVE MIDWIVED! I HAVE LEARNED AND I HAVE TRUSTED, BEEN BETRAYED AND BEEN VILIFIED, SACRIFICED AND FOUND MY TRUST WELL-EARNED! I STAND HERE IN THE NAME OF LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS, OLD ENOUGH NOW TO BE WEATHERED, YOUNG ENOUGH STILL TO DREAM, AND I GROW IMPATIENT!"

The statues stood silent. Obama began to wonder if it truly had all been for nothing, those stories of the Sleeping King, of the Illuminati complex constructed to house him, and all the rest of it. So long ago he had accepted the charge, been called the only man for the job - the best fit, the only fit. He was used to it, after all. The burdens of other people's hopes, the willingness to be their champion for want of the willing, for lack of the brave - that was the audacity he had learned.

He started to think about that damn book. "I was so young," he thought.

"Federalism is stupid." Obama said.

The stone face of Alexander hamilton grinded downward with the unwillingness that only ancient stone can muster,

"NO. THE STATES CANNOT BE TRUSTED. I AM ALEXANDER HAMILTON. I SPEAK ONLY THE TRUTH."

Jefferson's visage groaned down, "NO. THE FEDERAL INFRASTRUCTURE INEVITABLY TENDS TO TYRANNY AND ENTRENCHMENT. I AM THOMAS JEFFERSON. I SPEAK ONLY THE TRUTH."

"How do I get in the door, Hamilton?"

"YOU MUST CHOOSE WHICH OF US TO TRUST, WHICH IS RIGHT, WHICH SPEAKS THE TRUTH. CHOOSE WISELY, AND THE DOOR WILL OPEN. CHOOSE UNWISELY, AND SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAPPENS TO YOU. IT IS ASSUMED THAT YOU DIE. WE HAVE LASER BEAMS IN OUR EYES. NO, SERIOUSLY, WE DO. JEFFERSON SPEAKS ONLY LIES."

"HAMILTON SPEAKS ONLY LIES."

"I don't have the time nor interest to make this seem clever," growled Obama. "You, Hamilton. What will Jefferson tell me about the Alien-Sedition Act?"

"HE WILL SAY IT WAS A BAD IDEA BORN OF THE INHERENT TYRANNIES OF MYSELF AND MY PHILOSOPHY."

"Jefferson, what was the Alien-Sedition Act?"

"IT IS AS HE SAID."

"Well, shit."

Obama stepped back a pace, and began to think, really think, about the Founding Fathers and their eminent pipe dream. Several long minutes passed as he pondered, staring intently at the space between the two statues.

"I trust both of you, and neither. You are approximations, you are statues, you are not the men themselves. Their wisdom lives on in their writings, and there is no need to create talking statues to fulfill their purpose. Democracy is lived, democracy is breathed, it is felt. It is a reality born of realistic hopes, best intentions, and the glory and divine purpose of a just compromise. You are both right and you are both wrong in your assumed dogmatism. This lack of nuance is a lie and a crutch for the foolish."

"PROCESSING..." intoned the statues, simultaneously. "PROCESSING..."

A chirping bell toned, like the alarm on a stovetop oven.

"OKAY. YEAH. THAT WORKS FOR ME," intoned Hamilton.

"IT SEEMS A LITTLE PAT, BUT I SEE NO OBJECTION."

"...okay, then."

The door groaned open, dust flying off its hinges, creaking with interminable slowness outward and outward as a series of decorative oil-cloth looking torches lit. They illuminated a narrow path over an endless chasm, with a small platform suspended impossibly in the middle.

On the platform there was a sarcophagus, perfectly rectangular, of polished marble.

Atop the sarcophagus...

Obama gasped, "Roosevelt?!"

With faltering footsteps Obama approached the Sleeping King, and stared down at his bluff features. Shorter than he imagined, his eyes shut in the easy peace of sleep, monocle resting on his perfect pinstripe suit. A cavalry saber lay in a sheath strapped to his belt, and his hands were clasped over his chest atop a pair of pistols and a copy of the Federalist Papers.

"We need your help, Mr. President," Obama began, uncertain.

Roosevelt made no motion.

"Democracy itself, America, they're under attack!"

Roosevelt lay in perfect peace.

Obama shook his head in confusion. He had assumed this would be the easy part. He had assumed the Sleeping King would be ready and willing to help his people.

"This is Teddy Roosevelt!" he thought, furious, a man given to looking for a fight when none presented itself, a man constantly striving for something better, something bigger, something fiercer - and then he knew.

"TEDDY ROOSEVELT! FORWARD THE LIGHT BRIGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE!" he screamed, slamming his right hand straight up in a clenched fist, his voice echoing through the chamber, down the chasm, into the blackness above and below.

Teddy Roosevelt twitched. Then he vaulted to his feet, and stood atop his sarcophagus, staring down at Obama, slamming his pistols into holsters inside his suitjacket, slipping the Federalist Papers into a hidden pocket inside the lining of the coat.

"Well, lad! I'm Teddy Roosevelt! Pleasure to meet you!"

And jammed his open hand down.

Obama smiled despite himself, laughed despite himself, and soon Teddy Roosevelt joined him, sheer joy, relief and incredulity sounding through the chamber.

One down, two to go.
 
 
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