“But… but you’re a QUAKER,” he said as I slowly withdrew the twenty-nine inches of Japanese steel from his belly, flicked the blood from the blade and sheathed it. Sensei insisted that when the blade left the sheath it not be returned without its thirst slaked.
Somewhere tonight across the marsh the ghost of Fang wanders his lonely path, offering the moon a silent howl. And Porridgeboy is out there too, a fictive voice following Fang’s path eastward, a moon shadow before him, confused by his creativity and genius, duped perhaps into thinking authenticity requires a consistent voice, transparency of self, identity in creation. Golby knows the truth.
While Fang’s restless spirit will always be near, there’s a new puppy in town… a bad little bitch with needle sharp teeth and a sense of humor guaranteed to shake the self confidence of all but the most secure. And she’s so beautiful and young and alive that I’ve joked about putting her down right now before she gets stinky breath from raiding the cat box, arthritis from old age, before burrs matt the virgin white fur and before she’s found her first delicious mound of steaming ordure in which to roll. And she sits there, head cocked, one ear flopped, an RCA Master’s Voice pose if ever there was one, and little does she know that this Quaker watched Kill Bill tonight and he’s ready to rumble.
But what’s a pacifist to think when he watches that kind of lunatic art? Great colors? Hey! They were. The whole plastic primary colors thing was brilliant. And I’d have to say that the fine mist of blood that sprayed from so many wounds lacked verisimilitude… opening arteries like that usually causes leakage of the heavy pumped great gouts variety. The fine mist thing is less usual than a thick stream, distance diminishing as volume goes down and the pump begins to fail. But, well… it was about anime… who expects verisimilitude in a cartoon?
These weblogs, these personal publishing spaces remain experimental. Some people put out their final copy. Some people never move past rough drafts. Some people think there are rules and ethics that bind us to a format, a commitment to style. Others give their readers credit for a willingness to sort the fictive elements from the laser etched truths of clear vision and clarion voice.
By the way, there is no Jesus Bunker and the women who hope to be spirited away there and held captive and violated in scary but nice ways can just give it up. Even if there wa a Jesus Bunker there is NO WAY I WOULD PASS YOUR PHONE NUMBER TO FATHER CHRISTOPHER SO JUST GET OFF IT, OKAY????
I ran into a guy at a conference who didn’t get it that we could have differing perspectives and mine could be as right as his. One of the opportunities we have when meeting people real time that we only know from their online voices is the chance to establish a cordial relationship with someone whom we may regard from time time as an asshole online. There are a lot of dominance games in this life, and of course it requires submissives to field a full complement of players.
Maybe it’s good to shake out the cobwebs and get back to our roots now and then. What’s that old Carole King number… (I hear the Byrds when I say the words)…
– Words and music by Gerry Goffin and Carole King
I think I’m going back
To the things I learnt so well in my youth
I think I’m returning to
Those days when I was young enough to know the truth
Now there are no games
To only pass the time
No more colouring books
No Christmas bells to chime
But thinking young and growing older is no sin
And I can’t play the game of life to win
I can recall a time
When I wasn’t ashamed to reach out to a friend
And now I think I’ve got
A lot more than just my toys to lend
Now there’s more to do
Than watch my sailboat glide
And every day can be
My magic carpet ride
And I can play hide and seek with my fears
And live my days instead of counting my years
Then everyone debates
The true reality
I’d rather see the world
The way it used to be
A little bit of freedom’s all we lack
So catch me if you can
I’m going back