Posts Tagged ‘ WIP ’

A Sack Of Cashews

2010.12.30
By

JINGLE. SLAM.

1978. THREE A.M. 7-Eleven. Very hungry. Looking for the little heat-lamp-warmed nut-variety display thing. Cashews are definitely NEEDED. NEEDED NOW.

No hot nuts.

Where are they? Slim Jims, jerky, rotating hot dogs, horoscopes? These are not hot nuts. Must have HOT NUTS.

Ask.

Ask the enormous scowling unfriendly muscled eyeglazed tattooed-before-soccer-moms-got-tattooed salesclerk.

Excuse me, do you have hot nuts?

Where’s your hot nut display?

I don’t see your hot nuts. Can I?

Jingle. Slam.

Sigh.

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Pithyism #70

2010.12.28
By

O! THAT WE COULD LEARN by advice that which can only be learned through experience.

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2010 Roundup: Top Posts

2010.12.28
By

IT’S DE RIGUEUR FOR NEWS outlets to wrap up the year with a look at their Big Stories, and we at Metaphorager.Net are no exception despite that we’re only a “news outlet” in the sense of “what’s news to me.” After 10 years of blogging, we only reached our 365th post last week. I could cull my favorites, but that’s a bit too self-serving so here instead is a commented list of this year’s Top Seven Posts by views (as they’re all the stats I could find):

5 Thoughts: Why (and How) We Write 1,636 Views
This was enjoyed and shared by someone with a stumbleupon.com account. I like to imagine it adorning writers’ garrets from here to Montmartre.

About 97 Views
For those who couldn’t help asking, “Who IS this guy?”

ORL Redux: Interview with Robert Anton Wilson 95 Views
Thanks to the wonderful folks at http://rawilsonfans.com, this Most Obscure Interview EVER With Robert Anton Wilson isn’t languishing unread in the bottom of a packing crate.

Links 71 Views
I can’t explain the number here. I sometimes check a site’s links-page if its “About Us” doesn’t tell me enough; maybe others do too. (If that’s the case here, read this instead.) On the other hand, some of these are definitely me checking layout … but not that often.

A Proposal for the Moon of Earth 71 Views
Tied for views with the “Links” page is this immodest proposal to eternalize Stanley Kubrick. I don’t know why it’s not built yet; someone must be on to me. Ooops. Ha ha ha. Is this thing on?

Season’s Regreetings 43 Views
This was also seen and shared through its Facebook page, account, http://www.facebook.com/pages/Same-To-You/178304932195551. (The numbers are essential to the link.) The view count here doesn’t concern me as much as, say, Prosatio Silban or the pithyisms — I’d like to see it spread, credit or not.

Clips 37 Views
News pieces, commentaries and speeches. (Yes, speeches.) Nice to know they hold an interest of some sort — I hope historical.

In related news, the top 10 Google searches turning up a Metaphorager.Net reference are “natural machines” (12), “smallest particle accelerator” (12), “http://metaphorager.net/raw/” (10), “janusz korczak” (6), “metaphorager” (6), “‘jim gjerde’ sputnik” (5), “religious fables” (5), “pithyism” (4), “http://metaphorager.net” (4), and “80s generic foods” (3).
(Also with 3: “linda tomback,” “letter to a dead friend,” “robert anton wilson interview,” “jon stewart slams glenn beck,” “prosatio silban,” “a couple of hamburgers,” and “http://metaphorager.net/frank-frazetta-r” (which full link is actually “http://metaphorager.net/frank-frazetta-rip/.”) Footprints on a digital beach. I like ‘em.

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Days Like Doors

2010.12.26
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THERE ARE DAYS WHICH OPEN into unglimpsed circles that inspire and uplift.
And there are days which close the heart like a fist.
There are days when the angels sing within range of human ear
And days when all you hear is chopping.
There are days like green hills, a-prance with lambs,
And days like rotting undergrowth a-stench with mold and maggot.
All these days are given unto you,
like gloves God wears when He’s fixing something special
like small wandering children seeking a hand in the dark
like the door that opens into silence and light.

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Instant Everywhere

2010.12.22
By

FOR MY NEXT TRICK, I shall unite the Universe.

Ready?

It is Now as I write this; it is Now as you read it.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be here all week.

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What Do You Say To A Partly Naked Woman?

2010.12.15
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SHE WAS WALKING UP THE hill toward us through the sea of sprawled bodies surrounding the stage at Laguna Seca Speedway, where some friends and I were enjoying three days of the Grateful Dead and Los Lobos in the summer of 1988.

My own life was at a crossroads. I was coming from a year aboard the Golden Hinde II (many stories there, oh yes) but hadn’t decided whether to hitchhike to Alaska and work on a fishing boat or return to the Northern California Renaissance Faire and eventually settle into landbound life. So I stayed for an indecisive interim with some Humboldt County friends who invited me to join them for the show.

(This was also the hitchhiking trip where I heard a sound from ‘midst the roadside bushes, stuck in my hand and pulled out a little black kitten. But that’s another story; or maybe just another part of the same old story.)

So there we were on the hillside between acts (Ralfh, Sputnik, a friend of Ralfh’s, and me), and here comes this partly naked woman. The event itself wasn’t strictly topless, although she was; straight red hair, green eyes, medium build, about my height, and the most striking expression: a mix of “I can’t believe I’m doing this” and “What’s the big deal?” She was angling up the hill, trailing headshakes and sympathetic laughter, perhaps to meet a friend or take in (or be) the all-encompassing view, and she was headed right at me.

As I am something of a magnet for strangeness, and because it was a Grateful Dead show, I would not have been surprised to know her. I didn’t, but as she passed she gave me a beatific and knowing smile.

“Don’t tell anyone I’m naked,” she said.

“I won’t,” I said.

And for 22 years, I didn’t. I hope that, at this late date, she forgives me.

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How To Really Begin Services

2010.12.05
By

“DEARLY BELOVED, LET US PLAY.”

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Those Two Little Words I Long To Hear

2010.12.04
By

“THEY’VE LANDED.”

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New Superhero!

2010.11.24
By

DELIGHTEDMAN! HIS SUPERPOWERS ARE HIS 100% Infectious Enthusiasm! the Smile of Impenetrability! and the deadly Triple Exclamation Point!!!

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Prosatio Silban and the Escorter of the Dead

2010.11.24
By

FROM HIS GALLEYWAGON AT THE edge of Pormaris’ busy South Market, Prosatio Silban could see the funeral pyres at their greedy task.

It wasn’t the best location, but the result of being last through the gate of the City of Gourmands that morning with all the good spots already taken. And it wasn’t so much the spectacle which bothered Prosatio Silban as the lack of custom; mourners were a notoriously unhungry lot. Here it was approaching dinner, and he had not sold so much as a bowl of beans. Such is life, he thought, opening the ‘wagon door to a light salt breeze. Life’s only constancies are death and hunger, and like most extremes they make a poor mix.

The beefy cook stepped down from the galleywagon and stood, stretching, between the two tables he’d deployed earlier. His eyes swept the pyres: a long row of smoke- or flame-crowned mounds at the water’s edge, surrounded here and there by bowed figures. The muted rhythms of Uulian death chants were just audible under the bustling of the market-throng, like a burnt undercurrent in an otherwise delectable pilaf.

One mound was unaccompanied save for someone tall in a black robe and golden sunhat. Prosatio Silban’s eyes narrowed. The pyre couldn’t have been burning that long. The cook had noted the solitary mourner when he set up his tables.

The figure knelt, then arose, shoulders drooped. When she turned, Prosatio Silban looked into one of the saddest faces he’d ever seen. Each line had been etched by a hundred sorrows; the otherwise clear blue eyes were red with weeping; her gaunt cheeks were daubed with tears. She sighed, wiped her face with a handkerchief and looked vaguely about. Seeing Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon, she started toward it with surprisingly brisk step.

“Yes, madam? Something to comfort soul, or body?”

Her voice was like wheezy reeds, but warm. “Thank you,” she said, seating herself. “A simple cress-and-cheese horn would satisfy both, please. And a glass of blue duliac.”

Prosatio Silban bowed and stepped up into his galleywagon. He retrieved from his cold box a bundle of greens and three slices of pale yellow cheese, then selected from a basket a thick blue-rice crescent. He sliced open the latter, tucked in the former, and drew a thin stream of sapphire liquid from a large cask into a fluted glass tumbler.

He arranged it all on a painted wooden tray and set the meal before his customer. “Thank you,” she said. “What do I owe you?”

“I am the Cook for Any Price,” Prosatio Silban replied. “But this has been a slow day, and I am tempted to charge accordingly.”

She looked up at him. Her smile was like the sun rising behind a thunderhead, so much so that Prosatio Silban took a half-step back.

“Well, then, I am at your mercy,” she said. “I am not a woman of that many means.”

“Fortunately, your tastes are inexpensive,” Prosatio Silban said, then dropped his voice a touch. “And I am sympathetic. You have been at the pyres all day.”

“Yes?”

“Was the passed-on someone close to you?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I never know. That is why I am here.”

“I don’t understand …”

“It is a kindness I cannot repay.” Her voice was even, but her eyes remembered. “Do you have a family?”

“Not here.”

“Neither do they.”

She held Prosatio Silban’s eyes; realizing it, she looked away. “May I pay you for the meal?”

Prosatio Silban bowed. “You already have.”

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From “Ol’ Thinkypants Speaks”

2010.11.24
By

“I’M NEVER HAPPY WITHOUT JUGGLING three or four levels of meaning at once, no matter what the subject,” said Ol’ Thinkypants, and scratched meditatively. “Maybe two before coffee. But three or four is where it’s at. And if you can kick it up to eight or nine, you can have yourself a time.”

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Podcast: Saturday Night Neal

2010.11.15
By

AS PROMISED, HERE IS MY first podcast of my first public reading this past Saturday night at Readers’ Books‘ monthly open-mic event. It’s just over 4-1/2 minutes/megabytes, and — as it was recorded on “Mr. Happy,” my reporter’s battered micro-cassette unit — is a bit “hot” for the first nine seconds. (It’s also missing my name, which the emcee mispronounced. Doesn’t everybody?) The reading was two small Prosatio Silban pieces and whatever else would fit the allotted five minutes.

Thanks to everyone who read, cheered, and/or smiled happily. Enjoy the ‘cast! and support your own local bookseller! and wait ’til next month when I plan to do it again — with Ann participating, yet.

- STREAM: Neal @ Random Acts
- DOWNLOAD: 20101113RandomActsNeal.mp3

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Celebrating the remaining days:hours:etc until Apophis II. Live it up, Earthlings.

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