Stand
_____waiting for the train
I pace forth
_____then back
__________a rumble from the tracks
A train thunders by
Wrong direction
_____The thwip tthhwhip of electricity
Blue arc of energy
Quiet
I look down to find
_____two white flowers
__________lying frozen side by side
[Go back to doctor up the metre. Revise]
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Monday, December 29, 2003
Daydream
I feel like I'm living in this amazing time, in this amazing place, where anything can happen - and anything does happen - every day.
My father lived to see the rise of America, and I will live to see it fall. Just as my grandfather did. Cyclical. Perfection.
To much time wasted, sipping coffee in the park
I bury my chin in my scarf
_____writing words on this page
Stand, stretch, before wandering
Rat Guy beckons
My father lived to see the rise of America, and I will live to see it fall. Just as my grandfather did. Cyclical. Perfection.
To much time wasted, sipping coffee in the park
I bury my chin in my scarf
_____writing words on this page
Stand, stretch, before wandering
Rat Guy beckons
Sunday, December 28, 2003
Centre Stage
And who d'ya think I am?
The old drunk shouted through the dark
C'mon o'er here!
All this to a stranger on the street
A car passes on the rain-soaked pavement
And the driver wonders
What if this is the greatest story ever told?
The old drunk shouted through the dark
C'mon o'er here!
All this to a stranger on the street
A car passes on the rain-soaked pavement
And the driver wonders
What if this is the greatest story ever told?
Saturday, December 27, 2003
Ezra Pound vs. Jim Beam
I'm lying in bed in an airy Puerto Rican motel room - the same one I spent so much time in last year - and I'm looking out at the brilliant blue sea rolling outside my open window. The light cheesecloth curtains are carried inside on the breeze. I've got no blankets on, as the air already feels so hot and dry, but I am wearing some of those one-piece pajamas with the bum-flap.
I'm fully awake, but too lazy to get out of bed. I have to pee, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. There's a knock at the door, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. Instead, I call out: "who's there?"
"Housekeeping!" is the reply I hear through the flimsy wooden door.
I yell for her to come in.
When the maid sticks her head into the room, I explain that it's okay, that I'm awake but am going to stay in bed all day, and that she can go about her regular business. Making her way inside, she notices a book lying open, but face down, on my bed - ABC reading, by Ezra Pound. We then proceed to argue about Pound for awhile, and I'm increasingly impressed with the maids knowledge of contemporary American writing.
All of a sudden my attention is drawn to a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam sitting on the antique highboy across the room, and I lose my train of thought.
I'm still too lazy to get out of bed.
I'm fully awake, but too lazy to get out of bed. I have to pee, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. There's a knock at the door, but I'm too lazy to get out of bed. Instead, I call out: "who's there?"
"Housekeeping!" is the reply I hear through the flimsy wooden door.
I yell for her to come in.
When the maid sticks her head into the room, I explain that it's okay, that I'm awake but am going to stay in bed all day, and that she can go about her regular business. Making her way inside, she notices a book lying open, but face down, on my bed - ABC reading, by Ezra Pound. We then proceed to argue about Pound for awhile, and I'm increasingly impressed with the maids knowledge of contemporary American writing.
All of a sudden my attention is drawn to a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam sitting on the antique highboy across the room, and I lose my train of thought.
I'm still too lazy to get out of bed.
Xbraxis
I grow a beard to hide my sneaking madness
A beard implies maturity - demands respect
I enunciate to mask insanity
Only madmen mumble, and madmen don't regret
_____...like I pretend to
A beard implies maturity - demands respect
I enunciate to mask insanity
Only madmen mumble, and madmen don't regret
_____...like I pretend to
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Three Colourful Fish
I was fishing with Jesus on the sandy bank of a river - it's waters smooth, and the sky above a surreal off-blue hue. His rod was a lot better than mine, and when I remarked on this Jesus offered to trade. I accepted the offer, thinking I might catch more fish.
CUT TO:
I'm underwater watching three colourful fish swimming by - one swims faster than the rest, almost showing off, it's colours flash in the glimmering sunlight. I watch it disappear, quick, around a rocky ledge.
CUT TO:
The bank of the river again with Jesus. I turn to him and ask: "Jesus, how is it that one fish can swim faster than another? Aren't they all equipped the same?" And Jesus smiled sagely replying, "Yes, but God loves some creatures more than others." Shortly thereafter I felt a tug my line. Upon reeling up my catch, I was surprised to find that I had caught the fast-swimming fish. I turned to Jesus. He just shrugged.
End dream.
CUT TO:
I'm underwater watching three colourful fish swimming by - one swims faster than the rest, almost showing off, it's colours flash in the glimmering sunlight. I watch it disappear, quick, around a rocky ledge.
CUT TO:
The bank of the river again with Jesus. I turn to him and ask: "Jesus, how is it that one fish can swim faster than another? Aren't they all equipped the same?" And Jesus smiled sagely replying, "Yes, but God loves some creatures more than others." Shortly thereafter I felt a tug my line. Upon reeling up my catch, I was surprised to find that I had caught the fast-swimming fish. I turned to Jesus. He just shrugged.
End dream.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Mid Aft.
I'm lounging on the couch, sipping some Macallen, neat, and jamming on a Dm/Bm vamp when my phone rings. It's Dee R, an author friend from downtown, and she asks if I'd like to go catch a few pints at Jester's. I say I'll go her one better, and invite her back to my place - tell her I'll whip up a batch of margaritas to sweeten the deal. She accepts the invitation, and says she'll bring her new story by for my perusal. Hanging up the phone, I make a mental note that telephones seem to play a fairly major role in my dreams despite the fact (or perhaps because) I hate them.
This fragment ends here.
I have on shiny purple toenail polish which is chipped on the toes of my left foot. I'm wearing some sort of light loose-fitting clothing and hiding out in a grungy maze-like basement with a trio of unfamiliar girls. We're playing some sort of hide-and-seek game with a few unfamiliar objects. Getting bored of this, (the game is incredibly easy), I say I have a better idea. I then attempt a few knife tricks until I realize that I'm a little to drunk.
I wake up to Sydney kneading my chest.
This fragment ends here.
I have on shiny purple toenail polish which is chipped on the toes of my left foot. I'm wearing some sort of light loose-fitting clothing and hiding out in a grungy maze-like basement with a trio of unfamiliar girls. We're playing some sort of hide-and-seek game with a few unfamiliar objects. Getting bored of this, (the game is incredibly easy), I say I have a better idea. I then attempt a few knife tricks until I realize that I'm a little to drunk.
I wake up to Sydney kneading my chest.
Saturday, December 6, 2003
Tuesday, December 2, 2003
Friday, November 28, 2003
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
paranoid
Last night I was wandering down Queen Street feeling somewhat paranoid. I'm not sure if it was the medication, or possibly the eerie atmosphere - the ice crystals in the frigid air, the skyscrapers shrouded in fog, the heavily bundled human-like figures - but I was feeling paranoid. Like I was going to be set up. Like I was going to pass the yawning mouth of an alley, and some mysterious shadow was going to push a rifle and some polaroids into my arms while slipping a copy of The Catcher in the Rye into my coat pocket.
I was reminded of a dream at this time, a dream that caused me great concern while I slept, but was forgotten upon waking. I was being chased down a darkened alley, (which in and of itself is not unusual), but this time I got caught. A powerful man grabbed at me about the shoulders and, struggling, I was turned around to face him. I don't remember the details of his person, but he thrust a large roll of paper into my hands.
"I think this might be yours," he said, and turned on his heel before walking away.
Hungrily unrolling the scroll, I found it to be a blueprint for my life. Somehow I wasn't surprised, and thought to myself, I suppose all things created must have plans.
The plans were for what appeared to be a large manor house, and I soon realised that it was a house designed without doors - only windows. Displeased, I looked to the corner of the sheet and found the architect's stamp there. I immediately set out to phone him, using the contact information provided.
After listening to my complaint, the architect replied, "Yes, well, it's all the rage in design these days - no way in, no way out. Perfection."
After this, the call was disconnected. Slamming down the receiver, I only succeeded in waking myself up.
I was reminded of a dream at this time, a dream that caused me great concern while I slept, but was forgotten upon waking. I was being chased down a darkened alley, (which in and of itself is not unusual), but this time I got caught. A powerful man grabbed at me about the shoulders and, struggling, I was turned around to face him. I don't remember the details of his person, but he thrust a large roll of paper into my hands.
"I think this might be yours," he said, and turned on his heel before walking away.
Hungrily unrolling the scroll, I found it to be a blueprint for my life. Somehow I wasn't surprised, and thought to myself, I suppose all things created must have plans.
The plans were for what appeared to be a large manor house, and I soon realised that it was a house designed without doors - only windows. Displeased, I looked to the corner of the sheet and found the architect's stamp there. I immediately set out to phone him, using the contact information provided.
After listening to my complaint, the architect replied, "Yes, well, it's all the rage in design these days - no way in, no way out. Perfection."
After this, the call was disconnected. Slamming down the receiver, I only succeeded in waking myself up.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Sitcom Blues
On screen you come across as perfection - a dream.
I schedule my time around you,
An admirer unseen.
Static couldn't keep us apart,
I'd wait for you in our half-hour slot
- On screen.
I schedule my time around you,
An admirer unseen.
Static couldn't keep us apart,
I'd wait for you in our half-hour slot
- On screen.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Monday, November 17, 2003
Saturday, November 15, 2003
adrift
I'm adrift on a makeshift raft.
The sky is completely black
But for the tiny pin-pricks of stars.
Silence.
The deep green sea
Is illuminated from beneath.
(Like I'm floating on liquid emerald.)
The sky is completely black
But for the tiny pin-pricks of stars.
Silence.
The deep green sea
Is illuminated from beneath.
(Like I'm floating on liquid emerald.)
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Monday, November 10, 2003
Thursday, November 6, 2003
Ether Here or There
I can't sleep. I just lie here, awake, thinking and drawing up plans. Crazy plans. Plans to build a ladder in my garden up into the sky. This ladder will have a rung for each name of each person who ever walked this planet, for each person in the present, and each person who will exist in the future.
I'll carve each rung myself, see, out of the best possible wood my finances will afford me, fashioning them all with great care to be of equal circumference and length. Finally, I'll ink each rung with a name before placing them, in no particular order, onto the structure. And I'll climb. Each day, I'll climb higher and higher. My idea of space travel.
There's a phone ringing somewhere. As usual, I try to ignore it, but the caller is persistent. Frustrated, I grab up the receiver.
Me: Hello?
Voice: Hi.
Me: Oh, it's you.
Voice: Expecting someone else?
Me: Well, no, but there's hope.
Voice: I see. So, having trouble sleeping?
Me: Uh huh. Especially now.
Voice: So what thoughts are consuming you tonight?
Me: I can work it out on my own.
Voice: Now let's be honest with each other-
Me: Can we be another way?
Voice: Ha! That's good. Right, so let's start...
Me: Argh. You really irk me, you know that? I'm thinking about the Universe. Okay? And I'm trying to wrap my mind around infinity.
Voice: And have you come up with any Earth shattering revelations?
Me: Not exactly. The best I can tell is that there must be multiple Universes. I just can't explain it though. How can there be more than one Universe? Isn't the universe everything?
Voice: No, but I know that it's easy for somebody to think that way, that is, until you train yourself to think otherwise.
Me: What do you mean?
Voice: Ever since William Whewell coined the word scientist-
Me: Argh, I'm not sure I have the time for this, I'm so tired-
Voice: Just here me out. Ever since William Whewell coined the word scientist in 1836, the power has been taken away from the thinker, the philosopher, and given to these humans called scientists with their imperfect math, and lengthy equations with answers that we - the ordinary people - are expected to, and often do, take at face value. This is wrong and, in fact, dangerous. It was mere thinkers, after all, who gave us some of the most important discoveries of our time. It was Newton who deduced his laws of gravity from Kepler's laws - laws that Kepler himself admitted to having guessed at! This being said, I'll try to put my humble ideas about the Universe(s) into words for you.
Me: (groans) All right, shoot.
Voice: Space is, in my mind, a formless and shapeless body, both immeasurably large and immeasurably small. It has no beginning or end, and yet it has both. Space is everything and yet it is less than nothing. The problem with this, and the reason why you are scratching your head right now, is that the human mind is simply not capable of understanding the quintessence of nothing; as it is less than nothing, laws of physics, which all of us, on some level, understand and live by on Earth, are not really the same in space. The first question that may come to mind may be: How can two opposites be true? Namely, how can Space be both everything and less than nothing? The best example I can give for this would be that of a boat sailing on the ocean from Europe to North America; is it not sailing both uphill and downhill at the same time?
Me: So, space is a big sphere filled with nothing?
Voice: Yes and no.
Me: Of course.
Voice: Nothing is something too.
Me: I see. Anyway, I need sleep. If space is infinite, then surely its centre is the bed on which I now lie.
Voice: Now you're thinking! Just allow me to finish my thought first. Seemingly empty space would be absolutely perfect if it were not for the cancers that we call Universes. Space is not empty at all but instead filled with unimaginably small (but not infinitely small) particles all precisely the same size and shape, moving in a precisely choreographed fashion, the whole of which we call ether, the fifth element. You can think of it in terms of Space being the 'body' and these particles as being the cells of which the body is comprised. Left in this state, space would be perfect. The trouble arises when one of these particles, an imperfect particle (because nothing can be perfect), mutates and multiplies in much the same way as cancer in a living being, only much more quickly. Now, this said, I will also add that this may not be the only cancer (see: Universe) growing in the vastness of space and, indeed, there are most likely others; others of different shapes and sizes, others of different ages, just others. Universes within universes? Why not?
Me: Now, I know you enjoy passing ambiguity and obscurity off as intelligence and wit, but you have to know that it doesn't work on me...
Voice: I don't have any idea what you're on about.
Me: Hmm...
Voice: Well, I can't have answers for everything. I'm doing my best.
Me: So how many Universes are there you figure? An infinite number?
Voice: The number is impossible to calculate, but if you were to-
Me: Umm...
Voice: Yes?
Me: I'm going to resume trying to sleep.
Voice: Well, erm, alright, tomorrow I'll let you in on my current calcula-
I hang up the phone, and fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
I'll carve each rung myself, see, out of the best possible wood my finances will afford me, fashioning them all with great care to be of equal circumference and length. Finally, I'll ink each rung with a name before placing them, in no particular order, onto the structure. And I'll climb. Each day, I'll climb higher and higher. My idea of space travel.
There's a phone ringing somewhere. As usual, I try to ignore it, but the caller is persistent. Frustrated, I grab up the receiver.
Me: Hello?
Voice: Hi.
Me: Oh, it's you.
Voice: Expecting someone else?
Me: Well, no, but there's hope.
Voice: I see. So, having trouble sleeping?
Me: Uh huh. Especially now.
Voice: So what thoughts are consuming you tonight?
Me: I can work it out on my own.
Voice: Now let's be honest with each other-
Me: Can we be another way?
Voice: Ha! That's good. Right, so let's start...
Me: Argh. You really irk me, you know that? I'm thinking about the Universe. Okay? And I'm trying to wrap my mind around infinity.
Voice: And have you come up with any Earth shattering revelations?
Me: Not exactly. The best I can tell is that there must be multiple Universes. I just can't explain it though. How can there be more than one Universe? Isn't the universe everything?
Voice: No, but I know that it's easy for somebody to think that way, that is, until you train yourself to think otherwise.
Me: What do you mean?
Voice: Ever since William Whewell coined the word scientist-
Me: Argh, I'm not sure I have the time for this, I'm so tired-
Voice: Just here me out. Ever since William Whewell coined the word scientist in 1836, the power has been taken away from the thinker, the philosopher, and given to these humans called scientists with their imperfect math, and lengthy equations with answers that we - the ordinary people - are expected to, and often do, take at face value. This is wrong and, in fact, dangerous. It was mere thinkers, after all, who gave us some of the most important discoveries of our time. It was Newton who deduced his laws of gravity from Kepler's laws - laws that Kepler himself admitted to having guessed at! This being said, I'll try to put my humble ideas about the Universe(s) into words for you.
Me: (groans) All right, shoot.
Voice: Space is, in my mind, a formless and shapeless body, both immeasurably large and immeasurably small. It has no beginning or end, and yet it has both. Space is everything and yet it is less than nothing. The problem with this, and the reason why you are scratching your head right now, is that the human mind is simply not capable of understanding the quintessence of nothing; as it is less than nothing, laws of physics, which all of us, on some level, understand and live by on Earth, are not really the same in space. The first question that may come to mind may be: How can two opposites be true? Namely, how can Space be both everything and less than nothing? The best example I can give for this would be that of a boat sailing on the ocean from Europe to North America; is it not sailing both uphill and downhill at the same time?
Me: So, space is a big sphere filled with nothing?
Voice: Yes and no.
Me: Of course.
Voice: Nothing is something too.
Me: I see. Anyway, I need sleep. If space is infinite, then surely its centre is the bed on which I now lie.
Voice: Now you're thinking! Just allow me to finish my thought first. Seemingly empty space would be absolutely perfect if it were not for the cancers that we call Universes. Space is not empty at all but instead filled with unimaginably small (but not infinitely small) particles all precisely the same size and shape, moving in a precisely choreographed fashion, the whole of which we call ether, the fifth element. You can think of it in terms of Space being the 'body' and these particles as being the cells of which the body is comprised. Left in this state, space would be perfect. The trouble arises when one of these particles, an imperfect particle (because nothing can be perfect), mutates and multiplies in much the same way as cancer in a living being, only much more quickly. Now, this said, I will also add that this may not be the only cancer (see: Universe) growing in the vastness of space and, indeed, there are most likely others; others of different shapes and sizes, others of different ages, just others. Universes within universes? Why not?
Me: Now, I know you enjoy passing ambiguity and obscurity off as intelligence and wit, but you have to know that it doesn't work on me...
Voice: I don't have any idea what you're on about.
Me: Hmm...
Voice: Well, I can't have answers for everything. I'm doing my best.
Me: So how many Universes are there you figure? An infinite number?
Voice: The number is impossible to calculate, but if you were to-
Me: Umm...
Voice: Yes?
Me: I'm going to resume trying to sleep.
Voice: Well, erm, alright, tomorrow I'll let you in on my current calcula-
I hang up the phone, and fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Tuesday, November 4, 2003
Ray of Sunshine
"What do you suppose happens during the unremembered portions of dreams?" an unidentified voice asks - hesitantly, slightly waveringly - from somewhere in a small, dimly lit psychiatrist's office. A ray of sunlight filters in from between the curtains, through the dust hanging in the air, and finds its way to a cluttered desk.
We look around the room and see all the typical trappings of a middle-aged doctor; a wall of bookshelves, crammed full, certificates on the wall, a pipe resting on the desk - a curl of smoke reaching out and up. There's a definite air of ordered disorder in the room.
"Well, I suppose anything or nothing at all could be happening." An English accent, a wizened voice comes from beneath the grey handlebar moustache of Dr Carl Steven Irish Sinclair - just Irish to his friends. We see him now, encased in a white linen suit, lounging behind his great, ebony-topped desk - his elbows resting on the arms of an immense leather padded chair, his fingertips pressed into a steeple before him.
Twitch of the moustache. "So, tell me, have your, erm, dreams improved since our last rendezvous."
Beat.
"Dreams," the tired, anonymous voice floats into the air joining the dust particles in hovering around the small room, "always running - running - chasing someone - something?" Fragments of speech broken from a thought not quite understood.
A sigh.
Dr Sinclair stirs in his seat. "And these dreams, they’re still troubling you?"
Dead silence. We can almost hear particles of dust floating, bumping into one another as they dance, spiralling through the air.
"I - I hate sleeping."
We look around the room and see all the typical trappings of a middle-aged doctor; a wall of bookshelves, crammed full, certificates on the wall, a pipe resting on the desk - a curl of smoke reaching out and up. There's a definite air of ordered disorder in the room.
"Well, I suppose anything or nothing at all could be happening." An English accent, a wizened voice comes from beneath the grey handlebar moustache of Dr Carl Steven Irish Sinclair - just Irish to his friends. We see him now, encased in a white linen suit, lounging behind his great, ebony-topped desk - his elbows resting on the arms of an immense leather padded chair, his fingertips pressed into a steeple before him.
Twitch of the moustache. "So, tell me, have your, erm, dreams improved since our last rendezvous."
Beat.
"Dreams," the tired, anonymous voice floats into the air joining the dust particles in hovering around the small room, "always running - running - chasing someone - something?" Fragments of speech broken from a thought not quite understood.
A sigh.
Dr Sinclair stirs in his seat. "And these dreams, they’re still troubling you?"
Dead silence. We can almost hear particles of dust floating, bumping into one another as they dance, spiralling through the air.
"I - I hate sleeping."
Monday, November 3, 2003
Rat Guy
Every day, I walk by him - Rat Guy. You've probably seen him. Oily olive trenchcoat, thick spectacles, long greasy hair, matted beard. He wiles away the days, months, and years on a rickety lawn chair on the corner by city hall. He reads a lot - sci-fi mostly. Every day, I walk by and read his sign: OUT OF HOME AND WORK. He's been in the same spot for at least two years. Isn't that home? He nods to me each morning, his eyes darting from his novel to me, then back again to his book. My MP3 player acts as a ward against conversation, and I pass on by, sneaking a look into his change box. As far as I can tell, he makes out quite well. Isn't that work? Sort of?
This morning I've got no music - dead batteries. As I approach Rat Guy, we both start evaluating the situation. He notices that I have no music, that my ears are free. I notice that he's yakking on a cell phone. I find this odd considering that he's also feeding a family of rats. There's about six of them. Multi-coloured dependents. They sit obediently on his arm in a line. I toss him a quick smile, and as I'm about to pass, he puts his dirty palm over the mouthpiece of his phone and asks, "spare any change, sir?"
I don't even think, I just stop right there on the sidewalk, flabbergasted. "What! You're talking on a cell phone," I exclaim, "I don't even have a cell phone, how can you possibly afford one?"
He just gazes at me through grimy lenses. He pulls the phone further away from his mouth. "Hey man," he says to me, "as long as my rats are kept fed, what business is it of yours how I spend my money?"
And there's so much wrong with that statement, that I can't be bothered to even respond. I just shake my head and carry on my way. For sure I'm going to purchase some batteries.
This morning I've got no music - dead batteries. As I approach Rat Guy, we both start evaluating the situation. He notices that I have no music, that my ears are free. I notice that he's yakking on a cell phone. I find this odd considering that he's also feeding a family of rats. There's about six of them. Multi-coloured dependents. They sit obediently on his arm in a line. I toss him a quick smile, and as I'm about to pass, he puts his dirty palm over the mouthpiece of his phone and asks, "spare any change, sir?"
I don't even think, I just stop right there on the sidewalk, flabbergasted. "What! You're talking on a cell phone," I exclaim, "I don't even have a cell phone, how can you possibly afford one?"
He just gazes at me through grimy lenses. He pulls the phone further away from his mouth. "Hey man," he says to me, "as long as my rats are kept fed, what business is it of yours how I spend my money?"
And there's so much wrong with that statement, that I can't be bothered to even respond. I just shake my head and carry on my way. For sure I'm going to purchase some batteries.
Sunday, November 2, 2003
Conversation: avec du fromage
ALISTAIR: I need something - something to take away from all of this. This can't all be for nothing.
NIKOLETTE: Damn it, Alistair! Do you have to find the prize in everything?
ALISTAIR: What else is there?
-Nikolette stands in silence, her arms crossed over her chest, staring out across the ocean.
ALISTAIR (CONT'D): I just know we'll never see each other again...
NIKOLETTE (turning to Alistair): And how could we, Alistair? Considering everything-
ALISTAIR: Exactly. So say my name.
NIKOLETTE (in disbelief): What?
ALISTAIR: Just once more, say my name.
NIKOLETTE: I - I don't understand.
ALISTAIR: I know that our love was short-lived, but I want you to leave with my name on your lips.
NIKOLETTE: I won't.
ALISTAIR: The way your image haunts my mind when you leave a room, the way your scent clings to my clothes when you're far away, the way your taste lingers on my tongue when you pull your mouth from mine, so it is that I want my name to rest on your lips when you say goodbye.
NIKOLETTE (looking away): I can't.
ALISTAIR: You can. It is but a simple word, a meaningless sound, invisible waves that flow from your mouth-
NIKOLETTE: No.
ALISTAIR: -to my waiting ears.
NIKOLETTE: Good bye, Alistair.
-And with that, she walks off down the boardwalk, not looking back.
-Alistair makes no attempt to stop her, but, instead, smiles as he watches the darkness envelope her.
NIKOLETTE: Damn it, Alistair! Do you have to find the prize in everything?
ALISTAIR: What else is there?
-Nikolette stands in silence, her arms crossed over her chest, staring out across the ocean.
ALISTAIR (CONT'D): I just know we'll never see each other again...
NIKOLETTE (turning to Alistair): And how could we, Alistair? Considering everything-
ALISTAIR: Exactly. So say my name.
NIKOLETTE (in disbelief): What?
ALISTAIR: Just once more, say my name.
NIKOLETTE: I - I don't understand.
ALISTAIR: I know that our love was short-lived, but I want you to leave with my name on your lips.
NIKOLETTE: I won't.
ALISTAIR: The way your image haunts my mind when you leave a room, the way your scent clings to my clothes when you're far away, the way your taste lingers on my tongue when you pull your mouth from mine, so it is that I want my name to rest on your lips when you say goodbye.
NIKOLETTE (looking away): I can't.
ALISTAIR: You can. It is but a simple word, a meaningless sound, invisible waves that flow from your mouth-
NIKOLETTE: No.
ALISTAIR: -to my waiting ears.
NIKOLETTE: Good bye, Alistair.
-And with that, she walks off down the boardwalk, not looking back.
-Alistair makes no attempt to stop her, but, instead, smiles as he watches the darkness envelope her.
Friday, October 31, 2003
idea
I've figured out what I need to do to become one of the world's great artists. It's easy. I need to get into more trouble. My life needs some more excitement. I need to be like Jackson Pollock and get into more alcohol-fueled bar fights. I need to get myself stabbed by a pimp like Sam Beckett. I need to get shot by a feminist a la Warhol. Or I could just cut off my ear and ship it to... Oh never mind.
Haiku for today. [barely]
Dude, seriously
When's the last time you really
Noticed the sun set?
-And somewhere, Basho Matsuo rolls over in his grave...
When's the last time you really
Noticed the sun set?
-And somewhere, Basho Matsuo rolls over in his grave...
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
race
I've been doing it for years now - really living on the edge. It's getting so that no-one can beat me. I'm at the top of my game - a real hotshot on the underground riding lawnmower racing circuit. My ride of choice is a super-modified Toro Wheel Horse, of the Classic 300 series. With a freshly souped-up engine, she's able to rocket me down the boardwalk at a whopping 35 km/h, more or less forcing me to beat my opponents time and time again. Wrapped in candy-coloured peach paint, tripped out with purple pimp-lights, and fitted with a custom-made, red leatherette bucket seat, there isn't a prettier machine out there.
We meet every third Thursday of every third month down by the lake. Under the light of the moon, we draw in the sand a racing schedule for the night. At this stage in the game, everyone is equal; previous wins mean as little as previous losses. Tonight I find myself paired with a young out-of-towner who calls herself Prima Donna. I've heard of her. Relentless, they say. A perfect record. I find the pairing suspicious, but personal ethics do not allow me to complain. I have to be strong. I am unafraid. I am a champion.
Later, as I lurch up to the starting line, I size up Prima's ride - a gutted, heavily modded, John Deere SX85. The thing looks sleek as all hell. Cranking the throttle, her beast lets out a deafening shriek, and she lifts the visor of her helmet. I swallow my anxiety. Put on a brave face. She yells something over to me, but I can't make it out above the din. Judging by the look on her face, however, I decide that it was not words of encouragement. I turn to look straight ahead at the makeshift starting lights. Red - relax my grip on the wheel. Red - in that certain place. Orange - say a quick prayer. Orange - rev the engine. Green - hit the gas.
She cannot win.
We meet every third Thursday of every third month down by the lake. Under the light of the moon, we draw in the sand a racing schedule for the night. At this stage in the game, everyone is equal; previous wins mean as little as previous losses. Tonight I find myself paired with a young out-of-towner who calls herself Prima Donna. I've heard of her. Relentless, they say. A perfect record. I find the pairing suspicious, but personal ethics do not allow me to complain. I have to be strong. I am unafraid. I am a champion.
Later, as I lurch up to the starting line, I size up Prima's ride - a gutted, heavily modded, John Deere SX85. The thing looks sleek as all hell. Cranking the throttle, her beast lets out a deafening shriek, and she lifts the visor of her helmet. I swallow my anxiety. Put on a brave face. She yells something over to me, but I can't make it out above the din. Judging by the look on her face, however, I decide that it was not words of encouragement. I turn to look straight ahead at the makeshift starting lights. Red - relax my grip on the wheel. Red - in that certain place. Orange - say a quick prayer. Orange - rev the engine. Green - hit the gas.
She cannot win.
Dream: Part Five
As I ran, splashing through the puddles of freshly fallen rain, I heard the cacophonous sound of the carnival once more coming closer as it rounded the block. I broke out into the street just in time to catch a glimpse of the young girl's head beyond a sea of citizens, when a menagerie of mimes enveloped me. I found myself lost in the midst of a swirling mass of white faces; their thin expressionless lips shone red, with their sad eyes, painted black. Slipping and sliding across the mud-slicked cobblestones, I frenetically pushed myself through the gang of mimes, past the crowd of spectators, and ran down the adjacent alleyway, only to find that the young girl had disappeared. At that point, I began to swoon, collapsing face first into the dirt.
I regained consciousness cocooned in the warmth of a down duvet with my head resting in a nest of feather pillows. A warm breeze blew in through the open window, bringing with it the light cotton curtains, and the homely scent of baking bread. Turning my head slightly, looking out the window, I noticed the sky a perfect shade of blue; light clouds drifted carelessly by in the distance. I turned back and found my uncle leaning in the doorway. Noticing my newly awakened state, he walked into the room taking a seat on a little straight-backed chair beside the bed.
He and my aunt were away for awhile, he said, and went on to explain how they discovered my suitcase sitting on their front step, and how they found me, lying soaked and filthy in an alley a block away. I was babbling about girls, carnivals, mimes, skeletons, and an assortment of other nonsensical things. I was sick, he said, and with my temperature hovering around dangerous levels for almost three days, I drifted in and out of consciousness sporadically.
After a large meal that evening, I thanked them profusely for everything, and told them I was turning in early. I slipped out early the next morning with the air still cool, and the sidewalk slick with the morning dew. My head was full of strange memories, and I felt an intense, unexplainable, urge to get out of town.
So, I woke up.
I regained consciousness cocooned in the warmth of a down duvet with my head resting in a nest of feather pillows. A warm breeze blew in through the open window, bringing with it the light cotton curtains, and the homely scent of baking bread. Turning my head slightly, looking out the window, I noticed the sky a perfect shade of blue; light clouds drifted carelessly by in the distance. I turned back and found my uncle leaning in the doorway. Noticing my newly awakened state, he walked into the room taking a seat on a little straight-backed chair beside the bed.
He and my aunt were away for awhile, he said, and went on to explain how they discovered my suitcase sitting on their front step, and how they found me, lying soaked and filthy in an alley a block away. I was babbling about girls, carnivals, mimes, skeletons, and an assortment of other nonsensical things. I was sick, he said, and with my temperature hovering around dangerous levels for almost three days, I drifted in and out of consciousness sporadically.
After a large meal that evening, I thanked them profusely for everything, and told them I was turning in early. I slipped out early the next morning with the air still cool, and the sidewalk slick with the morning dew. My head was full of strange memories, and I felt an intense, unexplainable, urge to get out of town.
So, I woke up.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
flight
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is your author speaking. From my crew, and myself, I'd like to welcome you aboard Enigma Airways flight 023. We are currently flying at an altitude of immeasurable height above Mare Confusio, and are cruising at the speed of thought.
If you were to look out the starboard side of the aircraft on a clear day, you might be able to see the ancient cities of Love and Conflict below you. Out of the windows on the port side, you might see Plot and Character Development. As it is, flying over the thick cloud cover we’re experiencing today, you’ll be lucky to catch a glimpse of Perfect Confusion.
So, on behalf of Enigma Airways, I'd like to wish you an enjoyable stay at your final destination. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.
If you were to look out the starboard side of the aircraft on a clear day, you might be able to see the ancient cities of Love and Conflict below you. Out of the windows on the port side, you might see Plot and Character Development. As it is, flying over the thick cloud cover we’re experiencing today, you’ll be lucky to catch a glimpse of Perfect Confusion.
So, on behalf of Enigma Airways, I'd like to wish you an enjoyable stay at your final destination. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Dream: Part Four
As he rounded a tight corner, the stilted skeleton produced a bottle from beneath his heavy black greatcoat. He tossed his head back, taking a swig from the bottle, and then blew the liquid across the flame of his bundled torches producing a tremendous blaze which lit up evening sky. The young girl raised a hand to shield her face from the intense heat, and as she did so the towering skeleton somehow leaned down to within a foot of her, and a giant toothy grin spread across his sallow face. I could almost feel her heart leap, myself, as I watched her dark, almond shaped eyes dance with fear. The skeleton rose up to full height again, laughing maniacally toward the churning blanket of tumultuous grey clouds.
The carnival disappeared around a corner and the crowd closed in behind it, swallowing it up. The smaller children laughed and cheered as they trailed behind the older ones, running as fast as their little legs could carry them, splashing through the puddles of mud. I listened carefully as the music and laughter died away, as music and laughter are want to do, fading out as the carnival moved on. As I looked back to the young girl, she popped her head out into the rain, glanced to her right and left down the street, and ran across, disappearing down a darkened alleyway. I called out for her so stop, but she didn’t.
She needs help, I thought as I chased after her, reaching the yawning mouth of the alley just in time to see her slight silhouette disappearing around the opposite corner. I called her name again, to find my cry answered only with the sound of her fast-fading footsteps. A white moon peeked out from behind the clouds, flying with me overhead, as I bolted down the alley after the young girl, my footsteps echoing in my ears and my heart beating in my chest.
The carnival disappeared around a corner and the crowd closed in behind it, swallowing it up. The smaller children laughed and cheered as they trailed behind the older ones, running as fast as their little legs could carry them, splashing through the puddles of mud. I listened carefully as the music and laughter died away, as music and laughter are want to do, fading out as the carnival moved on. As I looked back to the young girl, she popped her head out into the rain, glanced to her right and left down the street, and ran across, disappearing down a darkened alleyway. I called out for her so stop, but she didn’t.
She needs help, I thought as I chased after her, reaching the yawning mouth of the alley just in time to see her slight silhouette disappearing around the opposite corner. I called her name again, to find my cry answered only with the sound of her fast-fading footsteps. A white moon peeked out from behind the clouds, flying with me overhead, as I bolted down the alley after the young girl, my footsteps echoing in my ears and my heart beating in my chest.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Dream: Part Three
Despite the weather, the narrow streets were dense with people, on the ground huddled beneath umbrellas, sitting up in trees, and leaning over the tiny, wrought iron balconies of the plaster-walled townhouses lining the street. I leapt up, banging furiously on my uncles door, and was dismayed when he still didn't answer. Picking myself up off the stairs, I decided that I would wander off in search of alternate lodgings.
As I fumbled slowly through the masses of cheering people, lightning would periodically flash, followed by a thunderclap crashing through the air, which would temporarily drown out the horn section of the band, leaving only the deep, reverberating sound of the drum pulsing hypnotically through the electrified air. I pushed past a group of people to find myself in a clearing amongst the crowd, and, looking over, was struck by the sight of a sad young girl.
She crouched gloomily in a darkened doorway, staring with a peculiar nervousness at the passing carnival as she attempted to shelter herself from the heavy rain. She was already soaked to the bone however; the rain plastered her lengthy black hair down about her slender face, and her thin, flowered sundress clung to her willowy frame. Her feet were naked and covered in mud up past her ankles and she shivered as she leaned against the crumbling plaster wall, fingering a string of turquoise beads. She crossed her breast in prayer and muttered something unintelligible beneath her breath.
As I fumbled slowly through the masses of cheering people, lightning would periodically flash, followed by a thunderclap crashing through the air, which would temporarily drown out the horn section of the band, leaving only the deep, reverberating sound of the drum pulsing hypnotically through the electrified air. I pushed past a group of people to find myself in a clearing amongst the crowd, and, looking over, was struck by the sight of a sad young girl.
She crouched gloomily in a darkened doorway, staring with a peculiar nervousness at the passing carnival as she attempted to shelter herself from the heavy rain. She was already soaked to the bone however; the rain plastered her lengthy black hair down about her slender face, and her thin, flowered sundress clung to her willowy frame. Her feet were naked and covered in mud up past her ankles and she shivered as she leaned against the crumbling plaster wall, fingering a string of turquoise beads. She crossed her breast in prayer and muttered something unintelligible beneath her breath.
Saturday, October 25, 2003
Dream: Part Two
Sometime later as we pulled up to the address, one of a long row of aged townhouses in the old neighbourhood, I dropped a few bills into the driver's hand, retrieved my suitcase, and was left standing, unsteadily, in the narrow cobblestone street. I caught the scent of oranges as I shielded my eyes against the sun and the too-bright sky, yelling up to an open second-story window, "Uncle!" My voice echoed through the unpopulated lane. There was no answer so I called out again, with the same result.
I walked up to the door and, finding no buzzer, took hold of the brass knocker and rapped frantically. There was still no answer. Flipping aside the cover of the wrought iron spy-hole, I peered through to the interior of the sparsely decorated house, and called out again. Nothing. Suddenly feeling faint, I sat down on the stairs and lost consciousness, with citrus on my mind.
I awoke, drenched, in the early evening beneath a dark canopy of thunderclouds, surprised to find a carnival making its way past me through the narrow, winding maze of cobblestone streets. Relentless, the rain poured down on the spectators and participants alike, drenching the floats, soaking musicians, and turning the ground to a sea of mud, causing the clowns and mimes to slip and slide their way through their routines. A two-story, fire-juggling, stilted skeleton weaved and wobbled with tremendous difficulty, navigating its way between the clowns, with his head among the thick, gloomy clouds.
I walked up to the door and, finding no buzzer, took hold of the brass knocker and rapped frantically. There was still no answer. Flipping aside the cover of the wrought iron spy-hole, I peered through to the interior of the sparsely decorated house, and called out again. Nothing. Suddenly feeling faint, I sat down on the stairs and lost consciousness, with citrus on my mind.
I awoke, drenched, in the early evening beneath a dark canopy of thunderclouds, surprised to find a carnival making its way past me through the narrow, winding maze of cobblestone streets. Relentless, the rain poured down on the spectators and participants alike, drenching the floats, soaking musicians, and turning the ground to a sea of mud, causing the clowns and mimes to slip and slide their way through their routines. A two-story, fire-juggling, stilted skeleton weaved and wobbled with tremendous difficulty, navigating its way between the clowns, with his head among the thick, gloomy clouds.
Personal Space
Him: Can I help you with something?
Me: Probably not.
-Silence.
Him: Are you sure? Because...
Me: Whatever do you mean?
Him: There's plenty of other seats...
Me: No, there are plenty of other seats.
Him: What?
Me: Oh, nothing.
Him: On the train I mean - the train's empty.
Me: You're right.
Him: Yes, and you sat right here. Beside me.
Me: Right again.
Him: Well, why not somewhere else?
Me: I sat here so I could correct your grammar.
Him: What?
Me: Forget it. Anyway, what's so wrong with sitting here?
Him: There's a hundred other seats!
Me: But this one's made for two...
-Silence.
Him: Never mind - I'll move.
Me: Suit yourself.
Me: Probably not.
-Silence.
Him: Are you sure? Because...
Me: Whatever do you mean?
Him: There's plenty of other seats...
Me: No, there are plenty of other seats.
Him: What?
Me: Oh, nothing.
Him: On the train I mean - the train's empty.
Me: You're right.
Him: Yes, and you sat right here. Beside me.
Me: Right again.
Him: Well, why not somewhere else?
Me: I sat here so I could correct your grammar.
Him: What?
Me: Forget it. Anyway, what's so wrong with sitting here?
Him: There's a hundred other seats!
Me: But this one's made for two...
-Silence.
Him: Never mind - I'll move.
Me: Suit yourself.
Friday, October 24, 2003
Dream: Part One
I was already feeling feverish as the small, stuffy plane taxied to a rather shaky stop on the heavily-trafficked tarmac. As I deplaned beneath the blazing sun, I unenthusiastically waved goodbye to my three flight-mates - a septuagenarian couple and their yappy Chihuahua.
After excavating my well-traveled suitcase from the shade of the plane's belly, I retreated, squinting under the bright sun, to the comfort of the airport. I knew I'd be able to wile away at least a couple of hours in the air-conditioning, as I picked my way through the maze of bureaucracies, and labyrinths of red tape, seemingly reserved just for me.
Four hours later I was sitting, extremely ill and mentally drained, in the backseat of a taxicab on route to my uncle's house. I realized only then that it was at least ten years since I even talked to him last and there was no telling if he would recognize me in my sickened state. Things only became more ominous as I then remembered that I had forgotten to telephone him, warning him of my arrival.
The pallid condition of my face shocked me as I caught a glimpse of my ghastly reflection in the rear-view mirror. We were stuck in rush hour traffic, and the sun was literally cooking me alive inside the car. I rolled down my window, seeking some sort of breeze, some refuge from the cramped air of the interior, but succeeded only in letting in a barrage of even hotter air combined with honking and car exhaust. I immediately leaned out the window and vomited on the pavement below.
After excavating my well-traveled suitcase from the shade of the plane's belly, I retreated, squinting under the bright sun, to the comfort of the airport. I knew I'd be able to wile away at least a couple of hours in the air-conditioning, as I picked my way through the maze of bureaucracies, and labyrinths of red tape, seemingly reserved just for me.
Four hours later I was sitting, extremely ill and mentally drained, in the backseat of a taxicab on route to my uncle's house. I realized only then that it was at least ten years since I even talked to him last and there was no telling if he would recognize me in my sickened state. Things only became more ominous as I then remembered that I had forgotten to telephone him, warning him of my arrival.
The pallid condition of my face shocked me as I caught a glimpse of my ghastly reflection in the rear-view mirror. We were stuck in rush hour traffic, and the sun was literally cooking me alive inside the car. I rolled down my window, seeking some sort of breeze, some refuge from the cramped air of the interior, but succeeded only in letting in a barrage of even hotter air combined with honking and car exhaust. I immediately leaned out the window and vomited on the pavement below.
random 2
Man, now I'm feeling all motivated and stuff.
Today I'm gonna teach cars to act more like trucks, trolleys to behave as well as subways do. I'm feeling so lucky to be alive, that I'm finally going to get around to peeing on the third rail just to see if it electrocutes me. And surviving that, I'll take it as a sign that I should build a bigger, better grilled-cheese sandwich. Also, there's a grey squirrel down my street who looks as though he could use some counseling; word has it, that the red squirrels have been hassling him about the colour of his hair, and the black squirrels have been pestering his kids.
Today I will fix all of these things.
I will make my neighbourhood whole again.
Today I'm gonna teach cars to act more like trucks, trolleys to behave as well as subways do. I'm feeling so lucky to be alive, that I'm finally going to get around to peeing on the third rail just to see if it electrocutes me. And surviving that, I'll take it as a sign that I should build a bigger, better grilled-cheese sandwich. Also, there's a grey squirrel down my street who looks as though he could use some counseling; word has it, that the red squirrels have been hassling him about the colour of his hair, and the black squirrels have been pestering his kids.
Today I will fix all of these things.
I will make my neighbourhood whole again.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
will
I'm sitting here beneath the moon on a rock facing the lake, watching the waves with a pad of paper turned to a blank page on which I might record my thoughts. The moonlight skips gingerly across the water and I look around as soft snowflakes the size of silver dollars flutter down around me out of the inky black sky. From my earphones, Will Oldham
croons something about idle hands into my ears.
Suddenly, a deafening crash comes from two train cars connecting at the station behind me and my peaceful reverie is broken. My mind refuses to draw any crafty metaphors on life from either the waves or the trains, so my page remains blank. My mind however is now active.
And I am dreaming.
croons something about idle hands into my ears.
Suddenly, a deafening crash comes from two train cars connecting at the station behind me and my peaceful reverie is broken. My mind refuses to draw any crafty metaphors on life from either the waves or the trains, so my page remains blank. My mind however is now active.
And I am dreaming.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Versus/Verses
"It's a beautiful piece."
"It could be."
"You're a gifted writer."
"Who says I'm a writer?"
"Well, you wrote this."
"I suppose."
"You must be an avid reader."
"That's rather presumptuous, don't you think?"
"Surely if you write, you must read."
"One would think. Perhaps you should try it."
"What, read?"
"Sure."
"I see you're a poet of a rather cryptic nature."
"Is there another kind?"
"I suppose not."
"Then you know, now, the type of man who stands before you."
"Um..."
"Go. Run along. I see you've become uncomfortable."
"Well, it's been a real treat talking to you."
"Didn't you drop an h?"
"What?"
"Never mind. I just thought one of your words was lacking something."
"Uh..."
"Adieu."
"It could be."
"You're a gifted writer."
"Who says I'm a writer?"
"Well, you wrote this."
"I suppose."
"You must be an avid reader."
"That's rather presumptuous, don't you think?"
"Surely if you write, you must read."
"One would think. Perhaps you should try it."
"What, read?"
"Sure."
"I see you're a poet of a rather cryptic nature."
"Is there another kind?"
"I suppose not."
"Then you know, now, the type of man who stands before you."
"Um..."
"Go. Run along. I see you've become uncomfortable."
"Well, it's been a real treat talking to you."
"Didn't you drop an h?"
"What?"
"Never mind. I just thought one of your words was lacking something."
"Uh..."
"Adieu."
Monday, October 13, 2003
The Mindful Thief.
Mmm, hey, I was dozing off at work last night, and I kept having this same little dream. It was kind of like series of a short movies, with a repeating cast of characters, acting out the same scene over and over again. (I think to infinity, but it's so hard to tell in dreams, you know?)
A man was fleeing from the police down the rain-soaked coast of British Columbia in a stolen Lincoln Continental. The moon wrung its heady light onto the windshield and it streamed up the glass in a hundred tiny rivers as the long car sped down the murky highway. All at once, it skidded to a stop beneath a dark canopy of trees, which stood wringing the contents of their luscious leaves upon its steaming hood. The man vaulted from the car, covering his head with his jacket, and squelched through the mud between the clusters of big rigs; he was making his way toward an inviting truck stop in the distance. Once inside, shivering and sodden, the man collected a coffee, black, from the obese waitress and settled into a booth with his back against the wall. Nothing to do but wait, he thought, I just don't feel safe driving in this weather.
A man was fleeing from the police down the rain-soaked coast of British Columbia in a stolen Lincoln Continental. The moon wrung its heady light onto the windshield and it streamed up the glass in a hundred tiny rivers as the long car sped down the murky highway. All at once, it skidded to a stop beneath a dark canopy of trees, which stood wringing the contents of their luscious leaves upon its steaming hood. The man vaulted from the car, covering his head with his jacket, and squelched through the mud between the clusters of big rigs; he was making his way toward an inviting truck stop in the distance. Once inside, shivering and sodden, the man collected a coffee, black, from the obese waitress and settled into a booth with his back against the wall. Nothing to do but wait, he thought, I just don't feel safe driving in this weather.
Thursday, October 9, 2003
So, the dream:
I'm driving across the flatlands of southern Alberta in a big gold convertible beneath the blazing sun. It's over ninety degrees, and dusty as hell. I'm dreaming, I think. In the back seat reclines a kooky girl in a brightly printed sundress; her slender legs - dancer's legs - are kicked up over the headrest of the passenger seat, distracting me. Glancing at her feet, I realize I'm driving with only one shoe on and I turn to the girl saying, "We'll talk about this in the next town." She just throws her head back and laughs maniacally, tossing her tousled hair in the wind. It's true; I know that we might never get there. Instead we'll drive, endlessly, across this wasteland of the mind.
Like all dreams, I have no idea what this means.
Like all dreams, I have no idea what this means.
random
I had this dream. I won't say that it was a strange dream, because something about that sounds redundant to me, but it was a dream nonetheless.
First of all, I was having the worst trouble getting to sleep. The word "it's" was really starting to bother me. It just kind of popped into my head and I realized that "it's" is a contraction for two different sets of words, "it is" and "it has". It momentarily blew my mind that I had not thought of this before, and I wanted answers damn it!
After thinking about it some, I found that I would never use "it's" for "it has" in any of my writing, but I use it freely in speech.
[NOTE: If this is putting you to sleep, get out now and don't look back. This is exactly the kind of boring crap that I think about, and that, apparently, keeps me awake at night.]
Playing around with it in my head, I found that "it's" for "it has" is not as versatile as "it's" for "it is". For instance you could not use "it's" in the following sentence: "It has eight legs." So, "it's" as a contraction for "it has" is only acceptable when the "has" is part of a verb. Interesting.
Then, playing around with it some more, I discovered that it can be even more versatile in other ways - you can use the contraction for other pronouns as well, as in "she's a really good friend."
The plot was thickening. I immediately jumped out of bed to pursue some answers.
I checked, first, the Oxford English Dictionary to make sure that both uses were acceptable. Turns out that they are indeed.
"it's contraction of
- it is: it's my fault.
- it has: it's been a hot day"
Couldn't really find much else with a standard Google search, but just knowing that the good ol' OED was on my side, helped me rest easier.
But, I decided that I still won't use said contraction for "it has" in any of my writing. And, as an aside, for formal writing it's best to expand all contractions, then there's no worries.
Wow, that turned out to be longer than expected. I think I'll save the dream for another post.
First of all, I was having the worst trouble getting to sleep. The word "it's" was really starting to bother me. It just kind of popped into my head and I realized that "it's" is a contraction for two different sets of words, "it is" and "it has". It momentarily blew my mind that I had not thought of this before, and I wanted answers damn it!
After thinking about it some, I found that I would never use "it's" for "it has" in any of my writing, but I use it freely in speech.
[NOTE: If this is putting you to sleep, get out now and don't look back. This is exactly the kind of boring crap that I think about, and that, apparently, keeps me awake at night.]
Playing around with it in my head, I found that "it's" for "it has" is not as versatile as "it's" for "it is". For instance you could not use "it's" in the following sentence: "It has eight legs." So, "it's" as a contraction for "it has" is only acceptable when the "has" is part of a verb. Interesting.
Then, playing around with it some more, I discovered that it can be even more versatile in other ways - you can use the contraction for other pronouns as well, as in "she's a really good friend."
The plot was thickening. I immediately jumped out of bed to pursue some answers.
I checked, first, the Oxford English Dictionary to make sure that both uses were acceptable. Turns out that they are indeed.
"it's contraction of
- it is: it's my fault.
- it has: it's been a hot day"
Couldn't really find much else with a standard Google search, but just knowing that the good ol' OED was on my side, helped me rest easier.
But, I decided that I still won't use said contraction for "it has" in any of my writing. And, as an aside, for formal writing it's best to expand all contractions, then there's no worries.
Wow, that turned out to be longer than expected. I think I'll save the dream for another post.
Wednesday, October 8, 2003
beginning
I never thought I'd do it. In fact, I swore that I never would. But, alas, I was inspired by my friend, Joel. So, I've started a blog.
Now, I thought for sure that all blogs were tacky, trite, and angst-ridden - in fact, I thought that it was a requirement - but lately I've been proven wrong. They have their uses.
I suppose.
So here it is - everything that I care to show you.
Now, I thought for sure that all blogs were tacky, trite, and angst-ridden - in fact, I thought that it was a requirement - but lately I've been proven wrong. They have their uses.
I suppose.
So here it is - everything that I care to show you.
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