wildcat

THE RULES: List five songs that you are currently loving. It doesn’t matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying right now. Post these instructions, the artists, and the songs in your blog, then ‘tag’ five other bloggers/friends to see what they’re listening to.

1. "Sinnerman," by Nina Simone.
2. "The Sound of Silence," by Simon & Garfunkel.
3. "Get out of my house," by the Streets.
4. "Adam Lives in Theory," Lauryn Hill.
5. "Heart of Gold," by Neil Young.

Tagging: Samara, Richard, Tara, Michael, and Amanda.

Great Puppet Death Scenes was a well-constructed assemblage of theatre, but ultimately failed to anything more than mediocre with a lot of potential, simply because I suspect the script could have used some more workshopping. The use of sets and the puppets themselves were brilliant in many cases, but the script itself lacked proper pacing. Many of the more captivating death scenes occurred early on which certain caught the audience's attention, but they ran out and then we were left with long periods of dull sequences that went nowhere or really failed to mean anything whatsoever. If they'd cut up the brilliant bits and spread them out more, or simply cut away some of the more mediocre elements, the scripts could have been quite beautiful.

Anyway. If nobody calls me in to work I'll spend the day working on "Queen of Coins," and reading. I used the gift certificate to Bolen Books that my dad gave me for Christmas, finally: Monstrous Regiment, by Terry Pratchett. The Selected Stories of Patricia Highsmith. The Final Solution, a strange detective story by Michael Chabon. Another Roadside Attraction. I might hit the Pratchett or the Highsmith while I work on the story.

Boiling my first batch of pasta at the new place, on a gas stove. A lot of the rules about cooking that I'm used to have to be carefully examined and re-evaluated. I've got CBC on, they're talking about some Middle-Eastern controversy about editorial cartoons, only they've just switched to a band called "Immaculate Machine," from Victoria. We'll see how it goes.

I wrote something for a while, discarded it, got back to work on "Queen of Coins," failed to produce anything on that story that could be considered worthwhile, so now I'm making dinner and after that I'll work on the story again, possibly. It's at that dangerous part, where I'm unsure if the story's going to actually amount to anything, or it's going to end up in the trash heap with the novella and all the other stories that went nowhere and committed suicide right before my eyes. I need to get a solid rhythm going. Maybe I need to have a drink or something to loosen my tie, as it were. Sadly, not a drop in the house so I think I'm just going to stare at the screen until my brilliance opens like a lotus and BAM! Instant wordology.

Or I'll sit and read for a while. I need to get into more of a routine around here, I've been up since seven o'clock this morning and didn't accomplish nearly enough. I chatted with one of the other tenants for a little while after he locked himself out of the building (very Holly Golightly, which I suppose makes me Andy Rooney's terribly racist Chinese stereotype).

Well, I'm not even sure Andy Rooney was supposed to be Chinese. More like generically Asiatic, a product of the Sixties, a product of the Sixties derived from a story taking place in the Forties. Hmm.

Might take a crack at the Angela Carter story tonight.

Impasse! I have hit a point which may be the end, which feels like an end, but it is not satisfying in a literary sense (regardless of being open or closed) and it's more that the story sputters out of steam. If anything, this "ending" feels more like it should the beginning of the story, I should cut out the previous eight pages and start from that point. Or that this is a novel, which is a frightening prospect.

The opening sequence from this draft:

It is an argument over bus fare; Caroline holds out her hand and says, "No, but don't you see, all I've got is one dollar and seventy-five cents. I have counted it exactly." To the nickel, in fact, a fat sun in her palm for the other coins to rotate around. Ha. For this she has climbed up off the curb in her boots and red-and-black striped socks? For this rounded, auburn-curled bus driver to deny her over a missing quarter? "I am on a mission of utmost importance, sir."

There is another scene which I need to write and insert into the story.

Where does this leave me? I'm not sure. I might write the missing scene and stick it in, then start the next draft with the ending as a beginning, go from there. It's only 7:30, surely I can be productive this evening. If I include the missing scene I'll have a completed draft to show Joy on Monday night, and if I start the next draft as well - which is, let's face it, completely reworking what I've got from the ground up, rather than a set of revisions.

I'm not sure how well the Holy Grail elements are working with the story, how much they hold it back. The tone certainly changes at one point near the end, and the whole thing fails to feel smooth or natural. The main character does not interact wholeheartedly with those few characters around her, but she also fails to interact with the environment. I'm also uncertain of the Jeanne D'Arc aspect I introduced, comes in a bit too close to the end; I like it and would like to expand on it, but it might clash with the Holy Grail too much. I could simply focus attention to the mission through the Jeanne D'Arc metaphor more than the Knights of the Round Table.

I like the metal imagery, but need to develop it and the image system as a whole more.

Morning after my first night in the Margaret Atwood Boarding House. I've got on Lamb's self-titled album. Some updates on the care & feeding of a new apartment:

1. The lack of curtain on the big window didn't really bother me last night - in fact, I went to bed before midnight for once and fell asleep quite quickly - but during the day it has a certain discomfort to it, because my desk and computer are in front of the window and it looks out onto the house next door. Not a problem, because the slanted roof as interesting pipes coming off of it, a pleasing visual texture, some greenery, and quite a lot of intricate detailing. However, there is a window sort of diagonal to me on the house next door, and occasionally the girl that lives over there opens the blinds, gives me a weird look, and then goes away to do whatever it is she does. My window is quite a bit bigger than hers, so I would like to occasionally close a curtain when I'm, say, naked and running around the apartment looking for underwear. However, I'm getting a lot of light in here, the view's good, and the window opens.

2. I actually have a plant in the house, one of the little ones Christian potted in glass jars before he left the country. I could have probably taken more than one of them with me but decided that, as with children, if I only have one there's less chance I'll accidentally neglect it and cause it to wither away. Additionally, Danielle said it's developed some sort of a bacterial symbiote which is keeping it alive. Surrogate parenting.

3. I would say that the apartment is about 3/4 set up. I need to figure out some storage possibilities and organize things. Ultimately, I suspect the second half of the comics are simply going to live in those cardboard boxes under the cupboards because they aren't in the way. Most of my bathroom stuff is in here, although I've now moved the shower stuff onto a shelf in the washroom.

4. The cupboard is a bit mismatched, but working out well. I need more dishcloths and washcloths, but that will come with time. I am surprised at how few dishes I actually use, though, and am keeping up with the task of washing them.

5. The shower, like all showers, has its quirks but the pressure is fantastic. There isn't enough shelf-space in the actual stall to have shampoo, body wash, and facial cleanser all in there at the same time, so I washed my face afterward and just leave the shampoo on the floor in between use. There's also a wooden shelving unit to store things on in there. I managed to cut down my shower time from the usual twenty minutes to five. I seem to have left my loofah at the townhouse, but I might have been time to get a new one anyway.

6. Phantom Phonograph is positioned between the desk and the bed, so I can listen to it early in the morning/late at night/while I'm working. I've also managed to get quite a bit of work on this story here, so I definitely feel the space is naturally geared toward a literary career.

1. I didn't actually see her today, but for some reason the light in the window across the way flashed on and off like a strobe light for five minutes. I don't mean flickering; someone was clearly over there, standing at the switch, flicking up and down for five minutes.

2. Much like a small child, I have discovered the radiator. I open it, and I close it. The heat is regulated in this fashion. Heat which is included in the cost of my rent.

3. My body is a ragged doll at the moment, obliterated by the hangover I gave myself due to extreme drinking last night. Michael woke up this morning saying the words "It's very true," with regard to something in one of his dreams. It has been that kind of day: very true. Or, alternatively, really fucked up. I sat - which is to say, I stood, with my hip cocked while an elderly German woman berated me because of a work issue which had nothing to do with me, the result of which was me encouraging her to contact her municipality to encourage them to give the publich library system more funding. Additionally, Joy & Matt showed up with Auntie Mame in hand.

4. I came home to new apartment and played with the radiator and watched a couple discs of Dead Like Me instead of going out for coffee with Daniel (doing that on Tuesday instead) and dreaming of light.

Writing night, hencewith, tonight. I'm going to show Joy the "Queen of Coins" story and she'll show me the story she's been working on. "Coins" needs a major overhaul, and I have a clearer idea of what the central image and theme should be. I think. Otherwise, I want to write postcard stories and microfiction for a while, some short-shorts.

I need to send out some more submissions. I also need to research the process of putting together a manuscript and looking for an agent. Which won't really happen until one of those [expletive deleted] lit magazines publishes one of my [expletive deleted] short stories. And this has absolutely nothing to do with Margaret [expletive deleted] Atwood's new [expletive deleted] book of micro-[expletive deleted]-fiction, The Tent. [expletive deleted] it.

Going to waltz grocery-store-wise in a few minutes to pick up a couple things so I have something decent to eat for dinner before I head out.

1. Not unlike the Bolshevik revolution.

"You can use my giraffes," he said, arms raised as if to God: "You can use my giraffes, people. I have no use for them anymore, you may ride them to the grocery store and the post office. I will not judge you." And the rich man opened the doors of his mansion, stale air expelled in a long and sweaty hiccup. They emerged -- his giraffes, each one as pale as copper and galloping over pedicured lawns, past wrough iron gates. Into the streets. Of course the people tried to bridle them and force their heads to touch pavement in submission but no! These giraffes would accept no further servitude, these giraffes were rank with vegetarian rage, they trampled the people beneath their hooves. Spots spattered with blood. And deep within, the greatest giraffe philosophers plotted a new economy...

2. An uncertain future is predicted.

Twelve months into the first giraffe administration and still mired in leftover human tax laws that failed to work, the long-necked utopia showed the first cracks of a possible collapse. The other G7 nations were in talks over trade embargos and the president was left to scapegoat that last human chump; this was his only chance for re-election. The zebras were said to be restless, arming themselves, while the gazelles grew slack-jawed on Doritos and domestic beer. Domestic! Where was the wild? Quelled and buried under human baggage from the previous government. Who knew what would happen with the humans more vicious now, their thumbs would have to be removed. There would have to be a national campaign to inoculate against the meat-eating principle, even with the wildcats watching, waiting to call an election...

3. The media is the enemy.

I did not want to return Mister Parker's call. I did not want to discuss the matter of giraffe foreign policy with a clenched carnivore faggot such as Parker, known for his numerous trolley car indiscretions and his rather short neck. Thailand in particular was an issue, loud and angry over our decisions regarding international tourism. This man, Parker, would only serve up what his media contacts desired, an unsteady administration caught unable to reach the tallest branches anymore. War was out of the question, of course; too much time had been spent proving ourselves to be morally superior to the hairless anthropods, regardless of that violent coup that pushed us into power. The people could not be encouraged to look back and analyze that particular event; interests would be compromised.

(c) 2006 Ben Rawluk, all rights reserved.

(For Joy's, go here)

1. Tomorrow morning I am going to tromp [to tromp, v. "to wildly step with knees almost to elbow height."] around the corner to the Sparkle-Bright Laundromat with my wicker hamper, a box of laundry detergent, and a bag full of reading material. I may bring with me my copy of Paranoia in the Laundrette, by one Bruce Robinson who I just discovered wrote my dearly beloved Withnail & I. I'm still letting that sink in. I will fill my pockets with change [lit. "pocket change."] and I'll sit in the laundromat while my clothing is washed. Then I have to head off to Joy's place in time for the tail end of the National Playlist so we can go pick out a curtain for me and engage in the timely art of pen & paper word association in a coffee shop somewhere in between our places.

2. I'm not sure I can rightly say why I feel the need [cliché. "feel the need" = "delusional experience of a falsified necessity."] to number my paragraphs on here.

3. I'm going to fix myself something to drink in a moment.

4. "Queen of Coins" is undergoing revision. Draft #3, all well and good, if slow. I've shuffled over a couple scenes, but I haven't reached the vitally important later ones that need to be almost completely rewritten. One of our best writers critiqued the story with me on Monday night, offering a lot of constructive criticism. She is probably one of my best editors. She improved my despicable ending with the deletion of one sentence.

I'm nearly at my limit for hours this week, so I'm taking a mental health day. I'll call Joy later to go pick up some sangria (cheap sangria), maybe call Steph, and Michael's going to join up when his class is over. Tend to let myself get too tied up in having enough hours and working as much as possible, but I need to remember all these people in my life, including me. And if I worked today, it would be Day 7 of a ten day stretch.

Well, that was lame and touchy-feely. I have curtains! I some yellow fabric to put over the right side of the window, and a purple sarong to put over the left side. Fairly makeshift but they work, and I can pull them back to let in sunlight as need be. Adds some colour to the apartment as well, which is still looking like a half-finished sketch pulled out of a sketchbook. I went looking for the curtains with Joy yesterday before work, we wandered around and had lunch at Matt's deli, she accompanied me to check the week's comics, and then found a weird little Japanese cafe over by where Peabody's used to be. Did some writing there; she managed to get something good going but my attempts were negligible and ultimately abortive.

Some days, I just don't know.

World is a distraction from the Great Work. I wrote my morning pages over hot chocolate and luckily there were no screaming mothers/weeping babies in earshot to bother my sentences. The result was some overblown paragraphs that I might need to show to somebody before I do anything with them. I'm thinking that I must call in our Lady of Perpetual Stephanie to do so. Call her later. Shortly thereafter, I went to work.

Both A Wrinkle in Time and Harold & Kumar Go to Whitecastle came through work today, so I have my work cut out for me. Expect some reviews in the next day or to, give or take -- I'm going to be quite busy, I think.

I read Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time today. Well, re-read it -- I think I was about ten or eleven the first time, maybe. Possibly nine. It was one of my favourite books as a wee lad, and having read Phillip Pullman's The Golden Compass recently, I was struck by the urge to pick it up again. So much so that I managed to get Joy to read it as well, she read it last week and loved it.

It holds up very well, considering the distance in years between point A (Ben at nine years old) and point B (Ben at twenty-five years old). It intrigues me because it follows the storyline I had the "ingenious" idea to write, but never did: the story of the other child. Like many children's fantasy stories, A Wrinkle in Time has a chosen one, a child of special significance and potentially of prophecies. Charles Wallace is the little boy in this case, a six-year-old with astonishing intelligence and telepathy. The usual chestnuts. However, he is not the narrative focus of the story. His older sister Meg is. Meg is the other child -- despite her mathematical strengths, Meg is apparently quite plain, unremarkable, and doesn't fit in or feel that she has any particular abilities. However, she drives the narrative forward and ultimately the action hinges on her decisions. While Charles Wallace is the intellectual superior, Meg proves to be the emotional one, the nurturing and noble character. Her faults are her strengths.

L'Engle's prose is simple and to the point, but certainly has it's flourishes of word choice without the pedantic sentence structures or rhythms of a more "adult" work. I think I'm going to practice writing in her style for a while, simply because she's very clear and to the point, without abandoning a sense of poetry. The major-most flaw I can see in the text is one of pacing; events happen too quickly, which may have simply been an effect of the format. But she could have spent more time on the intricacies of the universe -- not explaining, but exploring. We could have done well to see, say, the two-dimensional planet they briefly end up on. At times, supporting characters will remain in absolute silence despite being present for too long; Meg & Charles Wallace's father, for example, and Calvin O'Keefe. They could have been expanded a bit more to offer different perspectives on the crisis.

One thing L'Engle does very well is finding a balance between Science & Religion, reason & faith. Neither concept is presented as more important or "true" than the other, they often reflect each other nicely, and both are presented with an element of...dimension which is meant to suggest that human understanding of either concept, that human understanding of the universe is incomplete, and joyfully so. They're presented less as ways of looking at the world than as parts of a larger way we're meant to look at the world, which incorporates both. Much more satisfying than either the all-consuming religious subtext of C.S. Lewis, or the cruel dismissal of religion of Phillip Pullman. L'Engle manages to synthesize concepts without pandering to the audience, and she deftly avoids the warm-fuzzies simply by acknowledging that things like the Fear are important, and as necessary as everything else. No definitive end to conflict is offered by A Wrinkle in Time, the universe will probably never achieve total paradise, but it offers the simple idea that the fight against the dark things has to go on.

Still recommended, sixteen years later.

He dressed his best to go to the bar; jeans two sizes too small to make him look top-heavy with his stomach hung over the waistline. Anything to show some skin, excite the ladies. Stretch marks were popular, the tiny imperfections of mole and stray hair. He downed a shot of tequila and pushed the back of his wrist along his mouth, sloppy and fattened lips up against tanned skin. Too many hours in the sun, these days, not enough moonlight. But, come sundown, he pulled on his too-tight jeans and some T-shirt -- he liked to go with the James Dean serial killer look, plain white and nothing but. That seemed to pull the ladies as well, something about an empty canvas ready to be painted over.

They were out there, moving through the crowd, he wondered who would make a move on him tonight, his greasy belly out like a siren - too many hamburgers for lunch, but just enough to give it the right sheen. Come on, baby. Come on. "You alone, sailor?" He wasn't a sailor, this here was a landlocked town with nary a drop of water from the sky in some years, but the word worked its own magic. He turned to her, still holding the shot glass: a pretty little thing, blonde and perky and probably underage. Well, well. "Want some company?"

There was a second girl, behind him. She pushed her hands - nice manicure - around his waist and then up, cupping his pecs. "Feeling lonely, buster?" Buster. Ha. The first girl pressed closer, and he took in the slant of her ears and new this was going to be an all-nighter, man. He scratched at the hair at the edge of his jaw that he forgot to shave. "Itchy? The second girl squeezed. "We can scratch." A glance passed between the girls, and then then turned their eyes and lips back to him. "We're very good at scratching."

He coughed, and cleared his throat. Found his voice: "You girls hungry tonight?"

The first girl laughed. "Don't you know it, sailor."

The second girl dropped a hand and began to kneed the flab on his back. "Starving, buster. Haven't eaten all day, you know. Been saving up space for a big old man to fill. You know. Fill."

He didn't even get a chance to say the magic words -- "Let's party" -- before they were on him, these girls, fur sweaty from their sudden exertion, the grind of them against him, his face, teeth. His knees gave out, too much tequila, Tom Waits roaring in the background, the sway of bodies, the bartender washing the bar while the girls went down on him, sliced into him, fed themselves on his flesh. You had to admire their style: skipping the wafer and heading straight to the Corpus Christi. As he blacked out -- oh, Heaven -- he wondered how the scars would look.

(c) 2006 Ben Rawluk, all rights reserved.

For JW

The gelatin-chair under his ass -- perfectly contoured for his ass and only his ass while his ass is on it -- fluctuates between sea-foam green and deep purple. He can't reach the nozzle -- he can't reach the nozzle! How is he supposed to get high like this, the nozzle overhead but just out of reach, he can't suckle the drug with the nozzle up there and the gelatin-chair down here, so elastic against him, so eroticized. Everything's eroticized now, things are no longer merely sensual; this chair is designed to facilitate orgasm, for example. So is the microwave, the radio, the blender. The blender, for god's sake, is designed to get him off. But he can't reach the nozzle, can't take a hit, is doomed to sit there only half-ecstatic at best. That floor lamp over there, the cool-skinned leopard print one with the dangling bulbs, it can only get him twenty-five percent of the way toward a full-blown O without the drug. Honestly! His toes will not curl, he'll just get off and then lie there indolent and dissatisfied. It won't mean anything. The same thing if he lies down on the coffee table, his orgasm will only rate a "Meh." He is too accustomed to the furniture's pornographic intentions.

(c) 2006 Ben Rawluk, all rights reserved

1. Took in Caffe [sic] Fantastico today with Steph; she had an italian soda, and I had a fairly tasteless hot chocolate. I think I might try the italian soda next time, I haven't had one of those since back in the day in PG, when Matthew and I would slouch our way to Second Cup for overstimulated intellectual conversation next to the fireplace. A good conversation regarding magazine publication and Steph's new job, then I foisted Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides off on her because she needs something to read. The Caffe [sic] is not bad, quite literally a two minute walk from the Margaret Atwood Boarding House, so I suspect I'm going to spend endless hours there with my damned rantbook out, scribbling down pointless expanses of prose about HOW TRAGIC LIFE IS, or what my favourite colour is, or why I like cheese.

2. I bought today: One (1) fruit bowl. Two (2) dishcloths. One (1) set of headphones, after I killed my last pair in a tragic boating accident (read: I sat on them). One (1) copy of the Kid Eternity trade paperback, words by Grant Morrison and pictures by Duncan Fegredo -- plainly a horror comic, which creeps me out even now even though it's completely brilliant. One (1) copy of Dead Girl #2, art by Mike Allred and words by Peter Milligan -- reanimated corpses trying to cause trouble, Doctor Strange, and our favourite heroine -- Dead Girl! One (1) copy of the Across the Universe graphic novel, a compendium of Alan Moore's DC Comics work. There are several brilliant Green Lantern stories. BRILLIANT.

3. My Valentine's Day consisted of a mostly wasted day at home, trying to figure out where the hell Caffe [sic] Fantastico actually is (seriously, I should not leave my house), a new phonebook, then an phone call with Joy. I went to Michael's house for an hour because we didn't really have plans due to some scheduling mishaps, but he's so cute and I miss him very much and I gave him a plastic gorilla on the grounds that he is my monkey. I showed restraint and didn't ask him to name the gorilla after Monsieur Mallah, a French existentialist talking gorilla from the Doom Patrol comics who was in gay love with the Brain, a disembodied Nazi brain-in-a-jar. After that I went and sat at Crystal Pool until Samara & Tara were done with their bellydancing class and showed them my apartment, then we went to Fifth Street Bar & Grill for desserts.

4. It's very weird when people flirt with me at work.

5. I'm going to turn off the computer shortly and read this book on Shamanism in different parts of the world. The Uzbek section looks fascinating.

6. In honour of the dearest Matta-Hari, I've been listening to Belle & Sebastian all day.

Bombed on downtown this morning at a forty-five degree angle thanks to the winds, the winds! Michael showed up after his class and we ate excellent sandwiches at Matt's deli. Then we bopped around, kvetched about affairs of the pocketbook, ate ice cream, and then headed over to the Starfish Gallery to watch men gossip while blowing glass. Then I went to work.

M at work told me I looked like I was on a mission from God. It's very strange when your supervisor says things like this to you. He laughed when I said that I probably was, and I kept having Joan of Arc flashbacks for the rest of the afternoon. Not that Milla Jovovich version, no, the older Black & White one. I want to say Garbo, but you know. I could be thinking about something else.

I started organizing a games & beer night for the co-workers for not this weekend but the next one, maybe at the Bent Mast or the George & Dragon. I'm voting in favour of the haunted pub. I don't know why I keep organizing social gatherings for these people. I suppose it's the Golden Boy within.

Did some writing tonight! Nothing major, nothing to show for it, but you know. Happy.

I'm lame: clutching to Joy's coat-tails, here's my Johari Window. Go perpetuate my senseless self-absorption and desire for validation.

Mostly I woke up at seven and nestled the boyfriend for a while before autopilot kicked in and careened me bumper-car-style into the bathroom for a quick shower. After that it was clothes on kiss the boyfriend and onto the bus to head home so I could get some things done if I didn't get phoned to go into work.

I didn't get phoned, so instead I went and sat in the laundromat for an hour, doing my laundry. Oddly quiet at around noon on a Monday, just the surging sound of washing machines driving on and on, followed by the rumpling noise of the dryer. Does heat rumple?

Otherwise, I've spent most of the day writing. Really: this blog entry is part of a greater tapestry of the day's words. Nothing really in the way of anything I want to show anybody, but the whole day felt alive and significant or such crap like that. I shall begin a story anon, probably tomorrow because Michael's not painting the bathroom as he originally intended and I don't have to help him with that after I get off work in the afternoon. I'll work on a new story, maybe that thing in the bayou.

Burgers for breakfast, butternut squash soup for lunch, and I didn't feel like cooking anything else so I got Chinese food and now have enough to last me a couple days. Fucking rights, my son!

I need to buy some toilet paper and lightbulbs.

It's hopping downtown at work today. I start in like twenty minutes and expect it all to grind to a halt shortly thereafter. I get to work with some fine specimens and we will be discussing the BOWLING ISSUE, because I'm going to form a pinmonkey league at some point in my life or die trying.

I have every intention of going home and writing after work. I wrote for about an hour and a half before work, when I should have been eating dinner. I'll write for about an hour and a half when I get home.

I questioned the logic, initially, of naming a super-heroine Amber Waves, a name which alludes to Boogie Nights (and a Tori Amos song); in the film, the character is a coked-out porn star. However, the comic book in question -- The American Way -- is about super-heroes in the 1960s and how it was all a big marketing scam by the government, so the name actually resonates in a way. Superhero as Porn Star. They also play into the American patriotism angle in critique, which would be refreshing if I wasn't already completely desensitized to American propaganda in comic books. The comic focuses on a marketing man who faces financial ruin up until he's hired by the government to market the latest batch of superheroes to the American people; the heroes are mostly ciphers in the background. It shows some small potential.

I am a little frustrated by the trend in retro-nostalgic deconstructionist and reconstructionist (blah, blah, blah) comic books to constantly use the Justice League as a template. Seriously. At some point they need to start grasping onto a bold new direction in comics rather than having everybody invent a thinly veiled Superman archetype.

It's been Vicious Bitch Day at work today and I'm looking forward to two o'clock rolling around so I can get out of dodge. Why must the moronosphere be such a vital and active part of our planet?

The power of the Lord compels me to clean. And by "Power of the Lord," I mean, "Despair at my own ineffective day-to-day housekeeping skills." There are piles of books, papers, and shit everywhere. I've also got to do some final edits on a shortish story and get to work on the damnable bayou piece. I keep getting distracted.

I have not yet finished editing "Queen of Coins." I'm a bad person.

Power Girl in ... the Classifieds, a short film about a comic character called Power Girl, who has an extremely confusing backstory and is primarily known for her breasts. She was created in the mythic and disturbing time called the Nineteen-Seventies, and the artist in question decided to draw her breasts larger and larger with each comic she was in, to see if the editors would ever notice or react. The film's quite decent for a low budget short thing. Funny and cute. A nice attempt to do something with one of the, ahem, bigger sexist icons of comic book history.

Well, my evening of contemplative writing was derailed by playing pool with Michael. We went to Peacock's and played five games that I was spectacularly bad at except for those weird intervals where I'm suddenly preternaturally good at it, sinking three balls bang-bang-bang. Then, as usual, normal programming resumes and I'm about as skilled as a sucking chest wound. Michael acccused me of jinxing the table just because I happened to snap my fingers as he was taking his shot. We had some beers and some nachos with curiously thick sour cream and no olives because you know how olives are Michael's kryptonite.

Got home at a reasonable hour, so now I'm in my jammies, eating macaroons like the little spendthrift that I am, writing.

Joy told me that Neal Cassady's wife was named Luanne, but I looked it up for the exact spelling and he was married to a woman named Carolyn, which I remember in retrospect. I wonder who was married to Luanne. Luanne's the name of the main character in my next story, I think. There's going to be callous bad parenting during economic hardship in this one.

I was supposed to call Steff and let her know I wouldn't be able to come for dinner tomorrow but it's a little late it do it now. I might leave a message on the way to work tomorrow and leave it at that. Joy already knows, though, so all should be good.

BIG PLANS! Well, moderately large. Well, small. Narnia is playing at the Roxy with Fun with Dick & Jane, so I'm thinking: get a crew and go on Tuesday night, when it's two-fiddy for two movies. Tilda Swinton, my perfect androgynous filthy woman angel, as the White Witch. Turkish delight as solidified sin. I can deal with the Jim Carrey because I've heard decent reviews of Dick & Jane, which I gather is a caper movie and that's probably one of my favourite genres. So babies - who wants to go with Daddy? Who wants to go with Daddy?

A few succulent ideas with regard to the unnamed Rumpelstiltskin story, beyond the name "Luanne." I think I should start writing things down. Possibly sentences, arranged in paragraphs, arranged into scenes. With full, ample white space like exquisite cleavage left open for the viewer to drink in--

I have no idea where that came from.

Going to watch Raising Arizona at some point this weekend.

It's one of those days, even with the waking up with Michael and the sex and the showering and the heavenly hour of writing before work. I'm surprised I haven't shot anyone yet. The computer is serious. The patrons are serious. Everybody's serious but me. It occurs to me that I may be the library. I'm talking to myself again. I think I'm falling into a Ginsberg vortex.

Incidentally, you've won this round Margaret Atwood, but there will be other ones. Oh yes, oh yes. I'm going to get a book published and you're going to have to buy it. And I'll whisper into your ear, "Burn it to the ground."

I don't know what any of this was. This entry was brought you by the letters "W," "T," and "F."

It's probably risky, eating a tin of smoked oysters with vegetable crackers at 10:30 pm. Well, closer to 11 by now, should have gone with a bowl of the ice cream instead but you make these decisions and there you are. I have to get up very early tomorrow morning to go to work for four hours, but I'm going to spend some time working on the new story. It doesn't have a name yet. It's a dangerous story, it makes me skin crawl in places and there's something about the way it smells...

Moses sat up on Mount Sinai, labouring over the commandments because the Lord was very particular about font choice. The Lord was particular over most things. The carving was slow and, at times, undignified. "In a couple thousand years there will be these things called computers. Tools of Mammon, you know, haha, but whizz-bang with publishing," said the burning bush, conversationally. The Lord had been on like this since Moses first climbed up here, offering spot criticisms and trying to come across as a Lord of the People. "And remember, it's covet, not convert. I'm very pro-conversion."

Covet? Shit. Moses reached for a new tablet, then took a bite of the strange cake He had provided. People would probably say something about Moses being up there with no food or drink for days, anything to advertize temperance and possibly celibacy, but the Lord seemed to have a rather dubious catering contract. "Uh, what exactly is a twinkie, Lord?"

The burning bush seemed to shrug, as much as that was possible. The Lord had chosen a particularly unemotive form. "Oh, just a thought I had. Or will have, from your perspective. Have you thought about a serifed font for the commandments? I hear they're easier to read."

What? "You hear, Lord? Don't you just know, aren't you the one that makes it easier to read?" He didn't mean to doubt the Lord, but He seemed to invite it since they'd been talking up there. The Lord popped up in Moses's life a lot lately, and Moses had to remember that delivering the Torah was both an honour and an solid job opportunity. He wondered how Zipporah was, hadn't seen her in days. No doubt the sheep were wondering why they stayed here so long...

"Well, yes. Obviously. But I don't want to be domineering about it, you know, just a helpful suggestion. Acknowledging your free will and your contribution to this team."

Moses reached for another tablet.

"You know," said the Lord, "They're going to make movies about you. Epic pictures. Charleton Heston and Yul Brenner. Disney will do another one later, but it won't have the right kind of scale, in my opinion."

"They're going to make what?" Moses paused in his chiselling. He hadn't understand much of that sentence, even with the divine light from the bush.

There came a short, exasperated huff and for a moment Moses swore he heard the cluck of the Lord's invisible tongue. "Oh, never mind. You people just don't get it."

(c) 2006 Ben Rawluk, all rights reserved.