A Winning Style

Speeding ahead on a cloud of hubris, the cynic some grand figure behind, I'm reminded of earlier times, times when such things almost almost mattered. When waving to affiliates shrunken by distance was the cap of your night. When searing referrals were waged across pages in glitter and pomp. Hell, when there was a sense of c— No. I can't say it. Now, blitzed and conquered by everything from inspiration to indolence, the greatest thrill is uncertain, hiding within whatever something we've yet to try. Which isn't to distract from my central thesis: you'll need several full-time subordinates, a glut of the very best luck and another century of technological advancement to catch me.

Bearing all that in mind, zaghafte Schritte have been taken towards Wiedergeburt. What they are will have to remain a secret for the time, but know that they have followable footprints — stuff you can touch. Forgive me, it's rather difficult to express some of this in English. Was ich meine ist, dass die überwiegende unterschwellige Erotik unter mir ist Anfang bis Blase an die Oberfläche, wie so viele Gerüche. Kissen zurück, die Arme gekreuzt, ich Entleerungsvorrichtung ein Ei. Endlich, endlich!

As I streak ever further, the beguiling but bested ant stretches out in the pool, commanding the calm. Bathers beside look on in envy at a swimming suit not bursting from the body beneath and a swimmer with infallible glide. The microorganism exits the water, augustly draped in a towel, and everything else is crude, undignified. I collapse in memory. Turning back: a speck, wearing the light in the eyes of others, and infinite dots.

More on This, Some on That

I've noticed a deficiency. Whenever I stroll long into the night, alone but for a thermos and a notepad, my mind resorts to the crudest of existentialisms, so much so that I soon find myself peeling back the blind and searching the visible stars for answers. I never quite fall to my knees and bellow something embarrassing, but it's an alarming development all the same. I can only pray this acne of the soul will fade. If not sorted out in one's prime, such philosophies tend to set with age, and before you know it, you're clutching a faded tome by Germany's second greatest megalomaniac and indirectly inciting your friends and family to murder you in your sleep.

Elsewhere I've been conducting an experiment in breakfasts. Instead of the usual cup of tea and crumpet, I've taken to fixing a stout bowl of porridge, sans any adornments. I haven't yet brought myself to eat it, mind you — I don't know if it's how I make it, but it always seems to resemble offcuts of wool dropped in milk and then forgotten about. My recent breakfasts have thus consisted of little more than my sneering at the bowl in front of me, my mouth only opening to gag. The experiment will only be valid if I actually consume the stuff, so for the moment I'll just have to do without. Such is the call to publish.

And now, of course, to the weather. Though at present I'm hardly what you'd call in it, I can sufficiently recall what it was like when I was, even if that isn't exactly an accurate reflection of how it's progressed since then. Actually, that's not true. I've just spent three days not noticing such things.

Peer Here

Every so often, one feels obliged to organise what is worst called a "catch-up", a sort of vague precautionary measure against seeming overly asocial. The key is not to be too transparent about the whole business. The café was perfect: an informal yet refined venue, for the accidental yet considerate host. I drained the last of my coffee and shivered. Ben, toying with the Hawaiian slice I'd bought for him, laughed and reached for his hot chocolate.
"Well, it beats a walk," conceded Harry, bubbling a pocket bong.
"Must you?" I said.
"I must."
I gave Ben a look but he seemed neither to condone nor condemn.
"How's everybody been?" I ventured.

The conversation greyed and died, eventually succumbing to the noxious blend of Ben's indifference and my tiresome routines. Propped by a seemingly infinite cache of anecdotes, Harry had ultimate power but was content to let it slide. I started again.
"Are you working on anything, Harry?"
"Yes!" he yelped, betraying much. "It's about this feisty young brunette, all sex-appeal and balls. Cute, but not glamorous, you know? She's strong, too, but not so you'd notice — like, she's got muscle, but no muscles. And despite her bust she's small, petite even, and she's got these horizontal-stripe socks."
"And?"
"And she's a bounty hunter." Harry looked around for approval and found only frowns. No less confident, he continued. "And get this, she's dead but she's been brought back to life by this voodoo spell, so she's got all these cool voodoo tattoos and shit — tomboyish but sexy."
"Right."
"And there are these cool skeleton guys who are after her for some reason. Evil motherfuckers, but cool. I might do a spin-off with them."
"Right."
"And the bounties, the people she kills — they fucking deserve it, man, let me tell you. Rapists, murderers, done all sorts of shit with kids, you wouldn't believe. She's a public servant, really."
"OK—"
"And you should see the shit she carries. Two mean fucking handguns, I'll tell you — steam-powered."
"Steam-powered?"
"Yeah! Fucking steam-punk guns! They've got this sort of hand-madey, ye-olde look, with like chips in the metal, and sometimes they jam."
"I—"
"I know! Imagine that! She's standing there, in the middle of the jungle, like twenty skeleton guys around her, and the gun fucking jams! What the fuck does she do?"
"Use the other one?" offered Ben.
"Well..." Harry thought a moment. "No! She'd already lost the other one somehow. It's just that one. And these guys are closing in. And let me tell you, if there's twenty guys you don't want closing in on you, it's these twenty motherfuckers."
"So what does she do?"
"That, my friend, is where the fun really begins."
"You mean all this time we were just bored?"
Harry looked at Ben, more perplexed than offended.
"Just wait 'til you hear this."
"I'll try," said Ben.
"Right, so, they're closing in, her gun's jammed, it's all looking hopeless. This is the end. But hang on... What's this in my backpack? My swords!"
"Swords?"
"Yeah! The ten she got from this rare Japanese guy, the only ten in the world."
"Ten?"
"Yeah! Now, I know what you're thinking — how does she fight with ten swords?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of why, but go on," interjected Ben.
"Well, it's simple," began Harry. "Voodoo. The same spell that brought her back to life has given her the power to wield ten blades at once. It's this ancient power, and it's gonna have a cool name, like Sword o' Ten Tails or something."
"Please never say that again," said Ben.
"And that's how she beats 'em, skeleton shish kebabs."

I waited a few minutes before asking Ben the same.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me Harry, but yes."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Not really."
"Another misanthropic tale of loss and loss?"
"More or less. And how about your lovely self?"
"Me? I'm too busy writing this to do anything."

Three-Eleven Crumbs

When something momentous crumbles (notice the etymological clue), more oft. than noft. the remainders lose much, if not all, of their former vitality, no matter how insistently or damn-well stubbornly they power on. Sometimes, however — sometimes the dwindlers, the individual smithereens, manage a spark that promises more than even antebellum can offer. Whether they deliver is another thing, but that small glint among the debris is so rare as to be priceless, or at least next to worthless. And it deserves its two-thirds-scale replica, complete with anachronistic mining machinery and exorbitant pricing. [For the record, the 11.32 smile continues into this secret.] Sometimes it's a cannon with a frog on top.

The above optimism owes some to timing: I'm poised before a stretch of mismatched pillows, mismatched feasts and field days, to mention nothing of the six discs of suppressed ardour that are lined up — and to mention nothing of the most important part. That last is somewhere in the ether at present, swallowing volatile logic. One hopes for a cameo. Meanwhile he makes another artefact, less direct, perhaps, but it amounts to much the same. Flying 'cross the desert in a TWA, I drop it square in the sand, for the fun of future -ologists. The present don't need it yet and I bump into a girl. [Some time past, rings creeping, I pour myself off to rest.]

Whether or not any of this manifests is academic, the spark is there. I won't yet utter the dreaded R-words, but with a certain month approaching it can't be far from my fingers. Shh, sit down. I'm just saying. Nothing more than a slightly sceptical nod at this point. Best not to plague the thing until it's more of a thing. And if it's not already clear— well, that's not likely to change. But I will say this.

As Human

First, cross promotion. Before I go on, let me just verify that I do not mean to imply any anger there, either in me or the promotion itself, nor do I intend to refer you to any Christ-based religion or Easter bun giveaway. I clarify this because for twenty years of my life — the first twenty — I was under the assumption that the above term generally meant the reciprocating promoter was somewhat begrudging about the whole affair, as if he did not wish to receive any promotion in the first place. Each time I heard mention of it, I would instantly picture one of those greasy little people who do favours not out of the goodness of their hearts, but so as you can owe them something in return. Anyway, the thing.

I have been quite behind where promotion is concerned, mostly due to the deterioration of the affiliates ladder, which now* sits soulless and automated to your right. Back in the day it was a regular habit of mine to remind all those who'll listen of even the slightest alteration of order, a habit posterity was not at all keen about. Nonetheless it provided me with innumerable excuses for nattery and liberated me from the messy business of concocting something worthwhile. But, Alice, the Revolution, ironically designed to re-ignite the ladder, proved to be its downfall, with ambition finally toppling capability and woes creeping in to stifle the cheer.

So, to rectify matters, to give due to the deserving, I point you towards a somewhere that has, yes, pointed back in its time, but which rewards visits regardless. Besides, I'm sure by now you're used to my bias. It really is as simple as placing a four-pronged electronic back-massager somewhere on me, doing a few circles and waiting. Or rather, it was. The point is, it is again.

*At the time of.