2003-10-03 - 10:06 a.m.

Do Sheep Fear Electric Madmen?

I AM ELECTRICITY!

Yea, though I walk through the Shadow in the Valley of PLUG FUCKING IGNORANCE I shall fear NO ONE.

My BLOODSTAINED STAFF comforts me. Notched and sarred, it is the Hammer of Rightousness by which you are all judged.

I love being me.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-10-01 - 4:06 p.m.

Frosty the Motherfuckin Spaceman.

Figger I should finish my story, so go back to the previous entry and read it before you go any further. If you�ve already read it... read it AGAIN! YOU NEED TO - i know you, your fucking memories are rivaled by goldfish, you fucking whelps.

So anyhow, I was down near the theatre waiting to see Underworld (a really good vampire movie, by the way) and was taking some time off to write more of the Christian-based horror sci-fi I�ve about Evil�s true origin, when I saw this street guy approaching me. In my perephrial vision I could see that the Crazy Lasers had homed in on me.

He sat next to me - next to the 3 granite slabs serving sentry duty to a young apple tree - and asked, � Hey Buddy, y�know these here rocks?�

�Not personally,� I reply, �they�re not very talkative.�

Pauses. �These here rocks? They�re our brothers. Our families. They�re speaking to me right now!�

Readers, I wouldn�t make this shit up if I could.

He told me the rocks were what my City was built upon. He said the rocks were spirits. He told me that they would hypnotize me and they would disappear altogether if I sat there long enough. This place was where he came to meditate and get away from his work in the Spirit World in which he�d been living for an Earth year now.

�How long did you think the summer was? Three months? It was an ETERNITY, man. You just slept through it.�

He didn�t know he was speaking to God, so I forgave his transgression of generalization and prompted him for more.

�I�ve been born three times before. I can remember bits of it from last time. Up there.� Points to the sky.

�Up where?�

�In the SPACESHIP, man!�

Duh.

He told me that he�d froze my City solid four years ago. The Spirits froze underneath and he warmed the surface so they could launch huge ice slabs into orbit. He said he had the codes that would drown the earth.

He built the Sun. Three of them. He killed his family with the first attempt - built it too close to the electrical transformers. The second one he built too close and too big and it relentlessly followed him everywhere. The third he crashed into the second to rid himself of his stellar tail and there it remains today.

Oh yeah, the stars. He created them so the Spirits�d have somewhere to vacation and to get there they needed rubies.

�Why rubies?�

�They�re crystal!�

Of course.

He can make rubies, gold, water into wine and said he could show me.

He asked me, �You ever had one of those sleeps where you don�t remember time passing?�

Yeah.

�During those times you sleep for YEARS. S�when I get my work done.� And getting up to leave he continues, �I could restart all this with a wormhole but I won�t. I like it here.�

That stopped me. Life deals him a plate of crazy and he likes it nonetheless. From across the Spirits stones he yells to me, �You believe me right?�

�Of course! That�s why I was listenin�.�

�Nine eighty nine!�

Uh. OK.

He didn�t ask for my transfer, change, a smoke, a light - nothing. All he wanted was to talk and to have someone listen. He wanted a little validation in what he believed in and to and who am I to say he�s wrong? Let me tell ya, if all I gots is a big box of NOTHING to prove something otherwise versus the absolute conviction of an obvious madman - then I�ll side with the droolers every-fucking-time.

He had the vision - the story - but not the voice. I think I translated his insanity well and feel good in doing so.

The feeling, however, is fleeting - because we all know how this guy�s story really ends.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-09-29 - 8:09 p.m.

I Got Your Voice...IN MY PANTS.

Skin was designed to protect yer insides from the out by keeping said insides in. It was not meant to support the weight of a piano by sheer tensile strength.

Pulled the fleshy tip of my finger off like a Smurf hat, tonight. The leech monger said the medical term was �degloving�. How very fucking interesting you ass-munching attendant � SEW MY LITERAL FUCKING FINGER BACK ON WITH POSTHASTE!

The fact my finger looks like something from the Flintstones, so the urgency of this here entry must be appreciated. APPRECIATE ME YOU WHOREY TROGLODYTES!

People speak with a wide variety of voices. No. Fuck speak, fuck voice� we communicate. The true voice of a person doesn�t necessarily dance trippingly on the tongue.

Some people communicate with us in ways we will never be able to communicate back. Some people can cry drunken music into a musical instrument (Tom Waits, Blue Nile). Some can walk you to the very edges of the shadow of your imagination (Neil Gaiman, William Gibson). Some can parlay the sound of unfettered fury and disillusion (Warren Ellis, Chuck Palhaniuk). Some people can bleed pain into paint (Van Gogh, Edward Munch). Some can reveal to us an easier less hateful, more tolerant way of doing things (J. H. Christ, Mht. Ghandi, M.L. King, etc.).

What makes these people so different from the rest of us above-regular not-so-run of the millers? These people are endowed with the ability to see and absorb and translate the world around them into stories (one way or another�it�s all about a fucking story) that they actually believe in themselves. And what�s more is they have the audacity of possessing an ADDITIONAL talent � the ability to express these thoughts in a way to absorb the lucky observer. Their thoughts are perfectly conveyed to us.

Many of us have one talent or another, be it artistic, mental, technical, musical, sexual, whatever. We�re usually good at a certain thing weather it's licking pussy or singing an aria. But while you may have wild imaginings to floor and astound even the most fucked up sci fi writers - without the ability to let people in on your apple dropping epiphanies � you�re spitting the ravings of a mad man into the desert air.

Which is a great segue for the next part of this thought, written on paper and later to code and for now I have to go and chase these Tylenol 3�s down with a bottle of wine.

Next Chapter: The world dissected by the laser focused insanity of a man who calls himself �Frosty�.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.