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I Once Heard About Creation...

Posted 5 February 2003, 12.04 am by PixieMeat

Someone screwed up big time. I’m not talking about a flaw in some invariably invisible matrix, I’m talking about in what I perceive to be real life. There wasn’t a big explosion. Or a salvo of ignition followed by implosion of the universe leading to the obliteration and recreation of infinity. We weren’t as fortunate as the dinosaurs. Nothing disintegrated into mid-air, shifted, came to rest, and then shifted again. Something began a long time ago and now we are somewhere close to the end.

The end constitutes a myriad of beginnings that no one being can keep track of. There is a point where straight linear time begins to undulate on the two dimensional axis.

(Have you ever stood thirty feet away from someone and each picked up the end of a rope? Have you tried sending a wave from one end to the other? When the wave concludes its journey to the other side in tries to consume the patterned movement your partner’s hand and arm make. It fails to envelop such a free willed range of motion. And as it concedes defeat it dissipates until you are ready to create it again.)

We are past this of course. We are three dimensional beings with four dimensional minds capable of inventing anything we see in our dreams. Except, of course, perfection.

When was the last time you smiled at the blue sky because you believe in the reincarnation of the morning sun? How often do you think about digging to the center of the earth to see your ancestors of a prior age? You should try molding something out of clay, putting it in the oven, and make it come alive. If you think I’m being silly, you can go ask the wise sea turtles where humans come from.

There is a sun. There is a moon. And there is this habitable Earth. I’ve heard something about “in the beginning” but that part is a little bit fuzzy to me. I’ve heard something about Old Man Coyote and a little bit about Mother Spider. The bible tells me there was a Jesus. There may have even been a God and his council of angels. I’ve read about an Ishtar. He may have been the son of Apsu. But she was killed by Ea anyway. And then there was something about how creation tales borrow from each other and become less about the beginning of time and more about creativity and aetiology.

But that was so long ago. Those questions are so outdated.

Awhile ago, before some time had elapsed to create the present, I came upon a girl sitting at the end of the earth. Her little feet were dangling in empty space, tears falling from her eyes. I didn’t have to ask her what was wrong. The bruise on her cheek told me she had been in contact with a mean nasty electron. His molecular pull and mind-numbing implications had put the little girl in check. As I stared at her she offered a few words:

“I wish electrons were pretty.”

And then she jumped. She didn’t fall like the first humans would have predicted. She was avulsed and siphoned from the inside—out. And as her heart emerged from its comfortable cavity (in search of a new source of love and creation) two electrons began to paint elliptical swirls around it until it burst.

When I saw that, I promised her that I’d try. I’d try to reinvent creation.

Invasion

Posted 3 February 2003, 11.47 pm by Sickan

It was late one night a few years ago. I had been sitting at home waiting for my mom to get back from where ever she was. I actually knew where she was I just didn't want to think about it.

I brushed my teeth and slowly got ready to go to bed - I had to because I had to go to school the next morning and it was already way over my bedtime.
But I just didn't like to fool myself into believing that I actually could sleep without her having returned home.

I looked out the kitchen window, I could just see the path two stores beneath me and I looked at the faint reflections in the water covering the grey stones, of the dimmed light from the other concrete buildings surrounding the twin I was living in.

I stood there for the longest time - not thinking about anything much, just trying with all my power not to think of the terrible feeling of desertion I knew that I had to keep that at bay, as well as I had to fight to keep the worried thoughts away - I was really scared that something had happened to my mother.

The phone rang. I looked at it from the kitchen, the little black thing on the desk by the livingroom - I turned slowly as if someone had made a bubble of slowmotion around me. It rang again. I walked to the desk and picked it up.

'Sick..' I said in a low voice, I knew right away who it was and I and was both relieved and furious. I had picked up the phone too many times in my life to regonize the sound of someone calling from a pub or anywhere where there are drunk people - or as some would put it, high spirited people.

I clenched my teeth and felt the tears fill my eyes and then I heard her voice. She tried to sound sober as she always did. But as both of us knew there was no way of hiding it from me. I fiddled with a random note by the phone and put it down again, and fiddled with the plant that stood on the other side of the phone - when she spoke I tore some of the moist leave off.

I put the phone down and let the tears run free. I had many years of training in crying silently, I felt the warm drops run down my cheeks and stop by my chin just to take the free-dive from my face to the floor. The tears were big and my heart was broken again.

I didn't really notice the tears - I just went into my bedroom and got my spare blanket and pillow and made a bed in the livingroom. Mom was bringing someone home with her. Again. But this time something was different. Usually there was no need for me to make a bed or anything like that, it was usually just very important for me to be gone when she got home - if she had told me she was bringing a man with her.

I knew I had about half an hour before they came home, just enough time for me to make some coffee for her and for my face to look normal. I didnt want her to know how much this hurt me, eventhough I also knew that she was aware of it, but too weak to stop it. I had just learned to bottle it all up.

When they got to our apartment I was sitting in my room watching TV - I looked at my mom and said a faint Hi, when she looked at me. I never saw the other person - I just realized that it was a woman. I was puzzled by this and got up and walked into the kitchen - I could hear my mom talking silently in the bedroom and I poured some coffee and waited for something to happen.

After a little while my mom appeared in the doorway and she didnt look at drunk as I had imagined her to be. I could see she was worried. I looked at her a long moment and then gave her a mug of steaming coffee. She smiled and thanked me. I looked at her and tried to provoke her to explain with my eyes.

She took a deep breath and shook her head and said,
'She has been fucked up by her boyfriend and she had no where to go... so I offered her to stay here...' I clenched my teeth again.
'Okay,' I said slowly, 'this guy, does he know that she is here?' I looked at her.
'I don't know... he might..'
I kept on looking at her, trying to understand why this kept happening to us... no actually, just why this kept happening to me.
I tried to imagine what he had done to her and decided that it was just better not to think about it. I shook my head in confusion and despair.

'I'm going to bed' I jumped down from the table and put the mug in the sink - I wanted to say something, but there was nothing to say,
I left the kitchen and walked the few steps into my room and closed the door and sat down by it - I hugged myself and tried not to cry, but I couldn't stop it and again the tears fell heavily on my bare legs. I cried and cried and just let it all out, silently and without realizing I even did it.

After some time, I have no recollection of how long I had been sitting there I crawled on my bed and fell asleep. I was so tired and I slept as a baby.

At some point I woke up, I was facing the black wall and I could see the moon outside, just in the center of my window, big and grey and full. I couldn't really focus on it because my brain was still half asleep and my eyes had still not gotten used to the dark. But there was something wrong with the image. There was something that wasn't supposed to be reflected in the window - something in the room.

I suddenly knew why I woke up - there was a person in my bedroom with me, actually standing mere centimeters from me. I had no idea what to expect and what to think of this. Thoughts flew through my, what did this person want from me, what could I do, what should I do - should I just pretend I was sound asleep or turn around and face the unknown. No more than a few seconds went by and I realized who the person was, that stranger my mom had brought home, that woman who had been beat up - why the fuck was she standing in my bedroom, just standing - looking at a 16 year old girl sleeping.

I turned around and looked at her, she looked like a ghost, there were black marks around both her eyes and her mouth was deformed partly by the many shadows and partly by the force of a weak and sick man. She looked at me, I could not see her eyes but I knew.

I wanted to say something, I wanted to make her leave, I wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be allright, I wanted her to do something, anything - she looked like a ghost and she behaved like one as well.

Most of all I wanted her to go away, I imagined myself screaming at her to get the fuck out and never corrupt my heaven again - this was the only fucking place outside my own mind I was safe, behind these 4 walls my entire life were, and she had invaded it, just like that - she had snug up behind me while I was sleeping and that is a threat in itself, but for me it was like I lost everything - she stole my life.

I turned around again and faced the wall - as much as I wanted to tell her to fuck off as much I was unable to. I didn't know what to do about the situation I was scared, but still the damage had been done and I could not make what I lost come back. It was gone forever.

I must have fallen asleep again and I can't remember her walking out of my room. When I got up the next morning, way too late to even catch the last class, my mom told me that she had left early - before anyone was up in the house.
I wanted to tell my mom what she had caused - that she was responsible for my loss, I wanted to scream that I hated her, that I hated my life and what it had become, I wanted to hug her and tell her that I loved her and that this had to end, I wanted to hit her until she promised never to drink one drop of alcohol again...

Most of all I wanted my safety back. I wished for a life where I hadn't been forced to grow up before time, a world where my parents were like real parents and not like children. I knew that non of this was going to happen and I had to make up my mind about the life I wanted to lead - did I want to be a part of this anymore, or would I have the strength just to pack up my things (again) walk out and never look back...

Peace


PLIF

Posted 2 February 2003, 11.23 pm by firebrand

That's right, The Parking Lot is Full

one of them patently offensive webcomics (it is now dead) but damn, some of the early ones are great.

"Postcards from Hell"
"Quiet Ambition"
and "Anubis" are my favorites.

Case Modding On A Budget

Posted 2 February 2003, 11.18 pm by Unforgiven

http://www.afrotechmods.com/

Because we can't all afford a case fan with 3 LEDs in it.

Fat of the Land

Posted 2 February 2003, 8.30 pm by firebrand

25% of all Americans are obese. 57% are sheerly "overweight." Fifty-seven percent.

The U.S. is slowly choking to death on its own fat. Everywhere you look, there are diet books and magazines exhorting the average American to lose weight. "You don't look like Tyra Banks," they whisper, "there must be something terribly wrong with you." Even though American royalty is still as thin and beautiful as ever, the rest of us just keep turning into blobs with legs.

The entirety of American culture is geared towards obesity. Bigger equals better, right? Who wants the Civic Hatchback of burgers when you can have a Cadillac. Besides, you're not fat.

At least, you don't realize that you're part of that 57% until your favorite store doesn't carry that shirt in your size (XL) or you have to work pretty damn hard to zip that pair of pants over your bulbous gut.

Suddenly, you're a member of a group that has more health problems than any other, except perhaps the elderly) - high blood pressure, diabetes, reproductive cancers, osteoporosis, osteoarthritis, the chilling tendency to lose peanut butter sandwiches in the folds of your body. But, there's always someone telling you it's not your fault - evil McDonald's made you fat, our car-dependent nation has made you fat, or your genes have made you fat.

You'll stand in front of the mirror and poke at your squishy thighs, your rounded belly, and your underarm flab. And you won't be alone. 5.7 out of 10 people that read this article will be right there with you. Including me.

And deep inside, you know the solution. Now, you just have to fix the problem.

Singing In The Rain

Posted 2 February 2003, 6.16 pm by Villager

I love the rain. I realise how clichéd and frequently employed that sentiment is, but I really do. For a long time, I could never explain to myself why, exactly, I just knew that it made me feel good to see it or to be outside in it. Of the various weather features, rain is unique in evoking consistently positive feelings in me. I despise heat and wind (in it's various forms), and snow only looks pretty - it's a damned nuisance when it makes the paths icy and hinders traffic. Fog is dangerous and hail hurts like a bitch. Is that everything? Rain, on the other hand, is a completely different animal. Sure, it can cause the occasional flood and drowning, but I've never been affected by such things.

There's something almost romantic about peering out of your window from the safety of a warm room, and seeing an urban landscape blanketed by a silent shower, something appealing about the effect that simple water drops have on us humans. We hate getting wet, so we scurry about, protected by our waterproof clothing and our fashionable umbrellas, almost as if we are not allowed to be outside when it's raining. Rain makes people miserable. The sky is (usually) grey and nobody likes being wet when they don't have a choice in the matter. Rain, the scourge of the urban masses, you are my friend. Sure, it might not be as clean as it once was, but that doesn't detract from the inherent gratification felt when I tilt my face up to the sky and invite the tiny drops of water to dance upon my skin.

When I look out my window and it's raining, I don't see endless, modern housing and industry, I see a miniature army of clear, pure drops of water persistently assaulting the constructed landscape, slowly corroding, the most advanced constructions gradually being defeated by the simplest of enemies. Sure, we may be long gone before human construct in our time is worn down to the ground where it belongs, once more, but one cannot help but feel a profound sense of inescapable impermanence. Before long, I will die, as will you. Shortly after that, the human race will cease to be. Then in peace and at total leisure can the rain go about washing away every last trace of our stay here.

Remember?

Posted 1 February 2003, 6.02 pm by Jake

There was a knock at the door. Of all the places she wanted him to be, she didn’t expect him to show up at her door at 3:30 a.m. Peering through the eyehole at the figure slumped against her door, she gasped and flung it open. There was blood running down the jamb from where he was leaning, and the doorknob was coated in shining crimson. He looked at her plaintively and fell to the ground.

When he came to, he was lying on her bed on a mass of towels. His head was pounding. He groaned, tried to open his eyes and focus, but everything was too blurry. The sun glared blindingly through the window. His ribs were hurting. Peering down, he noticed red-soaked bandages pasted to his side and chest. “Ugh.”
He squinted and tried to focus again, unsuccessfully. She came padding into the room, looked at him stirring, and said. “Hey. What the hell happened to you? I was so worried, and then you showed up here an….oh, let me close these blinds!” She dashed over to the window and pulled the rod, drawing the blinds shut. He looked at her, blinked a few times, and everything finally came into focus. She was beautiful. She had long, black hair and light skin. He wondered who she was.

“How….how in the hell did I get here?” he asked.
“I don’t know, baby. I was sleeping, heard a knock at the door, and there you were. Bleeding all over my damned front step. What happened?”
“Baby? Did you just call me ‘baby’?”He blinked.”Who are you? And what am I doing here?”
“Oh shit. You don’t remember anything at all, do you?”
“Obviously not, goddamn it. Now who are you?”
“I’m your fucking fiancee, you dumb twat. And I was worried about you all night. You took off after coming in from work, you were completely pissed off. I didn’t know what to do, so I left you to your own devices.”
She picked up a pack of cigarettes off of the table, drew one out, and tossed it to him. He caught it and glanced over at the bedside table, picking up a box of matches. He lit the cigarette, took a few puffs, and tried to concentrate. He couldn’t.
“I…do you remember where I said I was going?”
“Of course not. You never told me.”
“Fuck. Well, I…” There was another knock at the door.

She looked up for a second, and the knock came again, louder this time. “Who is it?” she yelled.
A gruff voice loudly responded.“It’s the police. We need to talk to you for a second.” She looked over at her fiancee, who had a puzzled look on his face. She sighed and said, “Honey, maybe you’d better stay back here. I’ll go talk to them.” He nodded and watched her walk out of the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind her.

She took a quick glance through the eyehole at the man standing outside her apartment. He was a tall black man in a trenchcoat. She opened the door. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Hopefully so, ma’am. I’m Detective Denman. There was an incident last night downtown involving a man that we think you know something about. We have reason to believe that you might be harboring him. Is there any chance that he might be about?”
She licked her lips nervously, and looked the man square in the eyes. “No sir, there’s nobody here besides me. What happened? Should I be concerned?”
“Yes ma’am.” The man stared at her for a second, narrowed his eyes and said, “There was a particularly violent gunfight between the man I mentioned as well as several others. The ‘others’ in question were an influential group of businessmen who may have ties with a crime syndicate. Tell me, ma’am, have you heard of Paulo Mordino?”

She thought for a second. No shit. Paulo. Her fiancee’s business partner. “Yes sir. He’s the head of New Wave Media Corporation, isn’t he? I’ve seen quite a bit about him in the news lately.”
“Well, ma’am, he’s dead. Recently, we found out that he had some bad dealings with a crew of particularly nasty investors, and that they had plans to have him taken care of, if you get what I’m saying. The man that we mentioned earlier? The one that we assumed that you knew? He was hired to kill Mr. Mordino. And obviously he took good care of it.”
Oh my God. “Are you serious? I had no clue….”
“Yes. And we’d like to have a few words with you down at the station.” She looked over his shoulder for a second, out at the parking lot for some sort of police vehicle. Nothing in sight. Not even an unmarked car.
“Do you have any proof of identification, Detective?”
“Uh…no ma’am, it’s not necessary. We just need you for a few minutes of interrogation.”
“Are you really a cop?”
“Yes ma’am. Dare you question my authority? Besides, why would I lie about that? It’s a Federal offense to impersonate an officer of the law.” He grinned, revealing his white teeth.
She began to get nervous. “Listen. Come back with some ID or paperwork or something and then I’ll go. Until then, you’re shit out of luck.” She wheeled around to go back inside the house when the man snatched her by the hair and shoved her through the doorway. He threw her face-down to the hardwood floor and pulled out a pistol. “Now. I’m going to ask you again, bitch. Where’s your man?” She looked up at him and wiped the blood from her lip. “I said he’s not here. You didn’t catch that the first time, asshole?”
“Wrong answer.” He smacked her over the head with the butt of the gun, and she fell into unconciousness.

When she came to, she was totally disoriented and lying on the ground. She felt something heavy in her hand. Looking down at what was in the palm of her hand, she gasped. It was a gun. She turned over and tried to adjust her eyes to her surroundings. She didn’t know where she was, except for on the floor of someone’s apartment. There was a streak of blood trailing from right beside her all the way into the hallway. She blinked and lay there for a while, trying to get it together. Finally she worked her way back up on her feet, and wobbled slightly. She caught herself on the edge of the dinnertable. Her head was pounding, and a constant ringing plagued her eardrums. Staggering, she made her way following the trail of blood, gun in hand, all the way back to the bedroom. The door was slightly cracked open, and a single bloody, smeared handprint stood out against the white paint. She inhaled deeply and pushed the door open.

The walls were spattered with blood. A tall black man lay dead on the floor, several gunshot wounds to the back of the head. That’s where the trail ended. Remembering the presence of someone….of something, she looked up to the bed. Lying there, in a Christlike pose, was a dead man with a gigantic spatter of blood on the wall, surrounding his head. A single golden ring with a diamond on it glistened on his left ring finger. Looking down at her own hand, she saw the same ring. She realized what she had done. Her eyes widened, and she began to wail uncontrollably. She looked at the gun in her hand, at the blood on her sweater, and began to scream. She fell to her knees and curled up, screaming and wailing, until the police finally came.

Just staring into the abyss gets boring after a time.

Posted 31 January 2003, 4.17 am by The_Roach

I've never been more terrified in my life. Not twenty feet from where I stand writing I can see an enormous display giving information on various charitable organizations. Drug rehabilitation, educational and literacy programs, that sort of thing. It's a little odd because this is an affluent part of town, generally speaking. Even so, this shouldn't be some horror-inducing spectacle... but it is.

The display is constructed out of particle board, but has been covered in a rosewood veneer to give it more credibility. They'll need a shitload more than it's giving off in order to convince me of any good deeds being handed out, however. I know what's on the other side of this display, the side I can't see from this vantage: over fifty-five framed photographs of L. Ron Hubbard.

. . . .

Oh shit... one of them has caught my eye. They want me to take "the tour". In the spirit of journalistic enterprise and out of a downright morbid sense of curiousity (I could be a fucking Lovecraftian hero in this scenario), I'm going to accept it.

My tour guide's name is Linda. She's wearing a button-up sweater and has a gold pin that reads "Friends of Ron". I introduce myself as David, and the tour begins. We start with a brief amount of general chit-chat where she explains that she and all the people who are there with her today giving tours think that the late Mr. Hubbard was just a "super guy".

As we pass along the first row of photographs, I learn fascinating bits of information. He was able to ride a horse and was an avid reader by age three. He was not only the youngest person ever to have achieved the rank of Eagle Scout from the Boy Scouts of America, but he'd managed to do it in an astounding 75 days.

This woman is talking to me like I'm a 4 year-old, and this is Sesame Street or maybe Ron and the Big Blue House. She has astonishingly good eye contact or they've completely glazed over in the light and the glory of LRH. Either way, it's creeping me the fuck out.

. . . .

"I think at the moment this--the organization, the cult-- is in the hands of the most fanatical followers, adherents of Mr. Hubbard, who you could equate with the, the followers of Ayatollah Khomeini." - Omar Gooding, author of The Hidden Story of Scientology, 60 Minutes, December 22, 1985

. . . .

Linda and I continue on, covering this great man's deeds, including his admission into The Explorer's society and a tour of Alaska in which he not only carried Explorer Society's flag 105 into the northern frontier, but was commisioned by the United States government to map out the western coast, a deed that quite possibly saved the lives of thousands of sailors on trade ships.

Some woman with the organization is taking photographs of us talking, and this is only increasing my discomfort. I'm not generally a paranoid person but these assholes could already have a profile on me, and that just doesn't sit well at all. I grit my teeth and continue to smile and nod as Linda describes the injuries that Ron had recieved in World War II which blinded and crippled him and forced him to a hospital in Oakland, placed on inactive duty. It was there that he first put to use his theory of mind over matter not only curing himself of all ailments, but roughly one hundred other patients there, allowing him to return to active duty in 1949.

It was at this point that L. Ron Hubbard realized what incredible potential his discovery had and what a wonderous gift he would be able to bestow upon the world. Linda explains how he spent several years in California talking with various people who were experimenting with self-power in an attempt to further his concept.

"People like Jack Parsons," I say.

. . . .

John Whiteside Parsons, also known as "Jack" was a rocket engineer who had an infatuation with Aleister Crowley. In 1946, with guidance by one L. Ron Hubbard, Parsons undertook a magickal experiment known as the "Babalon working". A complex ritual, it involved unusual (for the time) sexual activity as well as more violent behavior. It also induced hallucinations in Parsons and, ultimately, destroyed his life as Hubbard ran away from the mansion in Orange County, stealing Parson's yacht, wife, and a considerable amount of money in the process. For a more in-depth account, see Sex and Rockets, The Occult world of Jack Parsons

. . . .

"Yes! People like Jack Parsons," Linda replies.

I proceed to tell her the story of Parsons and Hubbard and... wait a second... did she just blink? I don't think she's done that the entire twenty minutes we've been talking. She doesn't seem terribly pleased at the accusation that her "super guy" was a thief and a liar, but she's handling it well, even laughing about it. I'm laughing too, but it's all on the inside.

It's so satisfying, in fact, that I wonder why I hesitated to point out some of the other, more blatant mistruths that had been placed before me. Maybe next time. Now that the little joke is over, I tip my hand a bit and inform her that I actually know a considerable amount about Hubbard already, that this was more to get the point of view of the Church of Scientology.

I think I've said a dirty word.

"I feel that I should, at this time, point out that this tour is being managed by 'Friends of L. Ron Hubbard', a not for profit organization unaffiliated with the Church of Scientology," Linda says with almost robotic precision shortly before giggling to remind me (and possibly her) that she's human. And we're suddenly back on track, talking about Engrams and the publication of Hubbard's most recognizable book, Dianetics.

Now, we're nearing the end of the tour of LRH's life, covering the years that he was living here in Phoenix (1952-54 assuming anything that's been told to me can be believed, of course). During this time, he gave a series of lectures called, appropriately enough, "The Phoenix Lectures". Linda informs me that if I'm interested in reading them, they'd all been reprinted in Scientology book 80-800... and promptly shuts the fuck up. Big no-no Linda, you're not supposed to talk about the church. You're especially not supposed to talk about the content of church related literature. Tut, tut. It's a minor offense, especially considering the circumstances, and I just nod my head and tell her that I understand completely.

As my joyride through the Wonderful World of Ron comes to it's conclusion, I'm invited to take some literature home with me. I accept a couple of paperbacks, smiling all the way. At the guestbook, I sign "David Robinson" and stare for what seems to be an eternity at the comments line. Not just the blank one, but all the others on the page. Nothing but incredible praise. I'm stymied. I want to write something horrible, profane. I want to put down something that they'd look at and remember.

"I simply don't know how to respond."

. . . .

Hours later... I still don't. These people are not only completely blinded, but it's totally evident to me that it's happening... and there's nothing I can do about it. Maybe I don't want to. Maybe they deserve it. More than likely, I'm just pissed off about being too poor to buy into a faith like these people. Maybe.

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They were done for an exhibition a couple of years ago . They asked for something to so with the summer. They are mixed media and oil paint on metal advertising boards - for ice cream.


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Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness

Hmph

80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

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