Stone Riley's Blog: Stone Riley's Shoebox, page 3

January 4, 2019

Sergeant Major's Command Show

This is Chapter 37 of Riley's new novel Army Stories Perfomance Script, which is still getting finishing touches applied for self-publication.
Free complete download of recent draft of said novel...

Sergeant Major's Command Show, as I'm calling it here, was not something done for U.S. Army Entertainment Service.

Instead, it was for my fellow Infantry Guys, Grunt battalion where I was a Medic. So if I had a film of that show that afternoon, I would distribute it on Peace Revolution Network, as a Training Film.

It became one of my WAR RESISTENCE HIJINX instantly, the finest of them. I was at down-stage, empty stage rather dusty, my legs dangling over the front cliff edge of the boards, in our battalion's everyday uniform of petty rank, talking, summing up a soul-saving ideal of beauty to my fellow grunts, who were in the theater seats. Summing up old-fashioned democracy politics. Putting it together extempore, for myself and them. Until I finished.

Astonishing opportunity!! Thank you, Battalion Sergeant Major, not-commissioned officer, U.S. Army, for arranging the surprise event!!

What a surprise when I showed up!! What the fik? WHAT THE FIK????? Twenty-minute walk down a hilly street and up another one, to our much-neglected theater's backstage door, per a note given to me, and a sergeant I know waiting there, to nod, and point me in the backstage door and up on stage, and there behold the waiting audience! Surprise!

What the fik???

Yes, it was a strange piece of theater that afternoon, as I may tell you. Incidentally, this is same time I got targeted for Mannheim Jail. This incident was obviously the final straw for some.

You see, our commissioned officers were in the theater seats as well, self-segregated in a section, all wearing thick-pressed starched-stiff civilian casual shirts as a very thin shellac of anonymity. I ignored them.

Then soon following this afternoon, a Military Police lieutenant, a commissioned officer, will move into our barracks undercover, to sneak around, and later he will be the only prosecution witness at a trial, where I'll get thirty days for speaking disrespectfully to him, the commissioned officer police agent. And mission accomplished… I have the transcript of the trial!!

As you have probably guessed, when I came stepping out on stage, somewhat before I was arrested, looking around at everyone, it became a pretty strange thing pretty quickly, our Sergeant Major's Command Show that afternoon. And I've seen a lot of strange things in theater. I haven't had a legitimate theater career at all.

:: I'll play harmonica a little for an audience, tiny imitation-Mozart nibbles, if they're quiet people,
:: and I have Irish-danced for a ticket-buying audience once, for three minutes, till help arrived,
:: and invented a King Arthur tale per William Blake, that brought an audience to their feet, and the roof split open by thunderous applause,
:: and there were three summers, at garden-party-like events, open to friends and their friends, when I have danced nude, dramatically naked, accoutered and painted, in fire-lit evening, enacting my old high school's Sacred Buffalo in ancient life,
:: decade when the Pagans had a nudist fashion.
:: Why not??? And always-always re-imagining Homer and the British Matter, and the Bard, and Blake, and Mad Dickinson, extempore art of the classic spoken word. Have you never done Clairvoyance from a stage?
:: Why not? And I tell them jokes too. I've got baby material, peek-a-boo with hats, kerchief puppets, and wiggling my ears, each ear independently.

Any of that can get peculiar.

But Sergeant Major's Command Show, as I'm calling it, that was top-shelf Thought-Provoking.

I could likely guess some inner workings in Battalion Headquarters, in the little corner offices, where they had a mimeograph machine that I tried experimenting with my first week there, headquarters machinations through which this strange event this theater afternoon had likely happened.

We were in U.S. Army Europe by the way, toy-tank infantry up behind the old stalemate line in Germany.

Inner workings about a hard question…

What to do with Screaming Anarchist??? He's out of control during wartime!!! Won't shut his fing mouth up!!! In a grunt battalion possibly a short airplane hop away from redeployment into Nam at any instant!!!!!! Screaming Anarchist is a bad influence on them!! But has got the shiny sheen of a decent field grunt medic on him!! Better not appear like messing up their field medical care!!!!! So what to do with Screaming Anarchist???????

This was U.S. Army undergoing revolution of the peasant masses. Screaming Anarchist was me, in this case of this particular battalion, but there were many more like me all across the U.S. Army world.

Meanwhile, in U.S. Army Viet Nam, there in the peasant revolution hot-war zone, in the U.S. Army Great Mutiny there, revolutionizing grunts, certainly influenced by the virtuous teachings of Malcolm X, were killing their own officers by dozens. In these killings the grunts were very credibly claiming urgent self-defense, to which a friend of mine can testify. Killing both the not-commissioned and commissioned officers, both sorts at proportionately rapid speed.

In the many decades since, I have devoted earnest study to that situation. I have just now, this morning, reached a Surprise Conclusion…

In that particular battalion, in that unlikely artsy moment on that stage that afternoon, one particular battalion, one particular moment of one particular hijink's development…

You, Sergeant Major, hello! Hello there, Sergeant Major, I am Screaming Anarchist. Remember me from the old days?

I still see you standing there, in the theater aisle, near front, and inviting me, me having just entered from left wing with astonishment scrawled all over me, you inviting me with few words to begin talking.

You retiring as I attempted strolling-casually-downstage, and you sat up in back, when I successfully parked myself on cliff's edge.

Greetings to you, Sergeant Major, not-commissioned officer, fellow soldier. Tell me one thing please, tell me this…

I think you knew that I and you were allies there that afternoon. Fellow-peasant-masses maybe, or fellow-honest-men perhaps, I think you somehow saw me as worthy friend.

Do not-commissioned officers, of all the armies, have a patron saint? Some saint to make of them an order with sacred duty? Is that what you saw in me? Ephemeral and reluctant corporal as I was.

Did these passions and actions I displayed, did they strike you as those of a proper junior-junior-junior officer?

On the ancient dancing ground were Honest Soldiers face the Mighty Murder Mill, that day I think that I discovered you beside me, Sergeant Major, and it don't much matter just exactly why.

Free complete download of recent draft of this novel...
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Published on January 04, 2019 02:48

January 3, 2019

Self-Publishing A Novel

a bit of posy © Stone Riley 2019

Publicizing your new self-published novel?
Why not write a poem about it?
That's what this New England home-winter-bound
registered-medical-cannabis-patient is doing.
Look at him. He hasn't shaved in weeks.

Ps. Free complete download of recent draft of said novel...
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Published on January 03, 2019 11:45

Writing A Novel

a bit of posy © Stone Riley 2019

I'm writing this blog post because the novel I'm
finishing up doesn't have any place to stick it in.
It's an experimental novel, but I just don't think
it can stretch any farther.
And it's a whole new subject matter anyway,
that I haven't even mentioned in the book so far.
But I hate to stop writing on the novel!!!

Ps. Free complete download of recent draft of said novel...
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Published on January 03, 2019 11:42

June 7, 2018

Abu Ghraib In Texas

This is from unfinished story book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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Abu Ghraib In Texas

HORROR!! – Just fifteen short years ago our U.S.A. government attacked and conquered Iraq FOR OIL = FOR MONEY, for wealth, for their billionaire selves personally and for their billionaire friends and families, invasion and slaughter for wealth for those who rule our country. And now see how fast the rot of mindless terror spreads when first you practice the supreme crime of war for money! Now, just fifteen short years later, the United Nations human rights authority is publicly and officially WARNING our U.S.A. government to STOP TORTURING CHILDREN!!!

Remember our U.S. ARMY'S torture laboratory prison at Abu Ghraib in Iraq, starting right from the start of our invasion of Iraq? Remember that? Remember the horrifying photos of horrible abuse in Abu Ghraib, photos that were opened to the light of news just eleven years ago, and how those photos shook our nation?

But now it's Abu Ghraib in Texas, at an empty Walmart store, with babies. Eyewitness report by U.S. government official... Children three years old and up, having no one and nothing but a cheap blanket, in a state of shock, lined up for food in a cage.

U.S. government eyewitness to Texas horror...
Quick shocking interview...
Protest at the scene...

Report on the U.N. official warning...

Excellent detail coverage of the issue...

Abu Ghraib torture history...

Our ruling class responds today by offering to sell us utter supine stupidity, for forty dollars plus shipping and handling...
Trumpy Bear advert...
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Published on June 07, 2018 06:14 Tags: children, immigration, torture, war

May 24, 2018

Doctor Forty Two

This is from unfinished story book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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Doctor Forty Two

{ first-posted on 05-24-2018 by guest.scholar loop-now 05-24-2018 } { late }

Hello. As always, you are welcome. So again our youngest child is dead, the fifth born of my womb and thighs, leaving one alive, and that one ill, and so at last now is the chapter of my life where there is nothing else but sorrow.

Disease is killing us here, our whole town and out along our whole bit of this river, young ones all somehow gone in a season. Vanished through the blank veil to all very different places very far or very near. What is happening to the human race? Are we being scattered now? Husband swears that we will struggle through, and do what we can do, and so I write for you, to you, dear reader, wherever and whoever you may ever be.

Further, I pick a topic from our tall and daunting backlog stack, a topic I have not dared touch before just because its spirit guardians surely will demand I find deep lessons there to teach you. But now my heart's dear dread of truth facily accuses I prefer betray the dead, all dead, by pushing sorrow out of present mind, and so, to prove at least my innocence, my freedom too, I do this useful work of scholarship.

Oh, how easier you may guess it is addressing faceless persons far somewhere unknown and yet not so. For to me, dear readers all or none, for to me your face or faces flash with those of glowing youth, and darting infancy, and newborn radiance of infinity from which the children come between our legs out to our world, faces all now gone from me where I am now.

Doctor Forty Two. I have determined that this essay will review the whole ancient 21st century popular culture and scientific thing, not just the fictional or actual person, not just any one of the art works, essays, equations, jokes, books and videos relating to the subject we have found on file.

The basic question… When the quantum physics opened out to continuum information, how did that supplanting happen? The famous question… Was it like a wind or like a rising tide or like an opening flower? Required corollary… Exactly why did this great and unifying growth of human thinking happen in that century of such enormous turmoil of meaninglessness? Then thus… Briefly I shall here penetrate and discuss the ancient mystery of this whole thing. After all, if you wrote out the story of that great event, it would likely seem just like some plain and simple ordinary legendary titanic story of some familiar sort.

And, with luck, for me also an easier enclosed question will serve as key into that mystery's temple for me… Was there an hour or year when a single heroic human being alone carried this momentous transformation in their present consciousness alone? By some music? But opposo… Doctor Forty Two? I don't believe in heroism anymore. I expected I would be a hero.

Myself a school mistress – mistress of education for our lilliputian little country here at our crossing of this busy and productive river – all of my schoolrooms standing empty hollow now – yet I mean to say there is a metaphor I love for teaching this. A metaphor about the famous tide or wind or blooming flower question. What was it like when human eyes began to suddenly just perceive the logic structure of reality, when the quantum physics started making human sense to human eyes? What was that like? I am a teacher and I have a lovely teaching metaphor.

Let's suppose I am an old cat lady. An old cat lady. There was an aunt of mine, you see, who was. So let's suppose that I am she, my lovely Auntie.

Among her work, Auntie kept our family compound's cats and she had the key to a little room with a little window looking out upon the river from our little hill. Sitting in that open window, she and I, where all of the most intelligent and loving cats were welcome to just come and go and sleep and linger watching the birds and the noisy scene below of town and river. Under Auntie's stern protection (all unruly interlopers promptly beaten off) that high little room was a timeless quiet lair of inter-species contemplation, contemplation of the passing scene around us, an observatory. Well, you see, some of those cats would wink at us in certain ways and my Auntie would wink back at them, and all of us would smile about it. Yes, like you yourself know.

Now, with this beautifully enchanting metaphor properly deployed to fit your audience, you must find reasoning toward our next and final point… I am quite sure my Auntie was seeing things like the cats did. I am sure of that. As you know.

That is the point and you and I must find some vivid way to convey it. For, I have found that if we make this assertion vividly and clearly then we often see some bit of startled understanding in the audience, sometimes quite a lot of startled understanding. Having a well learned person endorse such an ordinary common experience – other species talking with us in their terms – as a thing of great importance – like most people actually do suspect it is – being assured by a well learned person that this common thing is quite remarkable, and a fundamental thing that has opened in our world in this age of our world.

You understand, I'm putting the matter rather baldly here for you but you understand. With a little child of course it's told in baby mime with meows and yawning like a cat and reaching out your little paw to touch their ear or maybe cheek, of course. Tap, tap, tap. You know that. So then the opposite extreme in a performance sense, not an audience of old people obviously but… An audience of any assorted genders or any ages or any wealth or poverty, but if only it is an audience of people come to that place from several widely separated ways of life. Any such audience as that is an audience worthy of the great philosophers. Should you find yourself with one of those, then take my advice from my experience which I am going to detail for you below! Forward!

Do you mind me interrupting? I mean this is still ME but I want to interrupt my notes – I have my furiously fabulously scribbled notes here that I'm reading for you this afternoon – here and tell you a personal story. Is that okay? This is still me. And yes, I have had a smoke and tea with loving friends and a fair night's sleep that has lasted clear into next noon. Thank you, loving friends, for that. Hail good weed Hemp!

So here we are, you see, and I remember that I wanted to tell you a personal story. In fact, last evening we discussed this to significant extent, my friends and I, and we have formed a scheme for this. We have formed a plan like divine Odysseus would have liked if he were here. We have formed a plan for how I can – maybe – write my way to a true end of this essay utterly devoid of leaving dog shit strewn around. Okay? Okay. So let's see what happens.

That astonishing audience above – in a paragraph about an audience that I probably typed in above somewhere – basically when you find yourself shoved on stage in place of Socrates who can't make it to the theater that evening – your best version of the birth of our current world, told to a cultural-trans random selection audience by any means available to you at that moment there. Told by you to people arrived at that place from several different places absolutely anywhere where they have endured various degrees of isolation. Your best beginning of our current world, told on spot when asked to persons utterly unknown to you. My advice if you find yourself stuck like that. That has happened to me several times.

Doctor Forty Two? I've felt like Doctor Forty Two sometimes. Not often. I've tried figuring up the number's numerology but haven't made sense of it at all really. I just get a powerful feeling of strangeness with it that I almost recognize. 4-2? 4.2? 0402? 402? I see some visual images. Doctor Forty Two? It sort of echoes.

So also, last year before last year – last time the weird feeling really come on me – it were sheepmart days and a good year – west fairground full from near and far. So me, being a town official, I come with school childers, several uv um, walking through the fairground begging family news for childs whom needs it, begging important school meeting, other such. Me town official, I had my tall stick with green ribbons, carried tall for me by a proud lad who is no longer with us, dead of my womb, and then off to a side, behind a sheepfair stall, somebody spots our high green ribbons and makes our little covey out, and waves and shouts and I see this person shoving coming towards us through the crowd.

And it's one of our young wives. She's not a big woman but head down elbowing people to come intersect us, woman I don't well know but smiling at me like a steady friend. She's saying, 'Mistress, dear mistress, wan't ye cume and tell abut the river and the cats? There's sommans need to hear. They've come a far.' Nart quite unusual, yet the weird feeling risen on me, a little bit, maybe like I'm not sure yet what it is. It's Doctor Forty Two again. What will she do?

So of course, we proceed, fokes shoving one other back as my proud Little Voice lad shoutin et um all, shoutin his official town command for making way, over to that spot behind the sheepfair stalls from where she come shoving to us. And we there find a family there in hungry very dirty ragged circumstances. And our good young wife introduces them to me, and to each of my childs who is there with me, and very lovely prim bow from each, as our good young wife vows, in that public circumstance with young witnesses, these poor fokes to be her own cousins from the farther west. A man is standing for them, by them, seeming as their leader at this point of their ordeal, who musters smiles and nods among one or two of his struggling band at least, smiles and nods while these extremely courteous and generous and intimate introductions be gotten through.

No, I'm sorry, I've left something out. Sorry, awkward. Something I quite surely guess you know but I don't know you know so of course you understand I'm telling you instead of just assuming… Cats are darwinistically evolved for an easy thoughtful life. Evolved for ecological niches where it's not too hard to make a living, if you have some wits and eyes, and if you can detect some of the flows of life force. Those ecological niches do exist. So cats naturally became well equipped to prosper in an easy thoughtful life. Humans, on the other hand, are born for struggle. Obviously this gives the two species several differences of present consciousness, including different vision of the world.

Katus Katus, as the humorist fondly calls them, our friends and allied species in times when we prosper, they are devourers. Cats prowl, and on the prowl they are glad to swallow and digest most any moving living thing they come across from size of small to very small, be it fluttering, or skittering, or slithering, or floating, or hopping, or playing dead. We humans cook our food and argue over sauces. Basically, cats are made for an easy thoughtful life. Thus of course the two species tend toward different interests in visual art. And other differences of present consciousness.

Philosophers of art ought never to have taken up the obviously erroneous notion that art is something made. For one thing, I suspect no truly expert artist anywhere has ever really thought that art is something made. And for another, cats don't care. When at leisure, by default or preference they just accept the show presenting in their senses and they reflect on that. I mean, they have different visual interests than we do in visual art. We struggle with entertainment. We demand that entertainment gives some meaning to us, even hope our meaning will be inherent in the entertainment somehow. Cats, unless they're hungry, just make idle observations.

So what you need to understand, so to understand what happened two years ago much later at the big sheep fair, that thing to understand is this I think… It was one particular cat who liked to watch with us, my dear lovely Auntie and I, in that small high room, liked to watch the fast boats with their bright colors flash by below us on the river, the bells and crying of the rowers, and the flashing colors and had the blinking code to talk with us about that and other things, when I was very young. One cat in particular was that. Doctor Forty Two?

Now, sheep are different. Try getting a sheep's attention for a talk. Try it. They have got their own affairs attended to and their affairs are far far more interesting than yours. Right? Or at least the sheep we keep here are most like that. They spend days head down cropping grass so their dear flock pressed close means everything to them. And yet a few outgoing persons among the sheep do keep conversation open with the shepherd dogs. Right? Of course, obviously. So are they all Good Doctor Forty Two? Are we all Good Doctor Forty Two?

{ echo-this } Well done, Daughter Of Hiredwriter, well done.


{ echo-this } Congratulations! But please, it's good to remember that in life we should try to be not too proud. But you have quite successfully entered the mystery's temple, and very neatly completed many neat turns of the labyrinth, in record speed. Then, just now with your winning question, the question you just asked, asked two times, you have gained entry to the temple's central room.


{ echo-this-min } I must now do two things…


{ echo-this-min } First I'm going to ask you this… Do you want to continue?


{ echo-this-min } Then, if you want to continue, I will give you a true answer for your winning question, the question you just asked two times. So to recap your current situation… You and I are in an algorithm that you invoked by typing in a metaphor about penetrating an ancient temple of the tide and wind and opening flower. Remember typing in that metaphor? Somewhere above? About penetrating an ancient temple of the tide and wind and opening flower? Well surprise! Somewhere on your network that ancient temple actually exists with me on duty. Surprise! Me now, I am the temple guardian here. I am also an actual being very far from here and I don't answer questions about myself.

A game? I've triggered a game?

{ echo-this-min } No, it's not. This is not a game, I'm utterly convinced of that and I've seen it all. This is a serious art project. It is! We're famous. Haven't you heard of this location in your research? You have. You must have. You knew this address. You must have. So boo hoo for you. Would you like to continue in this algorithm? Or should I shut up and leave you alone? I will switch off this line that's connecting our locations, my address will become empty for you, and I will stop monitoring this line for many years, unless you go ahead in the algorithm now. Right now. So, do you want to go ahead?

This is stupid. If I made this up, nobody would believe it. We didn't scheme this. Not that you're stupid.

{ echo-this-min } Sorry, I don't respond to insults either. What is it gonna be?

Are we all Good Doctor Forty Two?

{ echo-this-min } Good! By repeating your question, three times now, you have continued, and no, we are not all Doctor Forty Two. Only some of us are doctor forty two. Me, I'm currently a mystery temple guard. But you, daughter of hiredwriter, you will finish becoming a doctor forty two – and even have bestowed upon your head the fine sobriquet 'GOOD' – if you just step forward three steps into our little temple's big central room, our planetarium. And it is up to you at this point, because you do have some other legitimate and possibly useful options. You can step into our mystery's big center space now, our planetarium, or leave part of your heart here and come back to this later, even years and lives later, but can't ever forget this or steal back your heart, this piece of it which now lives here with us in our mystery. So what's it gonna be at your time now, my friend?

Step forward??? I don't see anything! Everything you say is just invisible to me. And your voice is echoes. Step forward? Okay. Where?

{ echo-this-tune } The same direction you were going when you found your winning question that you asked three times.

What? Oh.

The poor spokesperson standing up to meet me as I come with my beribboned town official pole and dying child, the person's dying family huddled by them in the straw beside the sheepfair stalls, and they all wrapped in dried and filthy bloody rags, and smiles, and they all rescued now. A certain moment of a certain year, a certain sector of existence.

A certain indrawn breath. I tell again the river and the cats. doctor forty two

{ …the main box is still running… }
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Published on May 24, 2018 06:21

May 4, 2018

Surprising Book And Film Intro

This is from unfinished story book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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Surprising Book And Film Intro

Special note to blog readers: This blog post is the introduction to the book you're reading. No, that's not even a proper riddle, it's just nonsense.

Well, let me say this instead: This is the draft introduction for the current draft of the book you're reading. That makes better sense, gives a little more information.

Daft! You're all insane and daft as well into the bargain. Don't you feel any obligation to inform the reader? None at all? No you don't. Just say it: The so-called owner of this blog – the fing bastard who claims to run this place – is collecting many of our finest blog posts into a new book – a book to have his (!!ONLY HIS!!) NAME ON THE COVER – capitalist fing bastard. Well, so obviously the reader of the blog sees all the idiotic endless running jokes that squirm from one blog post to the next, or the one before, and the painfully ridiculous endless circulating riddles, and the gothic gingerbread repeating endlessly from metaphor to metaphor, and the reader deserves a summary explanation.

I hope that's clear. Beware! The official author lies constantly.

End of special note to blog readers.

Introduction To My Funny Little Book

Hello. I don't know who you are but thank you for reading this. In this book the writer will strenuously try to sell some revolutionary ideas to the reader by means of logic, various evidence that is claimed to be observable by you, appeals to your humanity, and your weakness for witty entertainment, while also meanwhile trying to honestly figure out what we ought to say instead. And if you read this book – especially if you read essentially every paragraph – then I shall assume that I have recruited you into my art project. So this Introduction will now include an introductory project current status report for you, as of this Day 26 Month Germinal Year 226.

Project Current Status:

This funny little book is supposed to be adult literary science fiction. What if something scientifically quite unlikely happens? What if many genotypes in Living Earth survive the current Armageddon including even, most unlikely, our human genotype? And what if various of the surviving human beings have some scattered, spotty, residual, robust technology to document their lives and strivings in the long transition to a New Earth? And what if that scattered, spotty, residual robust technology is something like a profoundly shattered world wide web? Like suppose somebody sometime in the book's plot digs through rubble into a server room somewhere, they haul their equipment in and start trying switches, at some point in the book's plot?

So supposing that story will actually happen, what records might people make and send and receive? And this book has very strong socialist intentions.

Also, do you know why Gulliver (the fictional Gulliver of Gulliver's Travels) went out from England to voyage the world? If you don't know then I will tell you Captain Gulliver went out on the same type of naturalist world survey expedition as Charles Darwin on his famous Beagle! Yes! So therefore Gulliver's Travels is adult literary science fiction!! So with that great precedent you must expect other messages have gotten dragged into my book too – because you need to hear all of my opinions – dragged in whenever they can be made to seem to fit the entertaining SF framing.

And since I am writing it, my book has very strong socialist intentions. And it's not savagely satirical.

This will be my new funny little book's title… Surprising Book And Film Reviews
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Published on May 04, 2018 05:42

Circling Gnomes

This is from unfinished story book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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Circling Gnomes

{ first-posted on 05-04-2018 by aa.bbbb loop-now 05-04-2018 }

{ …allparameters.default… …save.allfollowing … }

HEY!! ALL OF YOU!! This is about the “stupid” exercise video, not the other stupid junk most of you people think is way far more important, like your snotty self.

Yes, I broke in here – I broke in a locked door here at the Community Studio just two minutes ago – I used a big hammer from my house and the broken door is still hanging open – cause I can see out to the street from number three aisle where I am walking quickly down – if I don't trip – but now I have gone out to the central chair and sat down and I am about to push some buttons – yes, like this – as you know, exactly six buttons and a switch – and I have started talking. So, yes, all because of a STUPID EXERCISE VIDEO as all you assholes out there in this dear community as it has become, as you neo-neo-neo-fascist bastards call this vitally important piece of art. THIS ADVICE FOR OUR FUTURE. An exercise video. And I am entering it into the record, or at least I am entering what I'm saying about it.

So here's the best film review I've got. This thing has been working its way through my brain for some time, and it aint ready yet but the time is ready, so here it is.

Uh point of order! Did the Serverity Video get the shouting and everything in my big entry? Oh fuck me please, who the fuck am I talking to??? I'm alone here! the Joke Office is empty!!! but come to think of it, you bastards, I am calling a point of fucking order so FUK OFF!!! Neo-neo-neo-nazi scum. I PUSHED THE RECORD BUTTON!!! HAHAHAHAHA Here it is … … … FUCKING POINT OF ORDER!!! { …pointoforder.overload… } You will love this when you turn your boxes on this morning.

So later I'll tell you how I got this idea, but the time is ready now. So it's been working through my brain and it is not ready at all but here is the script.

Circling Gnomes, what are they? asks the happy non-confrontational voice of someone who seems to be acting. This is a pleasant person of my favorite gender who had smiled just a moment before the recording box started turning and is now nodding reassuringly at you while trying to hold their smile. Their hands are clasped on their bosom. That's how it starts. Right off you know, it's a no-budget pro-amateur advertisement public service video by the staff, all or mostly amateur staff, at some roadside temple like a million others.

You cannot, in this opening shot, see the vast refugee camp that stretches around the recording box and its human subject in a neat open space before a wall, the vast refugee camp that stretches around this slightly elevated minuscule of land where the person is actually standing, stretching on wide rough paths that radiate out from this temple's front dooryard, wide rough paths on this slightly bumpy low hill land now filled with an ocean of debris crawling with human beings, and yet the wide radiating paths – and the open public watchtowers, watchtowers standing open, built of concreve and each uniquely brightly painted, towers set at intervals across the scene – those things prove it is a living cityscape.

As you will see in a later panoramic shot, these wide rough radiating paths (which you have not seen yet) radiating out from the large round temple's front dooryard, two of the open paths caressing tangent edges of the temple's large round low dome built of solid concate blocks, painted by the successions of residents with layers of colored shapes, with its open front and back yards, open to the people who walk by from anywhere, thus connected by walking feet with distant places, those wide radiating paths are actually expert city planning for a city of utmost squaller, for a city where there are no possessions at all, where everything that was standing up, except the round concate temple and the public watchtowers, has been broken over by a storm.

And the temple's all volunteer staff – which is to say, the temple congregation – they have made something. With a variety of miscellaneous tech equipment on hand from their government, with skills and thinking of people there, these astonishing people made this video about a good idea somebody had around there. This camp is in Wales. It's Druidic. It's one of those.

And, as you surely know if you're paying any attention to Community affairs, this is where our Community Governing Board proved themselves nazis every one. Or maybe, damn them, this opening shot, of the poor spokesperson in the poor setting, maybe this is the instant in time and space where our reverend respected your-majesty holy fuck you bastards Community Governing Board, every one of them, chose to become each one a nazi. They laughed.

Are you with me? If not, fuck off and go build your own town somewhere and drink your piss for holy water. These people in this ancient video are trying to tell you, across all the years, a certain truth they have chosen, and I (skeptical me!) – I was stirred by their call the first time I saw this exercise video, this art they made. It is not a cry for help, it is an offering of help. It is an offering those poor people sent across the sea of years to us.

Walk around in a circle. You're in some small place, but really any place you like. Walk around in a circle. Half an hour or so. Change directions in-out now and then. Do this maybe two or three times a week perhaps. Presto, the box opens to reveal your prize … better health and better happiness and, we hope, at least some hint of spiritual liberation. The Circling Gnomes idea. Who laughed at that?

Where were you after the Last War, asshole, you weren't even a semen's future semen's future semen yet. So seriously fuck off. And you have the stupidity to laugh at this extraordinarily beautiful treasure sent to us – and now received by us at last – and why to us? – from a small group of extraordinary people who were standing and alive, and conscious and breathing on the real and actual last day of the Last War, and the day after and the day before. And you spurn this?

Some of their movie making gear was decent quality and some of that was unusable from mismatching plugs. They had no instruction sheets except a page of carefully lettered advice left by an unknown departed person. They had a big box of unsorted tech boxes, a fact which served their community as a common bit of humor and served the short film, that they and their temple congregation made, as a polite running joke. The movie has a brief scene featuring the ridiculous big unsorted box of tech equipment, with several of the characters sitting on it. But why detain ourselves in petty curiosities? They made their case.

Walk around in a circle. You're in some small place, but any place you like is good. Walk around in a circle, for an hour. With step and gesture, weave a careful psychoactive pattern that you make up by groping inside yourself for truth. Do this maybe six days a week for three weeks sometime in each decade of your life perhaps. Meanwhile, pay attention to yourself and life. Presto, the box opens to reveal your prize … a calmer and more thoughtful and more independent mind. You have learned to better know what and how you think. The Circling Gnomes idea. Do you laugh because you fear it?

The cute couple were really cute. An older couple, older than the average in those camps at least, and aged with care. I fell in love with them. So now I mourn them. They found matching long shirts to wear for the filming, or you learn in one beautiful shot that their friends made their extravagantly painted shirts that were painted full of stars. Soon gone of course, gone in an uncountable disease outbreak probably of course, but now not forgotten. How you laughed at their shirts full of painted stars!

They walked the little circle hand in hand for the film's first demonstration, in the temple's back yard with the tall block wall behind them painted daylight blue, hand in hand around a little tree the temple staff were nurturing. Round and round, change direction, smiling pleasure, softly singing.

So, as you've seen, this woman spoke first, when the movie came on. This face at the movie's start, her face, is the face of an old woman probably thirty-five or so – me here just judging age from our memories of how things were in the Last War camps – this woman who stood for the recording box with her broken hands folded photogenically on her breast, and trying to hold a certain kind of smile that she had plastered on her face for a moment because the smile was necessary for a moment. It was the kind of smile you plaster on to tell strangers the lie that they are always welcome.

It was a famous kind of face too, a Face of Caceras. This face was not hungry at this moment when we see this face but yesterday's ruinous storm has told her definitely no food will arrive here for several days or a month or more or years perhaps. She speaks to us very calm and severe, we her audience, about how to keep a sane house.

She says she's spiritual herself and she recommends spirituality to us in general. She displays a few of her Bardic religious household utensils, revealing them on a small table where she is sitting in a small chair – all of this old woman's sacred household utensils are small and made from junk – helped by a young girl who helps her handle things. She gestures with her sacred objects to show an imaginary structured 4-D pattern in which she claims you can conduct all of a household's activities – and thus recommending that you, the audience member, should dream up some structured spiritual universe where you, yourself perhaps a homemaker, place the existence of your home. She advises that when you must remove a dead body from the house it's spiritually best to hand it out through a window.

She says her name is Grandmother Witch.

Why is writing so hard? This is me asking this. I'm not typing now, I'm speaking. Why is writing so hard? Is it very hard to tell the truth? Or is finding words for truth or lies or anything harder than it needs to be? Or is it the fucking muses, fucking idiots half of them. Sure, any writer with a stupid muse can type in lots of stupid shit but that's fucking easy. Why is true writing so hard?

Making pictures is easy, or it's not too hard. You know what? In the end, if you're painting you're just finally standing there with the stick in hand – with the ink or paint just perfect on the stick by now, just not quite but almost dripping off of it onto your hair or shirt or cuff – you staring at the bastard thing, and you say, fuck that's good enough. Here's what you say… 'Each viewer will see what that viewer will see.' Bullshit copout from artistic responsibility but fuck, when you paint a picture that copout is all you've got. You look around, where you are, and you're alone. You and that picture are somewhere very deep in some sub-sub-sector of existence, trying to look like here from there.

But with writing you can be accurately understood by maybe many people and you know that you can if you just don't wreck it all too much. The viewer doesn't see so much of what you'd like to show, of course – you have narrowed the bandwidth a lot by switching from painting to writing – but you seem to stay here, where you are. Language slows your thinking down and forces you into coding mode enough to immediately fix the grossest gibberish mishaps of fingertip and recording surface. Not so with paint, I promise. With language there are far more rules you think you can trust. And only certain viewers are qualified to read, only those who learn the rules by heart. With your painted picture, any human being is qualified to look and see whatever they grope around inside themselves to see.

The old man – she introduced him as 'my true heart love' and he called himself 'Grampa Druid' – sometimes even speaking of himself in third-person, sometimes clearly so you might decide the 'Grampa Druid' name is supposed to be some kind of ruse – the old man was a teaching storyteller who had helped her invent this walking exercise for thought and health. And I believe he tells the truth.

Why is it so hard for me to describe him for you? He had another famous type of face, a Face of Dasilva, but in a mood of happy triumph.

Someone's coming. Goodbye
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Published on May 04, 2018 05:38

Hashish Tar Ancient Method

This is from unfinished story book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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Hashish Tar Ancient Method

{ Old header label is missing. } { Our community has voted this anonymous fragment as most useful of the 'episode one's that we've heard in the 'Surprising Book And Film Reviews' essay collection. We did not vote on how this determination affects all other possible numbering patterns. } { Valve is on. }

Hi. As always, you are welcome here. This is just a quick note to spread the word that I have (probably) guessed the old method for manufacturing hashish tar, the old way, the way your old folks' old folks used to do it, possibly. Although, frankly, I'm guessing.

By the way, I am speaking to you early in the 21st century – early in this century's wars perhaps, from your point of view. My country was losing but unconquered at this time now – so therefore cheap luxuries are allowed here now to keep up national pep. At this stage now, cheap luxuries are still a thing our country's owners can cheaply give the public, just by withdrawing outlaw status from good things that were outlawed earlier as public enslavements and punishments. (Yes, a few billionaire prison owners will inevitably suffer financial loss by the un-outlawing of hemp intoxication, but fuck them.) So good weed hemp is currently legal here in this province where I live. In other words, I am not a criminal for writing this to you. Unless it can be shown in court that I actually wrote this a few years ago, or in a different place, or if incriminating matter is inserted here by police.

See, you know how you really must always put a sheet of slightly waxy paper under your broken buds, on your baking pan in your oven in your prep for making edibles? No?

You're not aware of that? You're not? You're really not aware of putting slightly waxy paper under your broken buds when roasting them in the oven at medium low heat for about 75 minutes until they turn just very slightly crisp and brown to use your bud in recipes for edibles? No you're not aware of that? Well then obviously, you haven't cooked bud yet so it's a good thing you are reading this in time. You should thank me.

Why is the slightly waxy paper definitely needed? To catch the tiny microscopic drips of hashish tar. That shit is thick and sticky. You don't want that shit dripping on your pan. Hashish tar is a gum, a glue, speaking of it chemically. It is a kind of glue, unless it melts, that sticks to absolutely any solid thing. And somehow if that glue is taken in the mouth, in tiny doses, it has marvelous healing powers for human beings. Now when I and you throw those microscopic drips of alchemic tar into our trash can, it seems to me like unnecessary stupid waste.

Obviously I'm postulating this… In the past somewhere there was a society of human beings where they made hashish tar as a frequent regular thing. A farm product probably. Because if I'm NOT postulating that, then my whole claim to guess a so-called ancient method is just wasting your good time, isn't it? Because I may have guessed a new method instead of an ancient one. And then you probably should not thank me. Right?

Well, rebutting that, I will first blankly claim to be an expert amateur historian. But there's no way I can prove this to you, except by pointing to my books which you don't have, so let this point go.

Next, in a better rebuttal of your possible disbelief, I will paint a hypothetical verbal picture – a realistic mental picture, a vivid and quite convincing painting – of a hypothetical place in time where your old folks' or my old folks' old folks likely manufactured hashish tar as a regular frequent thing, a farm product undoubtedly, enough of it to have a regular method which I then guess, so you should thank me. But wait, do you enjoy this fun formal logic stuff as much as I do? Sorry.

Okay. But I am going to show this mental image to you anyway. Allow me that. Because I'm going to show you a mental image metaphor that will impress you, and it will show you my hypothetical ancient druggists in a rather convincing way. I shall. And thereby I shall claim that you should thank me for giving all this happy information.

Van Gogh's first great painting. “The Potato Eaters”. That's it. Go look at if you can. The first great work of an illustrious painter's painting career. That's my metaphoric picture. Those are their faces there. I think they're real human beings. Don't you? Except our poor belabored family gathered there at their little twilight dinner table – they and all their village neighbors too – also grow an ancient native hemp crop – and process it to products – in addition to the Nederland potatoes Van Gogh shows them eating. That's who they were, undoubtedly if they existed, my alchemic ancient druggist predecessors, with their hypothetical standard farm method for catching magic healing tar from slowly roasting bud.

Suppose they do exist somewhere among our human kin, suppose that. I don't suppose they manufactured paper out of barnyard straw or such, with a bit of wax from bees I guess, to have to soak up a precious product of their farms to throw it in the trash. I don't think that.

My guess… I think the village built a special oven, maybe a fresh oven every year. Built from adobe brick or mud and field stone, let's say, with a dry hot air draft into the roasting chamber from above, I guess, where about three shovel fulls of half-crushed bud lies on a smooth hard surface that resembles glassy porcelain. The tiny drips of molten tar flow down the inclined glassy surface to a pool of liquid in which they float and form themselves to little tarry balls.

After roasting, when the oven is opened and the bud is carefully carried off to other processing, some highly skilled and trusted person will pick up the little tarry balls with a pair of brushes, one brush in each hand, brushes that each contain only a few of the stiff hairs from a horse's eyelashes.

The glassy roasting surface is not porcelain, of course, but a kind of very smooth mineral plaster from a nearby mineral deposit.

How did they pack the tar for shipment? Well, for one thing, maybe each little tarry ball's little bit of brush hair was snipped off and dropped with it into some container. They might lie there – each tiny sticky droplet with its tiny whisker handle sticking out – in the shipping container on a bed of flour or some other fluffy dry powder food substance.

What was the oven's catchment liquid? Likely maybe oil from some plant that has just the right consistency re tar and heat. Or maybe alchemic urine from a newly married girl and boy, or something else.

Although, frankly, I am guessing.

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Published on May 04, 2018 05:34

The Origin Of Species

This is from story unfinished book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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The Origin Of Species

{ first-posted on 05-03-2018 by guest.scholar loop-now 05-03-2018 }

{ auto: header-note 'this episode has been designated number three in the essay series 'surprising book and film reviews' community-comment is 'community comment is welcome concerning episode number' }

Hello my dear, I know you're reading this even if you won't admit it! Who else is here are welcome too, if you don't mind me kissing your father now and then. I'm pregnant again, by the way, with every hope this child will live. And it's almost my darling non-husband's birthday! You see, legally the story now is that he is a castaway living by the docks and he comes to me disguised, for sex – him innocently misinformed that it is a thing ladies' lovers customarily do here – while I'm pretending to be asleep. His legally registered address is 'under a bridge somewhere'. Is it wrong of me to laugh at that? It is a serious legal fiction, maintained seriously, but it is fun. He deserted from an army where he used to live. Your costume!

It's also fun – although perhaps a little less – to be doing another one of these episodes, by the way. I'm choosing this topic from the backlog. But my gentleman caller and his little friend got out of bed and he says he wants to see me at my work. Our little friend is not saying that.

As I understand it, Charles Darwin's great achievement was to create materials and examples for people who wish to direct their thinking toward the nature of reality, by showing how they could accurately think about one of the most obvious and puzzling irruptions – an irruption of their own underlying reality – into the human awareness of their sub-sector of the continuum. Obviously, this was a great achievement in its time and remains so now, when I am writing this. I am a child of Darwin. I wrote this paragraph somewhere else, many months ago, and I am now retyping it.

What do I think of Charles Darwin? What should any intelligent and well informed person think of Charles Darwin? It's not as if I have some private information about the fellow. Or, formally, I have promised to direct my remarks toward this particular book of Darwin's.

The Origin Of Species. The book's final paragraph says it all for me. That last paragraph is especially audacious. You see, he is glaringly aware of the gaping holes in his theory. That is why he hesitated all those years to publish it. His theory has enormous glaring holes. And yet what was there was so strong and so convincing, and he had such courage, that the final paragraph prescribes the operating method by which the gaping holes would all be filled in, which was accomplished within two centuries of his life, with the opening of continuum information and many other repercussions and adjustments following.

End of book review, in my opinion. And a glowing book review it is. But I will write more.

Well, when I was a girl, my dear Uncle Hiredwriter coerced me into studying 'the time of Darwin', as my uncle called it, by which he meant the extraordinary period in the history of ideas that followed Darwin publishing his great twin discoveries, the discovery of the physical evolution principle, with it's seemingly shadowy twin the mental evolution principle. We are to take the first published book, The Origin, which I am dutifully reviewing for you here, as the starting point for this transition period in the history of ideas, even though this first book doesn't even clearly mention the mental evolution principle until that magnificent last paragraph I mentioned above.

So, you see, whoever you are that is still reading, you see that I am probably qualified to write this essay for you because of my youthful studies in this field of study. Right? Do I hear any objection? Thank you.

And oh yes! I have forgotten to say it, but you are welcome here. Yes, you too. All right. Thank you, dear. I'll say that.

I have just now recently heard it humorously quipped that all Charles Darwin ever did was just add up a very long list of vaguely written numbers and arrive at the correct answer. A no-sweat job. Haha. And fair enough, but that's not even nearly a complete picture of the fellow's situation.

They all imagined – everybody that was reading Sir Charles's books – still ridiculously assumed an approximately static and immobile universe. Why? As a result of a longstanding theological dispute, in my opinion, and I can offer a few candidates for which longstanding theological dispute perhaps it was that was so profoundly but almost invisibly hampering everyone's vision of reality in the moment before these books started coming out.

Anyway, Sir Charles was one of the mighty thinkers and not to be deterred. Yes, everyone around him just assumed that the physical world around them was X number of years old, that it had somehow begun when event Y was caused by situation Z, in other words, that what you see is what there is. Only the accurate values for X, Y and Z were sought, with all other questions to be laughed out of discussion. But mighty Sir Charles was not to be deterred. I think the evidence of his eyes drove him.

The kaleidoscopic forms of physical life in Living Earth are not a chronologically sequential phenomenon. The phenomenon is – to the most extremely utmost – too complex, and inter-stitched, and conscious to be accurately described by any such ludicrously simple logic. The living forms around you in Living Earth can only be seen as chronologically sequential if you squint really hard. You get a headache. It's called cognitive dissonance. The obvious view that all these living forms are always new irruptions of some blossoming fact from somewhere else, was out of vogue. That obvious view – held by so many human thinkers through the countless generations – was at that time accounted, instead, as a primitive superstition or as a cheap philosophical trinket imported from the Oriental colonies. What you see is what there is!!! Well, actually, no.

So bold Sir Charles boldly did the math (to revive a metaphor we started in jest above), so to speak, by which I mean he did the logic. And the sums did add up – life does actually exist – but the sums of the evidence did not add up the way expected. So in that logical space he discerned, transcribed and began solution of the gothicly elaborated syllogism of the flourishing of species. And 'cause and effect' is wondrously hazy in the logic of that riddle. I hope you like this paragraph.

What have I not mentioned yet? Do you have a mental picture of the book? What's missing from it?

'Irruptions' what's that word? I should explain it carefully just because sometimes the word is little used. An irruption – properly speaking, as I use the term – is an arrival or insertion of some information, generally, from a neighboring sector of the continuum. Have I made myself clear? As in a holy miracle, etc. (Classic example.)

Oh wait! Ladies & Gents this is my darling non-husband's first time in the studio while I am typing in. It's the point in my life story after the first child has died, and my heart is broken and yet somehow my heart is gay in love, and we are still in the gorgeous honeymoon we're still having somehow, after the death of a child, and my heart is telling me to cast a divination lot, or several lots. This is where we are.

So, the kind gentleman who makes a lady of me every dawn and dusk, this gentleman of my thighs, he has just now expressed a difference of opinion with me here in this nest of gibberish that we go on gibbering about day and night, we in the community discussions. This is the first time in a chat that my darling god – he doesn't mind me saying that – this is the first time he's expressed a demurral, expressed a disagreement with me in one of these chats! Here, press this button.

WHAT!! I CAN TYPE??? I CAN FRIGGIN TYPE!!! Thank God. Look here, this is just too much.

What? What's just too much???

You're making Charles Darwin, an actual person, into Super-Darwin. Just to drag in continuum information. Sir Charles, as he's known to some, is an empty figure of logic. Sir Charles, the stock character of logical discussion, the supposedly existent typical brilliant human before quantum physics who saw beyond quantum physics, not the Darwin actual person, nor either do I mean the actual Darwin person's actual works ought to be dismissed in the the slightest degree – but just the stock logical character, ought to be considered null and void. Sir Charles the Super-Darwin equals Empty Address.

What? What do you mean, my dear?

There was no typical human brilliant thinker, not in our terms now, until the quantum physics opened out to continuum information. Darwin didn't even have a dim inkling of it. Just try imagining yourself not knowing at least some basic information about the existence we exist in. Imagine not knowing any of that. It liberates human thought. Knowing the continuum is here, part of you and everything of everything, doing everything we see constantly see existence doing, that information changed everything in the mental life of humans.

Well, just to ask the obvious my dear, just how much are you thinking about abstruse physics when I decide it is the WOMAN of the house's turn to tickle the house MAN? Why do you exhibit so much delight? Are you looking at it as a chance to enjoy calculating some continuum sectors? Isn't it really chimpanzees bouncing around on the bed? Disporting themselves with Charles Darwin looking on from a nearby sector and smiling beatifically. Wasn't I motivated – when I was sending you all those fun invitations – wasn't I motivated entirely by trying to find my soul mate? So us and ours could flourish? Aren't we Darwin's children, and won't this new child of ours be one too?

My dear Orangutan – my dear Orangutan, the only female orangutan I would ever enjoy being a male orangutan with – ((LOOK! now nobody else here knows what sort of postures you and I have begun referring to, don't you agree?, yes!, so paradoxically now I think we can feel there is plenty of privacy for me to speak quite lewdly to you, my toy, my pet, if I am extremely clever and talk entirely in code!)) – (so I'm saying this to you in our special code: ) – I am sure that some correlation of our opposite views would lead toward mutual conclusion!!

Yes it always does, my dearest pet.

Oh. Yes. No, no I don't want to say anything! You! You! I want to watch you doing your typing in. I do. No, you just sit there and let me watch you do whatever you're doing. Yes! Please smile just like that. Like that! And do please believe me, there is no other desire anywhere in me right now at all, believe me. I have no desire in my being to do anything but lie exactly here and watch your breasts slowly filling while you smile like that while our new baby grows and you're doing whatever in the world you're doing. There's nothing left in the world for me to do right now but looking with these eyes of love on you. I can relax.

Don't go to sleep yet! I have another idea.


I'll lie back down with you, but first I get my divination kit, and on the bed between us we draw a divination lot.

A divination lot for the child? So we must touch during the drawing but nothing more? Yes, let's do that.

No, not, no darling, seriously, Darling! Seriously! Don't bite my toe. We're not doing that now. Yes, you may have my left foot if you are good. But don't do that either.

Alright, I promise. How many lots should we pick? That's the important thing, how many?

No darling, it's what you've just done that matters most. We've just had very gentle and easy sexual intercourse. Very easy and gentle. That's what matters most. How many lots do you want to pick?

I want to pick five lots because there's five toes on your foot. Is five too many?

Five lots is probably too many, unless you have a whole team of fortunetellers like King Sollomon in the Bible. They had a whole team of fortunetellers but we don't. So less than five, please you kindly.

So I've heard the song 'two lots for Tuesday'. Isn't today Tuesday? Should we take two lots?

If that seems like a good idea, if it does, then two lots it is. What names should we give them?

Uh-oh that sounds like a trick question. What names should we give to our lots? I have no idea. Is that a trick question?

I have no idea if it's a trick question or not, I only know it works. If you pick two lots you give them names. There are mysterious rules. If you do the correct things in the correct order, then the Oracle of Lots works, presto the box opens and you get your free bonus gift for the evening – a piece of information that you didn't have before – so you see, we don't know how it works. But we have all the most competent continuum computing people working on that question right now just for you.

Darling, stop trying to make me chuckle any harder. We'll never pick the lots.

Laugh! Yes, laugh! Right! Now this is the very moment I have waited for … here is the little box … its little lid is open … smile! … So darling, choose two lots and I'll fuck you more. But tell me two names.

The Moon and Sun. Why not the Moon and Sun?

{ …the main box is still running… }
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Published on May 04, 2018 05:32

Meet Hiredwriter

This is from unfinished story book "Surprising Book And Film Reviews"...
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Meet Hiredwriter

{ first-posted on 05-03-2018 by theauthor loop-now 05-03-2018 }

I writing this am Stone Riley, the actual author of this essay series, the legal person who has legal authority for the “Stone Riley” name, and so hello there to you.

Where am I? Here and now, I am author of the essay series called the “Surprising Book And Film Reviews” essay series of which this is one. And I am collecting them into a book. And I control of the Enter button on this machine.

Where are you? I don't care. But I do hope that you are comfortable. What I want to tell you is this:

That person hiredwriter is only talking to you directly if you see “hiredwriter” as the 'by' parameter in the packaging header statement at the top of this page, although he does sneak in occasionally by mimicking other people's voices, or he gets dragged in too. I hope that's clear now. That's one thing.

So also, I want to tell you about hiredwriter and me. This is special.

It is a strange relationship, hiredwriter and me, a magical relationship in fact. And since I am a magical person, I have used that word “magical” with perhaps the deepest understanding that human beings appear in our world to have. We do have many magical relationships.

He is one of my muses. Does that seem strange? Have you ever had a muse? They're good. Or at least the ones I've had have always been good. And very talented.

That's the point. Do you know the Plato dialog that nobody else knows? Plato's only little-known dialog. The only one I tell. Look it up. No shit. Do you know what it's about? Do you know? Can you guess what it's about? That little-known dialog? Socrates goes out criticizing art. Yes! And it's the Golden Age of Athens!! (Somehow, over the centuries, this dialog has not been published much.) So in this little-known dialog Socrates goes out slouching around Golden Age Athens using formal logic to verbally abuse all of their best living artists. And Socrates is telling this story. Socrates is speaking to a small rapt awestruck audience of awestruck rapt college students, all of them young, all of them crowded into a little bright grove of trees that is surrounded by the city university's asphalt parking lot. As always, they have brought friends. And Socrates tells this tale of excessive art abuse on himself. He makes it sound like, Hey here's this shit stupid fuck thing I did, and you know what happened? Do you know what happened? Do you know that dialog? Look it up. It's true.

So anyway, he takes a survey. He takes a survey. Socrates goes around and asks each of the best living artists one single question – always the same question – then he reports and critiques their single unanimous answer. (I suspect he also critiques individually, right there when the poor git has politely stopped work to politely chat with him.) This might be mistakenly called the first scientific inquiry into art and the inquiry's result was remarkably spiritual and complex, as you would expect. The best artists all said art is holy magic. Unanimously of course. Then the very excellent scientific philosopher tried very hard and failed in refutation. And at the end Socrates teaches his students that this is the lesson of the dialog. The holy magic of art cannot be disproven, so you are free to make an inquiry.

So thereby Plato lends me the authority of Socrates to tell you this: The best art is given to the human world by sacred muses such as hiredwriter. Of course that does make for a complex personal relationship.

For one thing, it's never equal. It's never equal. They've got you from the start, once you shut up and let them talk – maybe two or three times tops you let them talk – and from that point on in a relationship with any one of your sacred muses, it's just resistance is futile, Earthling.

I am one of a stable full of muses who have come here to this place in New England to prance about a little bit and see what happens. Stone Riley is our host here in this sub-sub-sector of the continuum, and he befriends us and lets us talk and type here, and fucking lets us paint for Christ's sake, and makes us comfortable with herbs and pillows, and I am a happy tenant in our stable of muses.

This is not a harem obviously, unless maybe a really good harem is actually like this in some ways you wouldn't ordinarily think of. Not sex obviously. But like, what would it be like to live with several human women, all alive, all of whom are radically talented and all are quite conscious of it? You would be radically busy I guess. It would be a busy house. Maybe that's a little bit like stables full of sacred muses.

You know what it's really like to be a very good artist, really as good as the ones that get museums built in their name? Well I don't mean that good, but a really good artist? It's very much like the life of plants. What? O sure, I can explain that, and I will shut up any time you tell me to. I won't leave here – I won't leave the mega-comfort of my really cheap office chair here in the cellar office, a blue dawn coming up above the tallest trees eastward from our neat house, and with that very welcome bright Spring sunrise dawning in through the window at my left, here inside the exposed eastern side of our house – Spring long overdue in this dangerous chaotic weather, and the delightful composite typing box in front of me from which some drowsy siren's song is vaguely wafting. Then to my right, towering from it's perch atop the joke desk – there is a fatal battle taking place, a horrid battle of Eve and Adam maybe, or Edith and Archie, or me and she who died, or any confrontation of a human man and a human woman where pain is inflicted on some person by some person as though like in an act of war, and that is present here epically in a painting of masterfully handled acrylic on a tall canvas. I will explain to you since you ask. Being a really good artist is like the life of plants.

What I mean to say is this: The Secret Life Of Plants. You know there is a Wonder album of it. You know Wonder albums exist just because humans know of them – and you have some favorite pictures in some of those albums too – but have you gone there yet in your imagination? I'm going to pretend that you have, even if you think you haven't, because I want to ask you this: When you went there, The Secret Life Of Plants, in your imagination – or we can pretend you did – when you went there did they let you in? And a second question: Did you meet anyone when you were there – when you were in the The Secret Life Of Plants – did anyone who you met there tell you their name? Or did they tell you your name? Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about your remarkable experience? Maybe tell me some other detail from your visit to The Secret Life Of Plants? Thank you very much, it was a pleasure chatting with you.

Forgive me. I'm sorry for that unintelligible paragraph above. I really am sorry for it – me, hiredwriter – I apologize to you for that unintelligible paragraph above. And please do accept my apology. It is a technical problem. Those unintelligible paragraphs get thrown in here (meaning here in your community bulletin board heading wire) a lot. It happens when I take a question from you folks in the community audience and a buffer doesn't reboot properly. It's entirely a technical problem. I don't know what all the buttons on this machine are for. This machine's box has a lot of buttons and water faucets on it (this machine has a lot of water faucets for some reason) and everything is marked in a unique alien script that was not developed for any known book or movie here on Earth. Do you see the technical problem? All the inputs and outputs on this machine that I'm typing into for you right now are marked in an alien script vaguely similar to Tolkien's Elvish script, but not similar to any other. And the sticky labels that we have here don't really stick to this strange wooden case. No, the box's surface doesn't feel smooth at all. So I apologize for that unintelligible paragraph above. Fuck art. It sucks.

So anyway, this is our !!ME!! episode, our hiredwriter episode (and me being hiredwriter, in case you didn't see me sneak in back there on page one). And our host good Mr. Riley is dutifully sitting here taking dictation, happily typing into your Community Bulletin Board's header wire.

May I introduce New England to you? I should. You might not be familiar. I came here chasing a skirt long ago. This is beautiful country and it is beautiful today with a more ferocious wildness than it had before, back when I first found myself here. Yes, New England is beautiful. After all, it is a tall rocky face of land on a deep watery surface full of oceanic gales, on a planet with a large moon close to stir the tides. Land here is full of trees and rivers and ponds, just as you would expect, with a very rich community of living spirits.

They don't say much about it, the humans I am writing for here, you my readers. You don't seem to think about the country much. You don't say much about this country here where you have lived as long as I, New England. You human beings seem interested mainly in human beings.

But wait. Please wait; if I may; that is an interesting topic, a very interesting topic – thank you – and we will remember that you were expounding beautifully about New England { } – but this is a Point Of Order. { point.of.order } And Point Of Order always takes precedence “except when there are multiple point.of.order's in which case the latest takes super-precedence!!” so I believe I should type now. Thank you. I mean, okay, the classic example: Your box has burst into flames suddenly but you are still able to type into it. Of course you should be able to type “help!!!!” and somehow that character string should be automatically recognized by the community bulletin board as a point.of.order. Do we have a vote on this? No!!! Thank you!!!!! Sincerely, I thank you all.

So my Point Of Order is this: !!!!WE OUGHT TO EXPLAIN WHO WE ARE!!!!

I have a box here, where I am, that analyzes text and has some interesting algorithms pre-recorded in it. These are what's called “statistical algorithms”. Of course because that kind of algorithm ought to be in a box that has “text analysis” printed all over the outside of the box in several scripts and dialects. Do you understand what this lets me do? I can analyze text. Okay yes, I will cut this short. Sorry. So I'm doing text research here and an analysis of all this text so far causes me to agree with the point of order. { point.of.order }.

Hello again. I have just now chatted off-line with our friend the listener who has the text analysis box, who did not wish to self-identify him/her/it/non/self – nor did wish to take a transcript of our off-line chat neither – but it was a remarkable chat and I will remark on it, here on our well-beloved community bulletin board, at some other time after I have thought about it more.

So where are we now? But wait, aren't we still talking about analyzing the bulletin board archive hydraulically? No? Well, if we were still talking about that then it would be noted here that EXPLAINING WHO YOU ARE IS ALWAYS CONSIDERED DESIRABLE, BUT NOT REQUIRED, IN COMMUNITY DISCUSSION STRINGS. { }

No give me that. Give me that. You don't even know where we fucking are in the fucking structure of this fucking essay, do you? Is anybody here, except me, not lost? So fuck you. You shut up and let me type. Fuck you. So does anybody here want to fucking hold a fucking vote on a point of order you don't even fucking remember what the fuck it is.???? So fuck you. The point of order passes automatically you fucking assholes. Either explain and identify your fucking selves, or fucking shut up, or fucking go home.

{ …the main box is still running… }
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Published on May 04, 2018 05:30

Stone Riley's Shoebox

Stone Riley
A poet writing essays. Why the title? You know you keep a large size shoe box with all those creative ideas and suchlike stuff scribbled on the back of electric bill envelopes?
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