Jeff Mach's Blog, page 28

Payback

I came here to escape
All the things that I have done
And in my life I’ve put
All my troubles on the run

My life’s been full of indecision
And of last resorts
Something tells me to give up
But I only, I only retort:

That the silky smooth waves
That roll up to the shore
Come crashing down upon the beach
Like payback at my door

Nothing’s done too soon,
Yet everything must wait
Until I’ve figured out
What to love and what to hate

Now I’m there and then I’m here
I’ve known so many places
But memory does what it wants
It sleeps, or else it chases

And the silky smooth waves…

Here I am
Where am I?
Here I am
Where am I?

Both my legs are wet from the water
Both my arms are dried by the air
Sometimes I sink deep into the dirt
Sometimes there is fire everywhere

Still there is no human motivation
Like the threat and the promise that we die
Sometimes I find myself calling my name
Wondering who will reply…

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The Shot

The Shot

Curly Ed leaned over, sighting squint-eyed down his cue. He
looked peaceful, but we all knew it’d been about forty-sixty that
he’d stick the lit end of his Camel on the outside of his face
when he’d stepped behind the bar to grab a light. He had the
inkeeper’s curse–he liked to taste what he sold, and sometimes he
forgot which side of the bar he was on, and it did him no good.
Like tonight when, gassed and stoked on Bud, primed with three
fingers of the hard stuff, he’d ante’d up a week’s take.

Against Little Man Al.

It wasn’t the juice that had him. It was Ed’s table; for
thirty years, when the day was slow, he’d pop a few and nine-ball
until the evening rush. The little hotshits from the college could
buy him his weight in Comfort and he’d still twirl his stick under
his right arm, growl cheerfully about The War, and prestidigitate
their book money into his wide back pocket. I’m pretty fair
myself, but my mind remembers all too many Fridays when I came home
with half a paycheck or worse. Emma’d give me the unholy what-for,
and I’d hear about it for weeks. There was this look she’d get in
those hazel-dark eyes…Since she went, I’ve played a lot, but
never for money.

So Ed had it lined up, stood bent over, his gut on the
hardwood. He stayed there too long, longer than you need to. I
saw Frankie grin sardonically, and exchange a look with Sweet Lou,
his perpetual partner-in-crime–but he didn’t say anything. Nobody
did. You shut up and let a man do his business. Jack, the baby of
us at forty-five, took a good long pull on his Bud–if any of us
thought Ed had a chance, he wouldn’t have done even that.
It happened, anticlimactic. A nice hit–but it’s the edge of
the ball that gets you, and here Ed gave it a little too much
English, a little too little arm. It came *this close*–but, as my
father always said, close only counts in horseshoes and
handgrenades.

Ed winced, stood staring at the table for a minute, then
turned away. He’d played a careful game, making sure to leave Al
the worst shots in the history of pool, but that hadn’t held him
off before and it wouldn’t now. He began to pour himself something
way too strong, as, with a rapid-rifle Mosconi shot, the Little Man
snapped the white ball off three corners and tipped the three into
a side pocket, leaving the cue lined up to pop off the five thatlay up the corner.

And that was it. All Al had to do was snap off a combo, the
twelve to the two, and he’d have a one-foot straight shot on the
eight. And the combo couldn’t have been straighter or easier if Ed
had gone amongst the balls and moved them around by hand. That’s
the beauty of watching a master walk the table–he places
everything so well that his eventual win seems less a matter of
skill and more a matter of destiny.

Little Man Al chalked his cue with the imported dust he got
from God-knows where and eased his ridiculous girth forwards. A
table weighs one ton; we alway joked that, with the Little Man
resting on it, it weighed two tons. Al, taking his time, balanced
his stick, checked once more, and shot. As he was pulling his
stick away the air filled with choke smoke and accelarating glass,
erupting into the room, the walls, and us. A voice rippled through
my skull–not my ears, my skull–“Zob Norbidgqartke, give yourself
up! This is the Intergalactic *Police*,”, only the word *police*
wasn’t quite right, it was kinda twistslithery in my head, and Al
turned, unzipping his flesh, resplendent in his purple and orange
scales with green stripes and black polka dots and pink hearts,
firing some sort of enormous sluglike weapon out through what had
been the picture window of Smith’s Pub, big beams of light and heat
searing our skins even though we weren’t in their path. A gigantic
metallic spider with pseudopods appeared in the window. Ed blasted
it twice, but the thing held up some sort of box with legs and
pressed a complicated series of what looked like Braille letters on
the side. Ed was encased in a great block of sunlight, and then
both he and the spider were gone, leaving nothing but the wreckage
of the bar.

We stared. If we hadn’t seen it, didn’t have the evidence
right in front of us, no way we’d have believed it. “Jesus,” I
said. “Good God,” echoed Sweet Lou, the words sounding hollow and
awed. Frankie, for the first time ever to my knowledge, couldn’t
say a word–he just stood there, frozen like day-old molasses in
February. Ed was the first to move, taking a hesitant step
forwards, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Never
in my life would I have thought Al would miss an easy one-two
combo like that one.”

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The Monkey’s Other Paw

Once upon a nearly-endless time, somewhere in the late 19th century, there was a mummified monkeys’ paw. It might ruin the tale to tell you that it was one of those machines of the Universe which grants “wishes”. (Too bad, if so.)

If you know enough wishing stories (ah, but we don’t read many of those anymore; I wonder who wished for that) – then you realize that a “wish” is, clearly, an expression of the malevolence of Existence.

Now, philosophers argue whether this is a symptom of the Universe itself being, in essence, malevolent, or if this is the Universe attempting to pour malevolence into particular places and spaces, so as not to make it omnipresent.

(If you’re wondering which one it is: do you think philosophers exist because the Universe LIKES us?)

A Wish, in order to be anything less than essentially sheer existential monstrosity, needs generosity, a generosity which surely requires sentience.

(Every Wish, and every Wish-Granter, requires sentience. Or so we must hope. Would wishes be parsed so horribly if they were the actions of some kind of cosmic coder, and if so, is there a way to have that coder removed and safely put on duty doing something less dangerous, like controlling the eletrical fences and security defenses around a park containing angry, resurrected dinosaurs?)

There’s much more to say, but someone just used the Other Monkey’s Paw.

And I really, REALLY wish they hadn’t.

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No Conspiracies – For Writers

Listen, the reason you’re not writing is just plain ol’ laziness. There’s no conspiracy involved.

Okay, technically, the part where those rather expensive Italian gremlins keep turning up your heat so you’re perpetually about 8 degrees too warm, they MAY have done some coordinating with the tiny Yeti. And obviously, the Yeti could only have become so small if they were connected, to, say, some of the scientists the Gremlins worked with in the first World War.

Which would explain why they make sure that, if you finally get a temperature you like, they drop it a good 16 degrees to low. To be fair, that’s more comfortable for them anyway. So it’s probably all a coincidence.

After all, who would possibly want to keep you from writing?

Other than rivals, obviously. Are you successful enough to have enemies?

Or could it be a family member? Let’s assume your family loves you – I mean, why be depressing about this? So they love you. Of course they don’t want you to be a writer. The long hours, the frustration, the even longer hours, the time in seclusion – it can’t be healthy. It’s for your own good.

Granted, this doesn’t explain the gremlins, the yeti, the shrink ray, or the time machine. What time machine? Come on; you know perfectly well that when writing’s going well, you can write for six months or so and not stop for air, much less a sandwich or a peck on the cheek of the ol’ spouse. And when it’s going slowly, it’s like that Temporal Stasis spell from the Tomb of Horrors. That’s just a fact.

Now, this is one of those silly fluff pieces which talks about how hard it is to write. It might have been vaguely funny in the 80s, if there were a couple more jokes. Obviously, there’s no conspiracy stopping you from writing, and writing’s just hard and the key is persistence.

At least, that’s what I want you to believe, rival.

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A Stave Or Two Of The Ended Story

Once, there was a story that stopped—
that stopped—
that stuttered, fluttered,
waivered back and forth,
as if unsure whether to choose
certain doom
or definite destruction.

Once upon a time, THE END
could not come too soon,
THE END was coming too soon,
Too soon, THE END would come for the waivering,
unbravering

story, the story that stopped—
like a broken clock,
a badly broken clock, a broken with
13 numerals,
frozen,
illogically,
frustratingly,
ominously
on twenty-three,
twenty-three,
impossible twenty-three.

And all the quavering blavering story wanted
was THE END, but, O Gods,
not yet,
not so soon,
not before the story had a chance to be told,
even if it had to tell itself,

every story, from BEGINNING OH MY GODS—
where’s the BEGINNING?
what must you think of our housekeeping,
all THE END,
and not even a little bit of ONCE UPON,
or LEND ME YOUR ORACLES,
or even LEND ME YOUR EARS, AND I’LL SING YOU A SONG,
no,

just this knavish palavering,
and here it is,
we’re already at THE END,
and I never had a chance
to tell you
what it was
we were ending.

such is the fate or
any mortal thing,
and this is what
you must guard against:

be careful never to end
without truly beginning,
because, believe me,
the Reader can tell,
and she does not forgive.

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A Short Tale of Coyote and Titania

Tonight, Coyote drinks the
Of his own slit throat
And shuffles off to the Faerie court
In his ragged overcoat

And when Titania turns him down
And bids him gone from here
He smiles a secret smile
And he sheds no tear

How gay the Faerie dance!
How gay the Faerie court!
How gay the Faerie at his ease
And making raucous sport!

Coyote fits in here as well
As antlers on a bull
He steals a jug of Faerie gin
Eats till he is full

Titania’s consort laughs at his ragged grey muzzle
Dances ’round Coyote like a child with a puzzle
Titania’s consort mocks
The ugly old beast
One’s the fairest thing on Earth
The other is the least

The younger of the Gentry
Almost look alarmed
To have a guest among them
Who cannot quite be charmed

The older ones, in contrast
Must think him quite the mark
See Titania’s consort
Circle ’round him like a shark

“Come with me,” Coyote says,
“Come walk with me a ways
Sister Moon does love me
And she’ll bathe us with her rays.”

“Never me!” Titania says,
Her bearing sharp and proud
She barely flicks her eyes;
Her consort laughs aloud

How gay the Faierie masquerade!
How gay the Faerie ball!
How stately Queen Titania
Presiding over all!

But for all her beauty
And for all her power
Her consort with Coyote lies
Within her very bower!

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O Fairyland

Fairyland, O Faryland
Like glass made from purest sand
But nothing, nothing, forever stands
Fairyland least of all

Fairyland, O Fairyland
Eternity you might withstand
But at your heart you’re made of sand
And in the wind, you’d fall.

Fairyland, O Fairyland
Gliitering, like time expand
Fairyland, O Fairyland
Issue forth your call:

This glittering, this glittering land
Won’t you love us, child of man?
Every treasure of sea and sand
Must, next ot us, pall.”

Fairyland, O Fairyland
Lovely, needful, glittering land
But I’ll kindle fires with my own hand
I don’t need you at all.”

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Memo From The Amalgamated Amalgamation of Conspiracy Theories

Dear kindred,

I need not remind any of you of the Great Work which lies before us. But I come to you with news; and it is my joy to show it.

As anyone who studies even superficial history knows perfectly well, ‘conspiracies’ play an intricate role. I know, o friends and allies, that you know this. But it’s always helpful to recap, for I have compliments to pay.

A “conspiracy” is as simple as two people gathering to misinform a third. And in this circumstance, we differ from the conventional wisdom. In our model, which is based on knowledge, historical understanding, and a basic observation of how things work – in that model, conspiracy happens all of the time, everywhere, multiple times a day.

(By the way, has anyone see Jorge? Good; as you know, Jorge does not share my views. There’s no reason he should know I spoke to you about these things. If he asks what we discussed, tell him it was flowers for our annual holiday party.)

We are, as always, aided and abetted by information from any number of our non-friends. I’d like to take credit for their state of extraordinary ignorance, but I can’t; political actors of every stripe (and a few with polka-dots) are the real heroes here.

It was said that the Devil’s great con was convincing the world that he did not exist. But we’ve done far better.

It’s peculiar. Conspiracy is one of the most documented political tools in history; and it’s a deeply constant segment in our interpersonal life. Every time two co-workers gather together to delay a project for upper management; every time upper management plots to reduce employee compensation by denigrating or deprecating their work, conspiracy is there.

One would have thought that to really protect conspiracies, one might need to resort to the traditional tools of denial, or suppression, whenever anyone got to the truth.

But in this age of massive information and real misinformation, it seems that many are deeply committed to making information easy by cutting data out until ‘information’ turns into ‘plausible but wholly empty words”.

They declare war on those who spread the false news which claims that conspiracies might be real.

We live, o my best beloved, in a golden age of conspiracies. Once we had to ensure that people would not know about, or disbelieve what we do. But now, all the work is done for us by people who’ve narrowed the ancient and widespread human practice of conspiracy down until the colloquial meaning is “any idea which contradicts my own and is either distressing, or a lie, that is a conspiracy theory, and conspiracy theories are all red herrings.”

This is our golden age, my companions-in-quackery.

Let us use it wisely, but with no rush.

For once, WE can do as we will, for it is those against whom we conspire who spend their energies, not seeking to figure out if there are solutions to the horribleness of various circumstances, but rather, to denouncing anyone whose information or suggestions contradicts their worldview.

What joy! And what freedom!

Let’s make sure we continue to have this rich and rewarding pleasures.

Remember:

There are no “true” conspiracy theories.Anyone who tries to warn you about a conspiracy is a liar.We’re doing you a favor when that person vanishes off the face of the planet, and is never seen again.

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The Night Before A Convention

The night before a convention is a very special time. For one thing, it’s difficult to fully mask the sound of the power tools and the ionic phase shit generators, even behind the subtly-loudened lobby music and that suspicious clatter from the supposedly-empty kitchen. It takes the hotel crew hours of backbacking labor to bedn, twist, and chop down the walls, and partitions which protect the hotel from reality. It’s necessary to unwarp-time, to let dimensional existence finally breathe out and release the other elsewhen dimensions, and then it can take hours to generate enough Tribbles to sop up the ether water from the bits of the Eighth Sea which manage to seep through.

And hell, that’s nothing compared to what they have to do to put all the barriers back and pretend that the “normal” world is actually reality on Sunday evening. Pretending the world is normal is a terrible, awful, miserable job, and I’m glad I, for one, don’t have to do it.

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A Word From French Fries

As many of you know, I’ve long been a proponent of healthy eating. I suggest vegetables, fruits, lean protein, and vitamins. Seriously, if you’re not running around hard enough that your body might collapse unless you fill it with rocket fuel, then you should give consideration to the possibility that you’re doing it wrong.

Here for an opposing view, we have: French fries.

Hi there. We’re French Fries. We’re crispy. We’re the carbohydrates your brain is craving. Seriously, we’re not sure why zombies hypothetically go after brain matter, whereas your head has millions of years of evolution directed towards the belief that carbo-loading maximizes longterm fitness and reproductive potential. Sure, your brain had no idea that we’d be delivering said theoretical fitness in the form of deep-fried salted slabs of calories emptier than a tinker’s wallet after a night in a Faerie cocktail lounge. It doesn’t matter. We’re French Fries, and whatever your ideas of appropriate nutrition might be, we’re getting up in your face and not leaving until you’ve feasted upon our deliciously crunchy, short-lived tuber bodies.

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