Spiritual

i have one last refresh in 2 days which i've already q'd to use in no time. after that, i need to move on. it was a lot of fun. thank you to everyone who ever contributed to the various threads over the years that helped me get bendy. clink. 68

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Topic Outline

* RE: i'm done, too posted by amclark2 on Jun 22 at 3:59 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by Porieux on Jun 22 at 7:06 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by DanielEsq on Jun 22 at 1:54 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by rastamon on Jun 22 at 2:11 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by mommio on Jun 22 at 2:13 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by Jophan on Jun 22 at 3:27 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by JMac on Jun 22 at 3:59 PM EDT   * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jun 22 at 4:04 PM EDT     * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by amclark2 on Jun 22 at 4:20 PM EDT     * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jun 22 at 4:58 PM EDT       * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by bklynd on Jun 22 at 5:04 PM EDT         * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jun 23 at 4:25 AM EDT           * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jun 23 at 4:42 AM EDT             * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by amclark2 on Jun 23 at 9:01 AM EDT               * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jun 23 at 11:20 AM EDT                 * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by SelfRisinMojo on Jun 23 at 1:14 PM EDT                   * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jul 1 at 6:23 AM EDT                     * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jul 1 at 7:01 AM EDT                 * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by amclark2 on Jun 23 at 1:44 PM EDT                   * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by TimMason on Jun 24 at 1:18 PM EDT               * RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread posted by indieb0i on Jul 23 at 2:13 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by frogkopf on Jun 22 at 4:41 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by mommio on Jun 22 at 6:22 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by Music Lover on Jun 22 at 4:57 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by xtrev on Jun 22 at 5:26 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by Kez on Jun 22 at 6:08 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by SufferingBruin on Jun 23 at 12:10 AM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by brighternow on Jun 23 at 6:12 AM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by Katrina on Jun 23 at 10:22 AM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by Bluesboy on Jun 23 at 10:38 AM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by twood on Jun 23 at 11:03 AM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by Kez on Jun 24 at 1:56 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by 68stationwagon on Jun 24 at 2:39 PM EDT     * RE: i'm done, too posted by flamgirlant on Jun 24 at 2:42 PM EDT       * RE: i'm done, too posted by 68stationwagon on Jun 24 at 2:50 PM EDT         * RE: i'm done, too posted by flamgirlant on Jun 24 at 3:18 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by lucasgonze on Jul 1 at 11:22 PM EDT * RE: i'm done, too posted by lord kinbote on Jul 2 at 1:05 PM EDT   * RE: i'm done, too posted by amclark2 on Jul 2 at 2:54 PM EDT     * RE: i'm done, too posted by TimMason on Jul 2 at 5:04 PM EDT       * RE: i'm done, too posted by amclark2 on Jul 2 at 2:55 PM EDT

amclark2 Jun 22 at 3:59 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon clink.

DanielEsq Jun 22 at 1:54 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Very sorry you're leaving. Hope you come back. In the meantime, take care.

rastamon Jun 22 at 2:11 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by DanielEsq 'clink', too... I'm hanging around...I refresh on the 24th so I'll either get 90 dls or 50 dls... 50 will p*ss me off and I'll probably split after glombing onto the big 25 dl bonus us old timers are supposed to gum on... What's up with the daily download anyway? Do I need to dl the latest piece-of-crap dl manager to get it to work?

mommio Jun 22 at 2:13 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon I know I am missing some regular posters, but for starters, Jacked Up Jazz, Nereffid, Pompey lad, now 68. It just won't be the same. clink

Jophan Jun 22 at 3:27 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by mommio Yes, I fear this will be much more of a shoppers' forum than a music lover community in the future. *clink*

JMac Jun 22 at 3:59 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Not intending to rerun the arguments, which we're all familiar with now, but I'm a little surprised at y'all leaving (you & others such as Nereffid (sp?)). I mean, I'm not happy, either, but I figure I'll stick around and check out the new order after my current plan expires and is replaced by a pod. Perhaps eMusic means more to y'all than to me. By the way, I always meant to ask: what kind of station wagon? I've always envisioned something like this.

TimMason Jun 22 at 4:04 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by JMac Don Pedro sang this song : Every story is a world, and every song is a story. Worlds belong to no-one, although they take temporary residence upon our tongues and fingers, spoken, chanted and accompanied. It is right that the messenger should be paid, in love, in kind or, as is the way with you, in money. But messengers are not gods, even when they are in the service of gods. Messengers are women and men, and they should eat, sleep, fuck and fight with women and men. They should drink with them, from the same bottle, and lift the food to their mouths from the same plates. Lay out your bottles, and let them be filled. It will cost you more than the water that you fetch from the river. It can cost you much more, however much you pay for it. A world in each bottle. Lift the bottle to your lips and taste the world.

amclark2 Jun 22 at 4:20 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason weld up that crankcase and mosey into the sunset.

frogkopf Jun 22 at 4:41 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by JMac Naw, it's more like This or This.

Music Lover Jun 22 at 4:57 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon My other thread (why I love 68) is independent of this and so coincidental. I want to respond to this one as another opportunity to express my respect for 68. 68 -- please drop me an email now and then at myriadnotes (it is a gmail account.) I plan to stay at eMusic probably another month or two and then cut down to the minimum subscription or drop off completely. It's been a wild ride. Who could imagine?

TimMason Jun 22 at 4:58 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Katrina stepped around Don Pedro's frail form, and faced across the fallen logs and the overturned cauldron. Behind her, Don Pedro's lips moved, and it may have been that the song that issued from her mouth was his : The song I sing has no price. Let those who believe that there is a market that sets worth upon a song hear my voice as it shreds their heart and tears into their bellies. Let those who believe that a song can be counted with beans upon a wire feel my song take them by their necks and shake them. When my song is over, then I am no longer the singer. You will pay me, not for the song, for the song is priceless, but because I came, and because I stayed, and because I am here. When my song is done, you will throw pennies in my cup, and you will be ashamed, and I will be ashamed, and we will smile at each other because we are ashamed. Because the music has no price. And now my song is ended.

bklynd Jun 22 at 5:04 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Meh, I'm skeptical, as always. We'll be hearing from that crazy wrestler, and I don't mean a postcard.

xtrev Jun 22 at 5:26 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon The place won't be the same without you 68. I completely understand why so many of we old-timers are taking this chance to make a break, I'll probably do the same when they gut my UK account (thankfully, still no word on that happening yet). Hope to see you around somewhere or other and a very large 'clink' to you sir.

Kez Jun 22 at 6:08 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Oh no, not another one. I always enjoyed your posts, 68. Good luck and best wishes. Clink.

mommio Jun 22 at 6:22 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by JMac JMac, Nereffid isn't leaving eMusic -- he's leaving the message board and won't be dropping crumbs for the classical music lovers. I may not have perfect understanding, but I empathize with their reasons for leaving. My subscription still has a little over three months to run. I have no idea what my decision will be at that time. To everything there is a season . . .

Porieux Jun 22 at 7:06 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by amclark2 That's a great rec. 68 + 1 = even more fun

SufferingBruin Jun 23 at 12:10 AM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon (sob)

TimMason Jun 23 at 4:25 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by bklynd The echoes of Katrina's voice faded, and she looked over to where the archangel stood, his wings folded, his tail wrapped around his body. He took the arrow-head tip in his left hand, cupped his right hand over it, and then, his hand a blur, send the projectile through the air to dig into the mud between Don Pedro and Katrina. He laughed a short, cascading burst of amusement, and then began his song, in a voice which charmed and pained us in equal measures. 68 rose from the mud and positioned himself at the angel's feet, a sheaf of papers in his hand. As the Devil sang, 68 displayed the papers, one by one, and we read what was printed upon each of them, before he crumpled it with a swift gesture and tossed it to the ground : You come into the world with two things You come into the world with a blessing You come into the world with a curse You come into the world with a belly You come into the world with a soul With your teeth and your tongue, you fill your belly With your teeth and your tongue, you sing your soul You have my word, as long as you sing, your belly will be filled You have my word, as long as your belly is full, you will sing You will sing for your belly, and you will eat for your song And that is the curse and that is the blessing and when his song was ended, the archangel opened his wings and leapt into the sky. and when he opened his wings, the sun was obscured and under cover of the darkness, Don Pedro knelt, picked up the arrow head, and placed it in his pocket.

TimMason Jun 23 at 4:42 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The painted cat padded her way upward through the last stunted trees. Overhead, eagles filled the sky, but she paid them no attention. Small creatures fled at the sound of her passage, but she had eaten a sufficiency lower down the slope, leaving a bloodied and dismembered carcase at the foot of a tree, its hooves overhanging the void. Suddenly she paused, her ears pricking. She looked back to see huge wings beating against the sun. She cringed as the diabolical shaped passed over her, casting her in shadow. Once it had gone, she turned to face the way she had come, squinting into the light. In a deep grumbling roar, she sang her song : Don Pedro, I have carried your words within me Don Pedro, I have promised to carry your words Don Pedro, the danger of death is upon me Don Pedro, I shall not flinch He lied to you, Don Pedro The curse is not the song Neither is the song the blessing The curse and the blessing is death, Don Pedro Each death is the end of a world Each world that ends strikes the last chord of the song Don Pedro, some songs fade when their singer dies Don Pedro, some songs find other singers Sing of Death, Don Pedro, and of the Life within it. Sing of Life, Don Pedro, and the Death within it. And let my song be an epithalamium For each and every guest.

brighternow Jun 23 at 6:12 AM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Sorry to see you leave 68... I really enjoyed your posts, eventhough I in many cases had no clue what you were on about. - as far as I'm concerned, you are welcome back anytime ! Bye now !

amclark2 Jun 23 at 9:01 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason the movers are coming for my piano today. i hate to lose it after carrying it here on my back from virginia. i think, hope, i still have a tape somewhere.

Katrina Jun 23 at 10:22 AM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Don't let the door hit you in the ass one the way out, cuz I need to sneak through it about a month after you! It was lots of fun, and thanks for the great recs & hilarity over the years. Clink.

Bluesboy Jun 23 at 10:38 AM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon I've always enjoyed your posts, as well as your gentle tweaking of the trolls every now and again. Take care.

twood Jun 23 at 11:03 AM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Hey 68- See you around somewhere--I'll keep a lookout for the old station wagon along the back roads of the internet. One for the road...

TimMason Jun 23 at 11:20 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Don Pedro walked over to the cauldron and righted it. Under his command, we filled the cauldron, while Katrina stared fixedly towards the mountain range far across the canopy of trees. Once the container was filled, Don Pedro handed round a pack of cigarettes, and we began smoking, blowing the smoke across the lip of the cauldron, rasing turgid waves upon the surface. Don Pedro began to keen, and as he did so, the water cleared, and we could see in it, as if it were a reflection, the outline of a bridge, two figures clinging to the structure as if amazed. Deep in the waters was a small green head. As we watched, the head began to bulge and expand, froggy eyes staring at us half-closed above a swelling throat. From the grinning mouth surged forth a song : Hey, listen! I'm the big one! I'm the big one, you can see! Hey, look! I'm the big one! Let loose your hands and drop on me! I can bounce you, I can hold you! I can turn your life around! I can do the boogie, baby Just let go and live the sound. Hey, listen! I'm the big one! I'm the only one you need! Hit the space and call my name! Do it! do it! Now! Don Pedro stepped back, and the vision receded. Blinking, we turned our gaze to each other. 68 was no longer with us.

SelfRisinMojo Jun 23 at 1:14 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Unable to distinguish between reality and dream or dream and ritualistic vision, Banderas squatted pensively at the banks of his beloved river and listened as it strummed familiar chords but sang melodies that were awkward and felt strangely out of tune. The folly that once split the water like ancient stone, splashing its words into tales that frolicked on the shore, was gone. He reached into the river and snatched a passing fish then put its mouth to his and drew a part of the river's soul into his lungs; coughing, he looked into the sky just as a winged figure crossed in front of the sun and clouded the area where he stood.A confluence of images brought the beginnings of a smile to his lips that slowly faded into the ripples of water where he had tossed the fish. "Dance to the muses" he said waving, then he turned and walked back into the jungle.

amclark2 Jun 23 at 1:44 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason coqui! coqui!

TimMason Jun 24 at 1:18 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Have a muffin

Kez Jun 24 at 1:56 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon I'll miss seeing you around the boards. I'll have to give you an occasional holler over at Last FM.

68stationwagon Jun 24 at 2:39 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by Kez hollers, muffins and pig ears are always welcomed. ------------- it's my last day; pardon my graceless exit...it just seems like gosatango + dbd ought to be here with "kick out the jams" blaring.

flamgirlant Jun 24 at 2:42 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by 68stationwagon I'm sad to see you go 68 - you were my first eMusic friend! Good thing I have you tracked down all over these intertubes...

68stationwagon Jun 24 at 2:50 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by flamgirlant wanna know what's funny, i bet ptolemyclark would say the same about "first emu friend" - he doesn't come 'round here much anymore - he's a dotter now. cool that you two connect so well. my intertubes are your intertubes is the new mi case su casa.

flamgirlant Jun 24 at 3:18 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by 68stationwagon p-clark will be the first emu friend I've met in real life - we're gonna be partners in crime for the Pitchfork Fest. are you going to come beard cruising with us? ;)

TimMason Jul 1 at 6:23 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo We will stop a moment and attempt to draw up some kind of score-card or to draw a rough world-map upon which to place the players, assess the state of play, and pick out the augers. Given the shifting nature of the game and the variety of hands which distribute and move the pieces on the board, this attempt may be seen as either a good-hearted offer of illumination or a clumsy and unwarranted golpe letterario, intended to seize the story-line away from other, perhaps more-deserving interventors. The present narrator may be conceived of as having mused over these questions, and was at first tempted to do no more than lightly touch upon such pieces as he or she had been instrumental in placing upon the board. Don Pedro, the anaconda, the jaguar, perhaps even the frog might be claimed as falling under the narrator's purview. However, even the briefest consideration was sufficient to give the lie to such a manoeuvre. Don Pedro, for example, can trace a pedigree that, at the very least, would, if the concept of literary ownership had any legs at all, place him under the control of a myriad of anthropologists, sociologists, historians, idle tale-tellers and rich and successful novelists, all of whom might be tempted to sue for damages if they suspected that the narrator had any wealth worth suing for. As for the cat - well, that painted denizen of the jungle has had so illustrious a literary career as to daunt the most barefaced literary thief. That the narrator has cared to tread upon ground hallowed by Blake, Kipling, Borges or Cabrera Infante - not to mention an army o hasty cartographers - must be seen as an indication of either culpable innocence or the utmost stupidity. The frog, of course, is something else again. The underhanded allusion to an esteemed member of these boards will not have been lost upon our readers. Whether such cavalier usage can be justified or not, it has to be admitted that the narrator here walks a slender and fragile tightrope between art and transgression. She or he may attempt to talk herself out of it, gerrymandering the circumscription with some jerky talk about how creation and crud will always go hand in hand, but the sturdy reader will reject such malarky. So the narrator will, in the next post in the series, continue to pick up whatever crumbs there are to be gathered, from whatever table hosts a nourishing dish. Other players may wish to defend their pieces, or simply ignore what is being done to them behind their backs. Out here in cyberland, it matters not a jot.

TimMason Jul 1 at 7:01 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The cat is making its way up into the mountains, leaving the forest, its natural habitat, far below. In doing so, it is moving from the realm of magic - the grubby bodily practicalities of which are, in South America as in much of the world, associated with the enclosed and steamy air of the forest, and the muddy banks of slothful rivers - to the realm of spirit, from the modesty of Indio shaman to the wide-winged arrogance of Lucifer, offering a vast and visible world to heaven's prince. The reader will recall that the lowland shaman of ambition is able to lodge his soul in the earthly form of the painted cat. The narrator has planted numerous textual titbits which may suggest that this particular and specific jaguar carries within its catty brain the dark spirit of Don Pedro, along with the echo of the scrap of paper that he had prodded out of the sunken bottle. While one would be well-advised to hang on to this suggestion, it can also be revealed at this point that Banduras, appearing in the narrative at virtually the same time as the cat, may have a more than accidental connection to the feline. Could it be that the fish with which he entertains so close a companionship is none other than a Parachromis managuensis or Jaguar cichlid, an adventurous fellow who has made his way from the Atlantic waters of South America to the waters of Florida, much as the cat herself has ranged as far North as Arizona. As the jaguar quits the last wind-bent trees and makes her way towards the peaks, there perhaps to commune with Beelzebub himself, perhaps she carries with her not only the otherworldly trace of Don Pedro, but also the watery google-eyes of old google-eye hisself.

TimMason Jul 1 at 1:07 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Don Pedro inspected the group of mud-spattered, bite-blotched,shivering escapees and licked his thumb. If this happened as often as it had been over the last few months, he would have to put in for a raise from the Tourist Board. This bunch were pretty far-gone, babbling about angels with cloven hooves, slave-labour and other similar fancies, doubtless induced by a heavy seance of ayahuesca. Well, if they were seeking enlightenment, they didn't seem to have found what they were looking for. He'd have to clean them up, feed them, and put them on a boat back down the river, and all of that took time he could be using for ... other things. He glanced over at Katrina, who shrugged, ducked into the shack, and came back out with what looked like a pool cue. She hung the cauldron over one end, and a well-wrapped waterproof bundle over the other and then hooked it over her shoulders and set off across the log-strewn desolation, moving at a steady lope away from the jungle. Don Pedro beckoned to the Yankees and followed after her, the befuddled holidaymakers straggling in his wake. From half way up a tall tree, one of the next to feel the axe, Banduras watched them go, noting the clouds of smoke towards which they were making a bee-line. then he cast his eyes back into the jungle, tracing out the bank of the river which curved out into the cleared area a little further off, and flowed down towards the cooking fires of the village that Don Pedro and Katrina were shepherding their stumbling flock towards. Banduras grinned to himself, drew from the trunk to which he was clinging a long bone-handled sliver of steel, and scuttled back down to the forest floor. Slipping the knife into his belt, he headed back to the river.

TimMason Jul 1 at 1:04 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Meanwhile ... The Anaconda, having swallowed down Kathy, Klaire, and the frog, has been craftily transformed into a sunken boat, a spacecraft, or a home-recording studio by a rogue narrator, and then disappeared. Such transformations are of little concern to the serpent, who has been around since the Creation and knows a trick or two. Ingurgitating a couple of sinful females, vanishing, and then spewing them back out again is pretty mundane stuff, seen from a snake's perspective - just ask the Wawilak sisters (although you'll have to catch them between blood and stone). K and K protested lustily at the accusation of sinfulness, while the frog belched merrily. The anaconda shrugged, a movement which propelled it from off Manhattan into the mid-Atlantic. Man, if you want those girls back, you'll have to do better than that.

amclark2 Jul 1 at 1:39 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason To: Admiral Mason From: Captain _____, S.S. Anaconda, roguemidget submarine Re: Search Have spotted life raft containing to sopping girls in the Mid-Atlantic per your coordinates. Verify ship's name: Candiru. We have frogmen ready and await your orders. Yours, __________

TimMason Jul 1 at 3:16 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Mornington Crescent

amclark2 Jul 1 at 3:52 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason There is a plaque bolted to the wall in the engine room of the S.S. Anaconda. It lists the rules of procedure under which the good ship sails. It is very dusty. In fact it more or less provides a slight deviation in texture of dust from the general dustiness of the entire engine room which is severe because, as you know, the Anaconda is fueled by dust, which is collected from various sources, such as Arizona reservations, South American jungle volcanos, and various UK tube stations. I am told, by most unreliable sources, that the punishment for deviation from the rules is a severe restriction in meal credits. And as the lonesome captain swabs the decks, he sings to himself an old song of his father's land.

TimMason Jul 1 at 5:00 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Dust? A headstone!!! (Bradley) Don Pedro a circle comes, changing at Embankment to reach the Promised Land. Whirrrrr! A winged giant overprods, blowing a stinking gale from distended cheeks. The ladies' little boat, a rubber coracle, bobbles and burbles as they clutch each other moaning. The Anaconda dives.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 1 at 7:00 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason His legs were moving faster than he could think; Banduras hoped an idea would sneak up on him and push him over the ledge of a well formed thought. The bitter taste of metal mixed with his spit as he emitted high pitched squeals only audible to cats while he held the blade clenched between his jaws and made his way back to the river. The sounds and even the smells of the jungle were unsettling and he could feel the cloaked dagger eyes of change matching his furious pace step for step. As he grew closer to the river, its familiar smells relaxing the beat of his heart back into the cradle of his chest, his eyes focused on a sight that loosened his bowels and taxed his bladder; there amongst a patch of bougainvillea ,staked into the ground like crude road signs to the gates of hell, were six severed goat heads.

amclark2 Jul 1 at 10:48 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo after devouring six goats, one for each of its rows of teeth, all but the heads, which are for reading, not for eating, as everyone knows, Idea circled back around to follow ever so quietly, amazingly so for a creature with thousands of teeth but very little in the way of eyes, the shrieking shuddering Banduras, all the while hoping that Banduras would stray close to a ledge... While the Chinese night watchwoman watched over a steaming storming cup of tea, which if you were to look very closely therein you would swear you saw a tiny life raft containing two tiny little women, but the old woman wasn't looking because you don't need to look at what you already know ... While AM and ML had measured about 12 miles of tunnel, where they would have sworn they had only moved one, and they peered back and found they could no longer see the shack, and a low frequency rumble began..

lucasgonze Jul 1 at 11:22 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon I reup on the 7/4... Or would anyway. Well eMusic, so long it's been good to know you. The new stuff isn't for me... I'm not your market anymore... You don't even want my business! All that bigtime catalog you just got just doesn't do anything for me, and the price change, well, obviously... Good luck to you, and if not, see you in the heavenly band with Napster, BearShare, Yahoo Music Unlimited, Musicmatch, and all the other internet music companies that just didn't work out.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 2 at 11:06 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Once again we find ourselves being driven like cattle headed for the last moo; the mud that cakes our bodies offers a modicum of modesty, otherwise we are unclothed. Don Pedro, whose near lifeless form we had only a few days ago pulled from the extending jaws of a reptile twice the size of a city bus and ignoring the fire song of our muscles hurried him after the air splitting scream of the machete our guide Banduras was swinging with an inhuman ferocity, is marshalling us towards a wall of billowing smoke and unnatural laughter. The woman with Don Pedro says little but carries herself like someone who could bring a grown man to tears with what she knows. Don Pedro is forcing us to Garfunkle to his Simon as he nervously works his way through their early catalogue. His apparent uneasiness does nothing to comfort our growing concern for what waits ahead. Can we trust this diminutive man anxiously air fingering complex chord patterns on his shepherd's staff? Where the hell is Banduras? (grammar edits)

amclark2 Jul 2 at 11:17 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Rogue narators can, and will, do strange things. Suddenly, the entire crew, Don Pedro, Banduras, Katrina, the mucky tourists, the Jaguar, the frog, the toothy idea, and even their narators, such as SlfRsn, Tmmsn, Blsby, find themselves in a well appointed sitting room with a nice, warm, quiet fireplace. Several find decanters and glasses, and being rude jungle folk, help themselves. A butler walks in carrying a tray which holds an 8-track cassette player which seems to have been ripped out of an ancient car, and which is wired to some dubious speakers. He sets it down on the table and presses play. this is the ---- ..* 68--- ,,, if you are 000 ------. I have taken control of the amclark for communication purposes. please find the amclark2 @ -- 00 0 -4030))(( the last eff emm. I will 000--- ...> And with a blink of an eye, they are back in their places in the jungle. In the confusion the characters fail to notice the blue tape at their feet, and some, as a result, miss their marks.

TimMason Jul 2 at 11:44 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Rogue narrators can, and will, do strange things. No need of the first adjective; all narrators are expected to do strangeness. I just planted an ending in Wanderer's "Come Troll with Me" thread. Now I really need to do some work - see yez later.

TimMason Jul 2 at 2:42 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Did I say I had to do some work? Pfffft. Don Pedro squatted on the rough boards, smoking cigarettes, an activity which he persued energetically and with concentration. From time to time he lifted the bottle at his heels and swallowed down some of the liquid. Sweat began to trickle down his forehead and drip from the tip of his nose onto his lip, cigarette or tongue as the case might be. A dragon emerged from the boards, and he nodded at it, his eyes bulging. The dragon spoke briefly, but the man paid it no attention, squinting at the glow at the tip of his cigarette. The lizard crawled through him, and a perceptive observer would have seen him flinch minutely. Don Pedro felt pressure on his eyeballs. An odour of cat's urine rose from the boards, and he nodded to himself. He felt the jaguar's mind slip into his, the old sensation, terrible and soothing. He looked out over the jungle, over the ocean, following the invisible trace of the archangel's passage, to where it dipped over the little rubber coracle. He groped for the serpent, but it was gone. The frog's soft croak nibbled at his ear. "The headstone. You're forgetting the headstone." Don Pedro shook his head and reached for the bottle.

lord kinbote Jul 2 at 1:05 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in direct response to the topic by 68stationwagon Not only am I not done, I've re-upped and upgraded. Thanks, eMusic for expanding beyond the Indie ghetto (not that I haven't reveled in same ghetto for the last 6 years) but some more mainstream material adds some much needed variety.

amclark2 Jul 2 at 2:54 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by lord kinbote Indian gettoes have nothing to do with it. The jaguar is specifically a western hemisphere cat.

TimMason Jul 2 at 5:04 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by amclark2 Welcome to Mumbai, crime capital of the Eastern hemisphere! Here, capitalism is red in tooth, claw and dancing shoes. We have the poorest poor, the richest rich, and the most vicious of back-street bruisers, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian or whatever it takes to rip your heart out with a length of Sheffield steel. Rainbow snakes we wrench apart with our teeth, large cats cower from our hob-nailed sandals, and we eat frogs raw after swiping their heads off with one swift stroke*. Those South-American mystic hoodoo fiddlers are - we can say this with little fear of contradiction - a bunch of pussies *This bit, at least as authentic. The rest pretty much so also - see Misha Glenny's MacMafia.

amclark2 Jul 2 at 2:55 PM EDT

RE: i'm done, too

in response to the message by TimMason oops. too early. too early.

amclark2 Jul 3 at 9:56 PM EDT

ok then

in response to the message by amclark2 As AM and ML continue through the tunnel they find that it is narrowing considerably. And that the general atmosphere is becoming quite attrocious. Finally they come to a ladder, which leads to a manhole cover. Which is glued in place with what seems to be old brittle blood. ML removes a small dental mirror from his kit and pokes it through a hole in the cover. Looks around for a bit. "Why I do believe we are in the slums of Mumbai! - Must've taken a wrong turn." "I don't recall any turns at all" says AM - "Mostly just twists." "well we're here now, help me scrape the blood of this cover - there appears to be a cassette vendor just across the way, with an odd sign, and I'd like to check it out." "what's the bloody sign say?" "well, If I'm reading it right, which since I'm looking through a - looking glass - I may not be - I believe it says 1 for the price of 12, with nothing more to buy, ever. Now do hurry, I believe I spy a copy of Goat's Head Soup I'd like to pick up."

TimMason Jul 3 at 11:50 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Manish Water (Jamaica) Kill a goat, using your preferred method of slaughter. If you are vegetarian, or have ethical qualms, or if the sight of blood makes you queasy, do not kill a goat. Decapitate the goat. If you have not killed a goat, invoke a phantasmatic goat's head, without the blood. Otherwise, use a steel nail. Wash the head. Take a cauldron. Put the goat's head in the cauldron to boil, adding salt, pepper, five cloves of garlic (crushed) and one Scotch Bonnet Pepper. Keep on a medium flame until tender. Add two or three peeled potatoes, and a couple of handfuls of those yellow beans that your local pakistani grocer keeps in plastic bags on the bottom shelf, and you've always wondered what to do with them. Throw in a plantain also. Simmer. Watch one of your daughter's recordings of Friends, dubbed in French. when your mind has numbed down to the state of a parboiled chicken, return to the pot and throw in a yam. Allow to simmer until the yam is soft. Serve For those who feel peckish, the real recipe is here

SelfRisinMojo Jul 3 at 10:11 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason I suppose in retrospect we can blame comprehensive fatigue and the gluttonous comsumption of the depraved for our total lack of instinctive suspiscion. The fact that we were being lavishily indulged with food and drink but were not allowed to clean or cloth ourselves should have trumpeted us into the highest level of merekat at the ready alertness; however, we now find ourselves tied at wrist and ankle and hanging from sturdy cane poles between healthy but expressionless natives, swinging like macabre spoils from a Sterlingesqe hunt. The ululations of animals at the last seconds of realization can be heard from a barracks sized thatch hut to our left; to our right, throned in ornately carved stone and festooned by a banner that reads "savoring our new you", sat the goat horned toe sucker himself being fed grapes from goat head bowls by bare chested native women while the strains of over played melodies screeched from the wooden flutes of Pan like creatures dancing at his feet. We could feel the eviscerating blade of his influence dumping the entrails of our independece onto the ground, I cursed the lack of clothing on my lead transport and gave up my grip on consciousness. Meanwhile back in the jungle...... Banduras, impervious to drink and alarmed by Don Pedro's odd behavior, had escaped by covering his hands in his remarkably adhesive spittle and fly crawled to the ceiling while the others were led away. He made his way back into the jungle and once again headed for the river.

TimMason Jul 3 at 12:15 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Don Pedro stumbled back into the room, took a fresh bottle out of the canvas bag on the floor, squatted and took another cigarette. His body was stretched with pain, his stomach a miserable ball of watery fire. The dragon was back, features changed, goat-footed. Don Pedro straightened his shoulders. "Christian," he stuttered. His tongue filled his mouth. The dragon's voice echoed in his chest ... it is nothing ... the form is for our guests ... His shape shifted, and Don Pedro saw the lizard he knew. It was true. It was nothing. He recalled the American who had followed him around for months, taking notes, asking him questions, babbling excitedly about syncresis, cultural melding, diffusion and other nonsense that Pedro had declined to submit to. It didn't matter; you always saw what you expected to see. Don Pedro saw what he expected to see. He thought of the man in the town who had shown him a hat on a stick. Don Pedro, a return compliment, showed him his fan. Banduras had run off again. He usually did. Don Pedro smiled, and thought of all the money Banduras had given him over the years. But he always ran away, just when things got interesting. Outside, the Yanquis were dreaming their horrid dreams of Indian sacrifice and Satan. Don Pedro looked them over every time he needed to go outside; they twitched and wriggled as if they were roped and suspended. From time to time, one of them would scream. He had warned them, but they were of the kind who were too stupid to be scared. Don Pedro took another mouthful of the liquid. "Where is the headstone?" he asked. The lizard's voice buzzed in his head again ... the city of lights ... the father on his throne ... two champions ... a man of courage and a man of mind ... Don Pedro walked out past the fitfully sleeping madmen, past the few huts, and down to the river. He climbed into the boat and gave a low call. As he waited for the other to arrive, he counted the notes in his wallet. It was going to be a long trip.

eclectricity Jul 3 at 10:39 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason -----!!!-----

TimMason Jul 4 at 12:51 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by eclectricity Banduras had seen them die, had watched their bodies heave and crumple as the beast drew his shining claw across their throats. Stricken with grief and fear, he crawled along the bank, his eyes too full of tears to see where he was going; his fingers made contact with the smooth contours of an abandoned bottle. He grasped it, and hugged it to his cheek, still sobbing. The nauseous odour caught at his throat, and for an instant he was transported back to one or another of the many times that Don Pedro had taunted him with his fear of the soul vine, the purge. The Don seemed not to understand that he, Banduras, participated in each one of the other's drug-induced journeys, that he saw the horrors, underwent the terrors, almost as vividly as the Don himself. Banduras believed that the cord that had linked him to his mother at birth was a length of the sacred liana. He had always refused to taste it. Wiping the tears from his lashes, he put the bottle to his lips and drank.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 4 at 3:26 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The ayahuasca visions began almost immediately, violent scenes that could only be endured by screaming into their center. Banduras pulled the last drip from the bottle like a snake into the black constricting hole of his throat. His tongue felt like a fist striking his brain from the inside. His eyes struggled to remove themselves from the prison of their sockets. Banduras threw the bottle aside and dove into the river, his father had often spoke of the village shaman using the water to harness the visions long enough to tame their epistle. The water seemed to peel the outermost layer of his skin down to his toes and he watched as it floated into the gaping mouth of a bearded fish with feline eyes that immediately spoke in wisdom too ancient to understand without using all senses simultaneously. Seconds before his lungs burst, Banduras found himself standing once again on the banks of the river. At his side was a water filled sack held in place with a single shoulder strap, inside the sack rested a vibrantly colored fish; he knew instinctively what he must do, it felt as if all events in his life had been pointing to this moment. He rushed to the village where he had imagined the horrors had taken place. He smiled as much as the toxins would allow when he saw the group formerly in his charge writhing in the dirt but apparently alive. He removed the fish from the bag and began striking them with it repeatedly. As their eyes began fluttering behind their closed lids, he placed the mouth of the fish to their cracked, dry lips.

TimMason Jul 4 at 3:35 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Ooooh, now I liked that one - I really liked that one. Someone give that man a cigar.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 5 at 5:31 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason you have kept the bar high and open

TimMason Jul 5 at 5:52 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo TimMason bows to SelfRisinMojo. SelfRisinMojo returns the bow. Applause. TimMason bows to amclark2. amclark2 returns the bow. Applause. amclark2 and SelfRisinMojo bow to each other. Furious applause. electricty appears backstage. TimMason, SelfRisinMojo, and amclark2 turn to him and applaud. Whistles from the crowd. electricity, TimMason, SelfRisinMojo and amclark2 join hands and turn towards the front of the stage. Applause. Whistles. All four bow. Raise each others' hands and salute the audience, who react with enthusiasm. Curtain drops. Applause. Don Pedro appears stage left and winks at the audience. Holds hands aloft and waits for silence. He announces a pause for refreshments. Banduras, a large fish, several people caked in mud, and a frog enter, bearing glasses full of a murky liquid which they offer to the audience. An anaconda appears and fixes each of the audience in turn with a long stare. All lift their glasses and drain them. The servers melt away, Don Pedro among them. Audience members sink into their seats, sprawl out and, with vacant stares, watch as the curtain gently lifts again.

Katrina Jul 5 at 5:55 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Katrina strides in confidently, shoots out all the lights, and also the amplifiers. Everyone is forced to sing if they want music, which they do want. Somebody drags out a piano and drums.

TimMason Jul 5 at 6:27 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by Katrina After warming up, they really get into the swing.

Katrina Jul 5 at 6:42 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason ooooh! I hope my kid gets an enthusiastic teacher like that, next year! That really looked like a great classroom to be in. Good atmosphere. The 2nd link with the folks onstage I didn't understand, so much - why was the audience laughing? What were they doing with their arms, making symbols?

TimMason Jul 5 at 6:54 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by Katrina The 2nd link with the folks onstage I didn't understand, so much - why was the audience laughing? What were they doing with their arms, making symbols? It's accapella Nintendo games music. It's not really as funny as they think it is, but they do sing nicely.

amclark2 Jul 5 at 7:55 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by Katrina dust. yes dust, a river of dust. dust on the headstone, dust on the rules plaque, dust in the engine room and dust on the mind. a dust covered amclark2 is NOT going to sing. sneaks one of Katrina's Navy colts from her belt in the dark and confusion and heads backstage, grinning from ear to ear, and yes, fighting off the urge to sneeze, and starts in on his makeup for act II. or III. or something. not sure but the costume does involve even more... *

TimMason Jul 6 at 10:17 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 The S.S. Anaconda, a dusty, rusty old broiling fowl of a boat, butts her way out of Mumbai harbour. What cargo there might be down in the hold is unknown to the stevedores who loaded her, unknown to customs officers, who prudently gave but a cursory glance, unknown to most of the sailors, who know which side up their nans should be, and who also know that the captain has their names and addresses registered in her on-shore log, the one that's kept in the secret safe, and the code to which she only shares with a slight enigmatic figure whom she calls 'Don', and whom everyone else calls El Hombre. The captain, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with long, wild hair of Caledonian red, her face that of a queenly descendant of Chuchulain, pale white with bronze freckles, and with pale blue-green eyes that will see you or not, as she pleases, stands on the bridge, smoking a cheroot, and from time to time conversing with her first mate, Doghouse O'Reilly, a plump Hindu with deep brown eyes and a splendid mustache. Night falls, and soon enough a faint light can be made out, low on the water. The captain nods at O'Reilly, and then tells him that she needs the boxes from hold A. He steps down from the bridge, summons a couple of men, and makes his way below decks. The party reappear with several large, heavy boxes, which they lay beside the gunwales. The Anaconda draws close to a high-speed inflatable, a Zodiac. Looking down from above, the crew will see a small man with an inordinately large head, bulging eyes and a large, grinning mouth. He waves at them, and croaks 'Ahoy there!". The captain acknowledges him, and then makes a gesture to the crew, who swing the boxes out on a filet and lower them to the waiting Zodiac. The man opens one of the boxes at random, and peers inside. He stands again, and nods at the captain. Then he reaches a hand in his pocket and calls out 'I've got something for you!' By the time the object is free of his jacket, both the captain and O'Reilly have guns in their hands. A giggle issues from the grinning mouth, incongruous against the star-pitched sky. The captain motions to one of the sailors, who throws down a painter, and slips down it. He takes the object and examines it, before calling back: "It's a bottle. There's a piece of crumpled paper in it." "Bring it up," the captain calls. The Zodiac streams back towards Mumbai, lower in the water now. The captain sits in her cabin and puzzles out the message on the crumpled sheet of paper. (Written to Spotify's Bill Frisell catalogue)

TimMason Jul 6 at 12:31 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason With one last blast of foetid wind, the archangel receded into the clouds, leaving the women cowering in the bottom of their frail craft, retching and mewling helplessly. Through the nausea, Katie heard what sounded like the sound of an outboard motor, and when she felt herself able to raise her head saw a boat approaching with two men aboard. One of them saw her, and after a brief conversation with his companion, slung her a rope. Trembling, she managed to thread it through the rubber ring that protuded from the coracle's side and tie it fast. The younger of the two men fiddled about with the motor for several minutes. The older man made a sign to him, and he stopped, to gaze into the sky. far above them, an albatross circled on wide wings. The boat began to move forward, tugging the coracle after it. "Where are you taking us?" "What did he say?" "Pair lashes? What's that? Pair lashes?" (Frisell still going)

SelfRisinMojo Jul 7 at 4:07 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Batuk closed his eyes as the finger snap clicking of cockroaches being cracked in the jaws of hungry lizards lured him into the restless, anxious sleep of the hunted. It was the rhythm of his nights, the beat his thoughts danced to as he lay in the tented structure he had erected with a small piece of torn tarp and a bent, nearly spokeless bicycle rim propped against a pile of trash whose odor had been weakened enough by the summer sun not to permeate his dreams. His grandmother had taught him to read, to sing and to scurry with the cockroaches as the companies exacted their reign of terror on those weakened by a carnage the gangs could never pierce with their feeble bullying. She taught him that lizard meat could pacify the cramps angered by days without sustenance so Batuk began hunting the lizards and training the cockroaches to act as bait using thinly shaved pieces of cow manure as their reward. One of the insects actually seemed to enjoy this and to revel in the sport. Batuk made this one his pet naming it "Chotah the Seer" and tied it to his little finger using the thread from an old sweater that had washed on the banks of the river; he fed Chotah using small dung balls he kept in a pouch he wore around his neck and gave it water from a bottle cap he kept in his pocket. Chotah also proved to be an effective alarm system that flew in circles making desperate attempts to scurry when its complex cockroach radar detected peril. This had saved Batuk on more than one occasion as the headphones attached to a silent Walkman he kept pinned to his pants rarely left his ears. The batteries had died long ago but Batuk left the headphones on his head in hopes that the sweet honking madness of angelic geese that had radiated from it when he first found it on a bench in front of a luxury hotel across the bay would one day return. When the sounds stopped he opened the device and found the name E-R-I-C D-O-L-P-H-Y mixed with other symbols he could not comprehend inscribed on a small piece of rectangular plastic, none of this made sense and he feared the others would either steal it out of envy or destroy it out of fear if he raised question. On this particular evening, Chotah had begun to click and circle in a nervous twirl as an unusual sound was quickly identified as being out of tune with the usual late night refrain. Batuk noticed the concern in Chotah's flight and raised his head from the tarp, removed the headphones and squeezed vision from the darkness. He spotted a rubber water craft weighted down by its cargo making its way into the Mithi from the Arabian sea, it is captained by a small, odd looking man who appears to be alone. The craft pulls over to the bank as the large skulled skipper appears to be checking a map with a small flashlight. With a quickness and stealth developed from years of chasing fleet footed reptiles, Batuk inspects the contents of one of the partially opened boxes located in the rear of the boat; suddenly, several silhouettes cut through the dark silence forcing Batuk and Chotah to climb into the container.

TimMason Jul 9 at 2:52 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo The cat padded up the last metres of the slope. At the top, she turned and glanced back once again at the mist that obscured the forests that had been her home. Then she lowered her head and began to pick her way down the slope towards the distant sea. From more than 3,000 miles away, the fallen stones called her. It would be a long trip.

TimMason Jul 9 at 2:59 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Don Pedro has left us an account of his journey from Le Havre to Paris. Strangely, he makes no mention of Katie or Kathy, although other witnesses agree that they accompanied him, along with Felipe.

amclark2 Jul 10 at 9:11 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Arkhangelsk, the church auction of the prihod of Nastoyatal Pyotor. Lot 6------------60624; A chinese wood block printed scroll, a navy colt, a bar of Ivory soap, and a dried fig. The scroll depicts the great gun battle between Katrina and the Morning Clerk of the Indexicality Bank. We see them faced off on Main Street, men in their Sunday best, women with their parasols and finery lined up to view. Says Katrina, "A.M. Clerk, you better return my pistol." Both stand with itchy fingers pointed toward the black guns. A single bang. Katrina stumbles backward. The crowd gasps. Katrina reaches to her bicep and says, "it's ok, it's only a flesh wound." A.M. Clerk stumbles a little and drops his gun, which breaks in two and shows its milky white center. Murmurs from the crowd - "It's a fake" "It's carved out soap, blacked with shoe polish!" Says A.M. Clerk - "I've been tunnelled." Katrina aproaches him and peers at his chest "Why he's right! I can see clear through! But I never fired a shot!" "And there they go! It's the jaguar! And the jackal! They've got my six-gun! And the map of characters!" Katrina continues to peer through the dusty perforated A.M. Clerk, using him as a sight while she reaches up with her good arm and remaining pistol over his shoulder and fires once, then twice. Straightening up; "Damn, I only nicked the ears, one on the left, one on the right. At least now we'll recognize 'em if we meet again." At this point a crowd member points out something to Katrina "Um, you're arm there." She looks and a small plant has begun to sprout where the bullet entered. "Why" she says "It wasn't a bullet at all - it was a seed!" And sure enough the strangler fig has taken root. She will carry it with her for the rest of her life, carefully watering and pruning, and as the weight becomes greater she will move around less and less, until finally she is encased. And that is the story of the great tree just outside town. We'll start the bidding at 12 tracks? Any bidders?

SelfRisinMojo Jul 10 at 1:24 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Banduras led us to the river where we bathed with hog plums and guanaco shammies. Our bodies were covered with lacerations inflicted by the scale and gill of the fish used to thrash us from the grip of our poisoned spirit but it felt good to finally shed the hard crusted mire of the episodes. We fashioned breechcloths from the shammies when we finished and followed as Banduras motioned us into his nearby hut. The hut was modest but immaculate with an almost feminine attention to detail....that is except for the large toad nailed upside down on the eastern wall where the afternoon sun eerily dappled on the still dripping carcass. Its mouth was sewn shut and a piece of paper could be seen protruding in a manner inviting examination. Banduras had us sit at a small table just to the left of the grisly tapestry as he removed the paper and read it aloud with the calm indifference of facing the obvious: "Don John." With a slightly raised eyebrow and matching corner of mouth, he slid the paper across the table in our direction; apparently he mistook the topography of confusion etched onto our blank stare as empathetic concern. He circled the table as he caressed the knife resting in his belt, the large blade blinding us each time the sun reflected in its mirrored steel. "Tell me gentlemen; are you familiar with the legend of Beelzebufo?" This time our silence was met with an uncharacteristic show of intolerance, in one blurring movement, Banduras wielded the knife and brought it to a stabbing halt on the table just in front of us, the small piece of paper yielding to the point and splitting at the space between the names. He sneered at our ignorance and ignored our weakness. "We sail tomorrow."

TimMason Jul 11 at 3:58 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Kathy and Katie watched as Don Pedro mounted the winding path that lead up to the stone stairs upon which, along with several other groups of tourists, they had seated themselves. He was nearing them when, of a sudden, he stiffened, his face momentarily twisted in pain, his hand clutching at his ear. Kathy, concerned, walked down to him, and reached to clean the blood from his wound, but he stepped back, reached a small bottle out of his pocket, tilted his head and shook a few drops of liquid onto the newly diminished organ. "What happened?" said Kathy. "Happily for me, your friend Katrina was a little distracted." Don Pedro now stood at the top of the stairs and looked up at the white tower that loomed above him. He pointed to the door. "Inside that door, you will find a telephone. It will ring. Answer it." He opened the bag that was slung across his shoulder, and took out a package. "There's enough money for your stay in there. You will also find your passports. You are booked on a flight back to New York tomorrow morning." He held out his hand to each of them in turn, then nodded and headed back down the slope to where a gorilla waited for him, a pogo stick across its shoulder. The women turned back to the church. "Let's go take our call." said Kathy, and walked into the cathedral. As Don Pedro had said, there was a phone just inside the door; a placard announced in four different languages, including Japanese, that the faithful might use it to converse with the Virgin. As they reached it, it rang. Kathy picked it up. "68 here," said a clipped voice. Kathy drew her breath sharply. "68's dead" she whispered. "It doesn't signify," returned the other, "Listen carefully. when you get back to New York, you will need to be careful. Your organization has been infiltrated, and we are aware of great dangers for you and for your friends. You must trust the frog." "The frog!," said Kathy. "The last time we trusted him, we found ourselves adrift in mid-Atlantic with a demon from hell as our only companion!" "Without the frog's help, you would have been dead." There was a click on the line, and a heavenly choir cut in.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 11 at 10:26 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The sea was in no mood to grant calm passage. Banduras watched his jungle home become a speck on the horizon as the gringos payed toll to the irritable waves kicking angrily at the hips of the hobbling freighter. Only two still had enough toxins running through their veins to leave them malleable to his reason; they would serve their purpose then quietly retire to the expendable anonymity of the inconsequential. There was no time for feckless sentimentality. The ship was captained by an over seasoned poacher who smuggled thousands of jungle frogs to Mumbai twice a year to be sold and exported as local delicacies on the lucrative black market. Banduras was only concerned about the fate of one frog and the effects that the lure of riches had on the conscience of men. The vine had left him skeptical.

TimMason Jul 13 at 9:19 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Early the next morning, Don Pedro visits Pere Lachaise and spends some time smoking cigarettes in front of one of the graves. He has a vision in which the archangel, indistinguishable from 68, engages in aerial combat with a squadron of WWII Spitfires. A nearby headstone opens up a conversation concerning the present whereabouts of the frog, revealing that after adopting vaguely human shape the animal had last been seen heading for Catal Huyok, where its trajectory bisected that of the archangel. The headstone speculated that the marshes around Catal Huyok would provide an ideal hiding place for the frog. On Don Pedro's remarking that the marshes had dried up thousands of years ago, the headstone winked waggishly and replied "That's what you think." Don Pedro, discovering that he had no more cigarettes, decided to leave. The headstone advised him to go to a certain cafe, where he might well discover something to his advantage. The Don, although sceptical, set off to find the cafe; an expresso would do him good.

amclark2 Jul 13 at 9:53 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Captain ____________ of the Tugboat Anna Conda (annie to her affectionate crew) pulls the note from the bottle and opening it finds the dried out frog, places it gently to the side and reads: Dear Captain Just as the city of Indexicality, where The Theatre lives, is supported on the back of an immense elephant, so our entire world is supported on the back of a great Frog, an Atlas Frog, if you will. By the time you read this note, I will have been tunnelled. Some rogue narrator is performing character assasinations, poking holes in the narrative, perhaps in an attempt to find an end. You must protect the Frog! I hope you can also save the elephant, but it may be too late for that now. The frog in this note was trained by 68 statinonwagon. It is the map and the territory. Hold it in your mouth until it moves, and it will sing, in a form that only you will understand, your further instructions and directions. Very truly yours, amclark2, amclark3, Amclark Two, Morning Clerk of Indexicality Bank and Trust Co., A.M. Clerk P.S. The Jackal and the Jaguar may have been framed. You can't trust anyone, least of all me, but above all never trust a frog. P.P.S. If it's not too much trouble, please avenge my perforation.

TimMason Jul 13 at 10:40 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Doghouse O'Reilly has lost weight. He has also lost half a moustache. He ducks and bobs in the mirror, sharpening the cut-throat, then steadies it over his lip.

amclark2 Jul 13 at 11:44 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason And on the back, all the way in the corner, in tiny cramped script; ppps try to let the K's know that 68 is truly dead, but i've a sneaking suspicion that his voice has been hijacked by a conglomerate.

TimMason Jul 13 at 12:08 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 The frog, his computer back to back with that of his buyer, watches as the transaction reaches a conclusion. He's satisfied; during the couple of minutes waiting time it took for the other to enter the codes and go through the scripts, he has had the time to pick up two or three albums that he had been expecting to make their appearance on amie street. Going for a song! He closes the computer, nods to the buyer, slings an old canvas bag over his shoulder, and walks back to the Zodiac. The child lies still in the box, and feels a tug as the cockroach digs deeper into the darkest corner. The box swings.

TimMason Jul 14 at 1:30 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Klare sat on the bed and rifled eagerly through the bag. She took out a thick buff envelope, and drew out the documents; the two passports seemed to be in order, as did the plane tickets. She tossed them over to Kathy, who examined them in turn. Then she pulled out a packet, ripped off the tape and took out the large wad of Euro bills that were inside. Slowly, as Kathy watched, she counted out the notes. Then she took the tickets back, scrumpled them up and threw them in the bin. "Anything calling you in New York?" she said. "No - nothing urges." "Right. Anywhere we're likely to run into that damn frog, and I want to be someplace else." Klare leaned forward and kissed her partner on the lips. Kathy took her hand, and they stood up. Klare's eyes opened wide. "I've always wanted to take the Orient Express."

SelfRisinMojo Jul 13 at 12:34 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason fine idea...please do.

amclark2 Jul 14 at 1:05 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Olm, God-Chief of the last tribe of the pure Olmec. For many thousands of years he protected his people against all interlopers, until the conquistadors brought the Archangel, who bound him and locked him in a deep cavern. Now, released unwittingly by misguided tunnellers and innocent (?) fisherman, he has returned. And he will have his vengeance if it shakes the world to its very foundation. He rides with a formidable posse which includes the jaguar, the jackal, the jackdaw, the box jellyfish the box elder, and a delicious bowl of shark fin soup, said to be adept at capturing the essence of the recently departed in its steam.

TimMason Jul 14 at 4:59 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Katrina sang this song.

TimMason Jul 14 at 6:46 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Don Pedro leafed through the pages once again, and then looked over at the professor. "Interesting that he should claim to have been shot by Katrina," he said. "He knows she wouldn't shoot me." His finger went to his ear. "Perhaps he fired the gun?" The professor took the papers back again, and stashed them in is brief-case. "You think he's lying?" he asked. Don Pedro shook his head. "No. He is not lying. But we need to find a mirror." "But he knows 68 isn't dead!" exclaimed the professor. Don Pedro smiled. "Oh yes ... he knows that." He stood up and reached into a pocket. He drew out an arrow head and placed it on the table, tapped it with his finger and pushed it across. The professor stared at it. When he raised his head, the Don had left the cafe. Gingerly, the professor lifted the arrow head, feeling something like a faint electric charge run up his index as he did so. He dropped it into his case with the papers and made a gesture towards the waitress. Katrina brought him a fresh coffee.

TimMason Jul 14 at 1:34 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Don Pedro sang this song. Then he intoned "When I become Death, Death is the seed from which I grow ....

SelfRisinMojo Jul 14 at 3:42 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Batuk followed Chotah into the far corner of the container as it was lifted from the raft. The lumpers were ill equipped for the physical demands of the task so the contents withdrew from its original position and spread like a deck of badly shuffled cards throughout the box. Batuk quietly groped the darkness for purchase and pulled a lightweight cardboard square close in for some visionless scrutiny. It was roughly the size of a floor panel, smelled like his grandmother's feet and tasted like breakfast at the mission. He was angling it for further survey when a hard, round object fell to the floor, halfheartedly attempted to roll then dropped to its side where it flapped to a stop. The workers struggled the box to the ground. "It sounds like we broke one, should we check?" "We don't have time..." "Why such secrecy and espionage over boxes of LP records?" "Questions will lead you to the fate of the cat." At that moment, in a box already hoisted into the bed of the truck, two huge bulbous eyes opened to slits and a long tongue uncoiled and slid across its surroundings.

TimMason Jul 15 at 4:35 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo The cat picked her way across the rocks, lifted her head towards the waves and coughed. If you listen, you can hear this song. The birds screamed. High above, an albatross turned. Slowly breaking the waters, like a submarine come to investigate the entrails of its prey, the serpent rose. Light on the water, light on the skin, light. The cat was unable to repress a reflex, drew back, crouched and snarled. Recovering, she advanced the last few metres towards the water's edge. The great head bent, the great maw opened, and gladly the cat stepped in.

TimMason Jul 15 at 5:02 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason In the cramped hotel room, Don Pedro squatted like a tailor upon the bed. He looked from the words to the map. Then he faced the television screen. The lizard faded into his view, triple-headed. "You appeared here?" The old voice buzzed in Don Pedro's ears ; "We are everywhere. We are always" "He says that you are powerless, trapped within your own creation." "That is true." "He says that the payment is eternal." "When the pincers tear at your flesh, when they play their games with your lungs and with your bowels, it will seem to you that the payment is eternal." Don Pedro nodded. He had made the bargain; wisdom came at a price. He waved his hand at the screen and it went blank. Then he picked up his bag, checked out of the hotel and walked to the station. He waited until he had seen the two women climb aboard, and then made his way further along the platform to find his own seat.

amclark2 Jul 15 at 9:46 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Back at the theatre the lights are back on, and the dusty old amclerk's been gotten out of the way. They couldn't find a doctor so they duct taped a puffer fish to the front and back of his chest tunnel - someone'd heard that's how they do it down in Mexicali. He doesn't seem to be breathing or have a noticeable pulse but out of sight out of mind. The curtain opens and the next scene begins. 6 characters ride out onto the stage on the tiniest little donkeys you ever did see; so small that the riders have to hunch up their legs into hideously uncomfortable positions; some have given up and just let their feet trail out behind them in the dust. The characters themselves are something to behold; wearing great lumpy costumes that are almost impossible to distinguish and obviously thrown together by amateurs who deserve severe beatings at the last possible moment They appear to be; a great big fish, a spotted cat, a mangy coyote, a blackbird, a disgusting bug, and ... what's this ... no this is really too much ... another fish, this one covered with what appears to be great quantitiies of strawberry jam. The 6 riders are followed by the most immaculately pressed waiter with a pencil thin mustache, holding aloft a tureen of steaming soup. The waiter sneers at the scene through half closed eyes with the utmost disdain. The other characters attempt to begin the scene but can do nothing but collapse into continual laughter, half of them falling from their mounts, then as they climb back on the other half falls off. No line is clearly distinguishable from the general mayhem. Substances have clearly been imbibed. This goes on for several minutes, with about half the audience excusing themselves to go out in the lobby an smoke. The waiter remains stock still and dignified. The soup keeps steaming. Finally, one of the character, tears of laughter in his eyes, I believe it was the jellied fish, shouts out "waiter there's a fly in my soup!" At which all 6 promptly fall off their mounts and collapse into irrecoverable hilarity. The majority of the remainder of the audience storms off in disgust at the jackassery. One or two remaining members seem to be either asleep or trying very hard to understand. If you were standing close enough to the waiter you would see a near imperciptible trembling of the lip, and a single tear rolling down his left cheek.

TimMason Jul 15 at 10:07 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Don Pedro looked up as the professor settled in opposite him. The professor opened his briefcase, and took out a large note-book. He coughed. "According to the beliefs of many peoples scattered across the globe, there is an underworld, connected to the upper world by a complex network of tunnels. Powerful beings may take these tunnels and emerge thousands of miles away from where they started. The entrances and exits of the tunnels are centres of great uncertainty." He shuffled through the pages, stopped and peered at the handwriting. "The object you gave me actually originates in Papua. It was there used as a spear-head, probably ceremonial." "Sacrifice?" murmured Don Pedro. "No, apparently not. They would have used knives for sacrificial ceremonies. The spear would have been thrown by a Big Man, to demonstrate his power. They believed that the head was inhabited by the spirit of the owner's father or grandfather. To own the spear gave power." Don Pedro reflected. "Why did it come to me?" he mused. "That I can't tell you," said the professor, nervously. "Perhaps He brought it through one of the tunnels?" "He flies. He uses the air." "There are tunnels in the air,' intoned the professor. "That is how the albatross makes his vast journeys. He tunnels." For an instant, Don Pedro played with the idea of killing the man, but decided against it. Don Pedro did not like to kill the innocent, and the professor seemed to him as guileless as a child. Katrina might find a use for him.

amclark2 Jul 15 at 11:07 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Pick up your pencils now. You will have 15 minutes to finish this section. Open your booklets to page 3, and begin reading the first question. 1. There is a frog at the center of the earth. There is a stone in the frog's mouth. A fragment of this stone may be fashioned into a spearhead which is the only weapon which can kill an Archangel or Brown Trout. To reach the frog, you must dig a tunnel through the earth, wind, fire or water. A fragment of the frog's stone is the only tool which can be used to dig these tunnels.

TimMason Jul 15 at 12:11 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 The frog watched from the rushes. He saw the men and boys climbing up the ladders to the rooftops, carrying baskets, carrying the carcases of the animals they had killed, up to the smoking rooftops, to the roofs in their pall of smoke and the low glow of the fires. He watched them as they progressed across the roofs and disappeared. The smoke, the stench of rotting organic matter, a miasma rising from the marsh, taking shape, the buildings huddled together. Tunnels can take you through time as well as space. You enter the earth NOW, and you emerge at THEN. You entered the earth on two legs, and emerged on four. Above the frog a winged figure circled, circled, drifted lower. The frog dug his way into the mud.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:33 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason 1

TimMason Jul 15 at 1:04 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg The voice of the Devil. All Bibles or sacred codes have been the causes of the following Errors. 1. That Man has two real existing principles Viz: a Body & a Soul. 2. That Energy, call'd Evil, is alone from the Body, & that Reason, call'd Good, is alone from the Soul. 3. That God will torment Man in Eternity for following his Energies. But the following Contraries to these are True 1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul for that call'd Body is a portion of Soul discern'd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age 2. Energy is the only life and is from the Body and Reason is the bound or outward circumference of Energy. 3 Energy is Eternal Delight

TimMason Jul 15 at 1:13 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason A Memorable Fancy. As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity. I collected some of their Proverbs: thinking that as the sayings used in a nation, mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell, shew the nature of Infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments. When I came home; on the abyss of the five senses, where a flat sided steep frowns over the present world. I saw a mighty Devil folded in black clouds, hovering on the sides of the rock, with corroding fires he wrote the following sentence now percieved by the minds of men, & read by them on earth. How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?

TimMason Jul 15 at 1:16 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steered us through ! And a good south wind sprung up behind ; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo ! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

TimMason Jul 15 at 1:18 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

TimMason Jul 15 at 1:19 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:33 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg 0

TimMason Jul 15 at 4:03 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg Don Pedro looked over at the professor. "The High Wolf," he said, "has neither shadow nor reflection." "That is why you want the mirror?" said the professor. Don Pedro sighed. "Fool," he muttered. "I've been a fool. I wanted to start with nothing behind me. Only the dead have no past."

Katrina Jul 15 at 4:05 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason This is the funniest thing I've read all day. Is the nakedness of man the work of Satan?

TimMason Jul 15 at 4:14 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by Katrina Very close. Here's your cigar.

zypressenweg Jul 15 at 4:38 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason i'm not clicking on that link...not after that bearded woman...

TimMason Jul 15 at 5:02 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg Woman unbearded (with Archangel and Tupelo Jesus)

zypressenweg Jul 15 at 5:06 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg continued the path of the sun should be meaningless in its entirety. yet time slows and the path of the sun - in aspects - is repetitious. and jesus of tupelo, having studied this repetition, found the warmth on his back to be the same some 20 miles from the only place he had ever laid his head to rest. jesus of tupelo, tho, had lost site of his shadow. without his shadow, jesus of tupelo turned - there it was. this road is long. i think we may be comin' to the land of plagues. somethin' don't seem right. jesus of tupelo returned his direction to the west. there before him - in almost impassable numbers - was a plague of frogs. to be continued

SelfRisinMojo Jul 16 at 10:47 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg The light from the full moon that managed to filter through the shade of racing clouds shined into the captain's eyes as he approached Banduras at the bow of the ship. "It is time." A small clue of concern flickered in the captain's left eye but the right held nothing but the hard stare of reckless certainty. The tall crush of waves made standing difficult and had already soaked the gringos who sat drugged and shackled to the bulwark. Banduras took his place between them and positioned his wrists and ankles to be manacled in place by the captain. "No matter what pleas for mercy you may hear...." "I will hear nothing Banduras, once we enter, nothing is all there is." As the captain turned and seemingly vanished in the dark, a faint roar like a distant herd of thundering, wet beasts broke the hammering rhythm of the angry storming sea. The waves were foaming predators attacking the ship from all sides; as the roar drew closer and louder, the night sky pitched a shadowless black and the wind sucked the ship into the upper rim of the violent swirl of the maelstrom. Banduras could hear the howl of all the sins of man bore into his ears and felt his nostrils sear with the stench of poisonous progress from the foul breath of history. As the vortex took the ship fully in its grasp, the velocity increased to the speed of visions: ancient civilizations flourished and perished as the clarity of the line between good and evil grew sharper with time. The bearded fish from the river appeared in the spinning wall, its lips drawn in a sucking motion; Banduras watched as the souls of the men on either side of him were pulled into the mouth of the vision and their bodies became fish flopping on the deck gasping for air until being sucked into the swirling vacuum. He watched as a great horned frog appeared before him and wrapped its tongue around his neck, gasping he attempted to scream but all that emerged from his throat was his own likeness pulling itself from his jowls. He stood before himself and understood. Banduras felt his body being shaken into consciousness; he felt the warmth of the sun and the calm of the sea. He opened his eyes and saw the captain standing over him. "It is over." Banduras looked beside him and saw the empty clothing of the gringos. "For now. We still have to deal with Beelzebufo."

zypressenweg Jul 16 at 2:39 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg the plague, having reached it's zenith, collapsed - as all things driven to consume are destined. frog amongst frog would square to another. a brief ritual. willingly, one would allow the other to consume it whole. the resultant frog's stature enhanced. this was repeated countless times over and eventually a single, ponderous frog impeded jesus of tupelo's path. jesus of tupelo thought to confront the frog and moved his hand to withdraw a blade concealed from view. the frogking: what is your blade to my kingdom? jesus of tupelo does not remove his blade: i have no interest in y'er kindgom. my blade is to protect my life the frogking: you have seen the great loss of my own pauses, gulps hard and breathes with fury. and you want passage thru my kingdom?! to be continued

TimMason Jul 18 at 1:26 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason The boxes stood, neatly stacked, at one end of the garage. The men heaved sighs of relief and wiped their brows. First Man : That is a job well done. Second Man : We have worked well. Third Man : We are deserving of compensation. Fourth Man : We have earned our share. The men looked at the boxes, and were plunged in thought. First Man : The boxes are not sealed. Second Man : The boxes are not locked. Third Man : The boxes can be opened. Fourth Man : We have earned our share. A box was selected, the heaviest box. Hands reached for the lid of the box. Swiftly, the lid was lifted. The cat rose from the box and snarled. Her voice grew. She grew. The cat towered over the cowering thieves, and opened her massive jaws wide, her teeth gleaming in the semi-darkness of the room. The men turned and fled. It is perilous to open a box. The boy crawled out, his pet now upon his shoulder, and hobbled to the window. He saw four backs heaving, eight legs pumping, until a bend in the road took them from his sight. He turned back to the box and examined the contents. He marvelled at the pictures; a skeleton sawing at a violin, a girl with long, wavy, red hair and parted lips, holding a model airplane, a hundred faces surrounding four men dressed in the peacock colours of the Raj, a young woman with a jolly smile holding a musical instrument. He gathered up those that took his fancy and stuffed them in a cotton bag that the men had left in one corner of the garage. He would take them to the man he called 'Uncle', who would sometimes give him food in exchange for one or another of the objects that tourists would leave in the street. He was slight, and he was weak. He could only manage to carry a dozen of the objects. He walked out of the garage, his insect buzzing over his ear. The men had run towards the rising sun; he determined to set off in the opposite direction. He would find someone to give him directions. The Mumbai Jesus set off upon his road, his small shadow following behind him.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:31 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg 0

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:30 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg 1

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:30 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg 0

TimMason Jul 17 at 12:48 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason There is a game you will have played as a child. Perhaps you play it now, with your own children. I played it with mine, but it is a long time since those small fingers, which pushed the pieces up and down the board, have turned to other pleasures. Some wield the painter's pencil or the sculptor's chisel, others slap the strings on a bass guitar or count the keys on a piano. The board is stashed away in a cupboard. What they didn't know - and maybe you don't know it either - is that the game is the shadow of a greater game, a game that plays itself out through space and time, and to which all are invited, and no refusals are brooked. In the greater game, ladders are simply snakes that go, as it were, the other way. In fact, snakes may change direction, seemingly at random, usually when you are least likely to appreciate the change. Now look at this - the image of a peaceful lake. It is, in fact, the mouth of Rano Raraku. Down there, men toiled, dug, and hammered, lifting out huge blocks of stone, which they would then - no-one really knows how - transport across the rocky terrain to the coast, where they would be erected on platforms, to watch over the farmlands and the forests. One day, there were no more farmlands, and no more forests. The soil, exhausted by overproduction, would give no further sustenance. The people, exhausted by diseases brought to them on wooden ships, by starvation, and by warfare, taken into slavery, dwindled. The mouth of of Rano Raraku is full of water today. Once, and perhaps still, it was the mouth of a huge snake, a snake which made its way from the coast of what you call Chile to the island of Rapa Nui. On the day when the snake ejected into the air a surprised and angry cat, there were no carved stones, no humans, no farms on the island. There were trees and there were birds, and once the jaguar had picked herself up, had licked her paws and hindquarters, rubbed her notched ears, and shaken herself, she began to look for a meal.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 17 at 1:18 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason It was a pale vision of Saraswati, wearing nothing but the flaming hair that kissed his heart and the look that burned his blood. Batuk sat in the shade of a resting gai letting Chotah feed on a fresh pile of gober while he pulled strength from this piece of cardboard that had captured the soul of that which is beautiful and at the same time forbidden. The naivety of youth and the deprivation of indigence left him free of guilt and incapable of sin but for this moment he desired nothing more than to be a small airplane on a grassy hillside. The reverie was broken by the nervous click and swirl of Chotah pulling on his finger, Batuk pouched his treasure and resumed his journey with a new sense of leg.

TimMason Jul 17 at 1:43 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Archive updated

amclark2 Jul 17 at 11:09 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason ** Egdar Eleph, waiter extraordinaire and the ganesh of Detroit, stood on the shore watching Banduras' commandeered boat steam out to sea. A single big tear rolled down his cheek. Just like life he thought. He had been part of the tourist group on its exploratory quest for visions, and he'd been all right with everyone when they were bombed out their gourds and imagining all sorts of blood and gore and guts, not to mention making jokes at his expense (at least 153 times someone had said "waiter there's a goat in my soup") but now that "leader" Banduras had his own vision, they just steamed off into the night and left poor old Egdar alone. He supposed it was because the drug hadn't effected him. He took his dose and nothing. He took others' leftovers and nothing. He took it straight out of the cauldron and nothing. He took easily 10x what Banduras himself had taken and nothing. Or it was the trunk. Egdar had an elephant's trunk. Right where you and I have a nose. Was why he'd come on this "vision" quest. Not that the trunk was a problem. Actually it was quite useful - helped with balance (he would never of course stoop to using it to steady his tray - that would not do for a serious waiter). The problem was that no one his entire life had admitted the trunk existed. Not his parents, teachers, friends, girlfriends, postmen, milkmen, nobody. So he heard about these vine hallucination trips down here and he thought maybe it could help him cope with others denial, or even he could learn to stop seeing the thing maybe. He'd tried everything else - even rhinoplasty - why not this. But he hadn't had a vision. And now they'd gone off without him. Still playing their tribal slave game. And he didn't know where he was, or how to get home from here. As he stood their feeling sorry for himself suddenly he heard a voice. A painfully beautiful singing sort of voice. And it was calling his name! "Egdar, Egdar, come here, come to me come to the water..." said the voice. Egdar walked to the tide line and watched as the waves lapped up. "Come further, come closer, closer Egdar." So he waded in up to his knees, and then he saw her. A jellyfish. The most peculiar jellyfish, very small, about the size of his thumbnail, clear. And it hovered just above the water, and it glowed. "Who - who are you?" "I am cubomedusa, the box jellyfish. I have brought your vision" The tiny creature reached a tentative tentacle out towards him. Egdar didn't know - how could you trust a jellyfish - even a glowy sweet-voiced jellyfish? But then it came to him - his trunk - if he reached out with his trunk, she could choose - if it was a real vision she would admit the trunk. He slowly bent over and extended his trunk toward her. The jellyfish snapped out with its tentacle like a whip and stung him just on the tip of his trunk. Egdar immediately involuntarily straightened and felt the most excruciating pain spread throughout his body. He was completely paralysed - could not move or even relax a single muscle. And his vision came... Egdar saw that his trunk was in fact a tunnel. It was the tunnel. The kind of tunnel that you find rather than dig. A tunnel that began with him and that led anywhere. Everywhere. Even to the frog. The thought passed through his head, but he did not know why. And then he saw the city. At first he became aware of something like an old cowboy town from an old western movie. It rested around and about his shoulders and head. He could even see what looked like two tiny little dogs moving through the streets. And in the center of it, right in front of his forehead, there was a theatre. The marguee read: everything/nothing tonight and every night. But the real city was above this. And it was upside down. A great towering mountain of a brilliant glowing crystal city extended for what looked like hundreds of miles up into the sky. Its apex was directly above the tiny theatre. It was the city - just as the tunnel was the tunnel. It was the city that was everywhere but yet never quite found. Egdar felt the terrible weight of the city crushing down on him. And then he realized that he'd always felt that weight. On the horizon a star appeared. It grew gradually larger and brighter. Until it was blinding him. And then he realized that it was a boat. Four frogmen got out of the boat. One turned and looked nervously out to sea. One scooped up the tiny jellyfish in a mason jar. And two picked up Egdar, tunnel, city and all and roughly tossed him into the boat. They cast off and headed back out to sea.

TimMason Jul 19 at 10:22 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by amclark2 The frog waited until one of the men laid aside his woven sack for a moment at the bottom of the ladder, and then hopped into it, burrowing into the grains with which it was filled. Some minutes later, he was swinging in the air as the bag's owner clambered up onto the roof. On the first opportunity, the frog crept out of the bag, and scuttled off into the shadows as quickly as he could. He was in no doubt but that anyone who found him would regard him as foodstuff, and rapidly dispatch him. Openings in the roof led down into dark interiors, from which smoke and nauseous odours rose. The frog caught sight of a small chalk sign, and then another. He followed the signs until he found himself upon the lip of yet another opening, into which he ventured a croak. An instant later, a hand reached up, grasped the frog, and pulled him down into the smoke-filled darkness.

amclark2 Jul 18 at 10:58 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason As Egdar rode out to sea three of his captors were having simply the oddest conversation. (The fourth was somehow occupied with the jelly jar fish). The conversation seemed to involve some bizzare game, and Egdar gradually came to feel that it involved him in some way. But he really could not make heads nor tails of most things that were said. He recognized some words like jesus, mojo, message, mumbai and tupelo. Other words like zypresse, wordpress and amclark just left him feeling baffled. Let us all listen now and see if we can help him to understand:

SelfRisinMojo Jul 17 at 8:49 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason @TM - thanks for the setup. the beauty lies in the path and its possibilities, everything else is scenery.

TimMason Jul 19 at 10:36 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo The captain adjusted the cap and looked at herself in the mirror. For some reason, she found herself thinking of her first horse, Faith, which the photographer had given her after her sister had chickened out. She remembered her heartbreak when Faith had died, shortly after her marriage had ended with far less pain. She turned to Doghouse O'Reilly who, without his moustache, looked like a suburban bank clerk. "You think it suits me?" O'Reilly gave her one of his stunning smiles. "You look the very model of a modern, up-to-date pirate," he replied. "Except for the hair." She sighed. "It'll have to go, you mean." He drew his finger across his upper lip, then reached over and flipped the cap off her head, motioned her towards the chair, and took his razor out of his pocket. She steeled herself, and the locks began to fall.

zypressenweg Jul 18 at 11:47 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason i can get quacky's approval...stay tuned. @srmojo...man, i feel doopey...i just came to learn that j of mumbai is a character you've been building. when i saw tim's use of it here, i thought "wow, conceptually there is a ton of things you can do with that!" but i thought he was taking off from j of tupelo...so the sequencing was screwed up in my head. with that said, i hope i'm not clouding your creation. i can park jesus of tupelo. let me know. that said. freakish that we should be centering on the j-man at the same time. also, freakish that our paths have only crossed of late...i seem to recall our earliest interaction being in the "my date with serendipity" thread...crazy.

TimMason Jul 19 at 10:40 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason First Man : Look - he's listening. Second Man : It doesn't matter. Third Man : He doesn't understand anything. Fourth Man : Has he any kola nuts?

SelfRisinMojo Jul 18 at 12:31 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason i agree; the characters should be free to go wherever anyone chooses....like I said the beauty is in the possibilities. j tupelo is alive and his story must be told.

zypressenweg Jul 18 at 1:10 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo thx for the explonation...the time away has left me with a bit of a gap + yet to be filled... ownership of characters: i agree with this posturing as well. at the same time there is a t.o.s. that lays claim to every little drop of spittle regardless of it's source. so, mebbe there should be a "clean sweep" from time to time with content moved to the repository (before the sweep, obviously). in hindsight, it is a shame that some of the posts from the do not feed the trolls thread are irretrievably lost. my intent - at the time - and i think tim's too (but he'll speak to that if he desires) was to shed light on the transition of the boards themselves. at the time, animosity was probably easier to measure than a loaf of bread. removing my posts were a statement of "you want to talk about how great it is to have a major and nothing else (at all costs), fine. here's nothing else." (digression alert) again, in hindsight i feel the loss of tim's material more than mine. further, the source of the animosity ain't a big deal anymore - i'm ok with the source + vice versa...it's the one thing about this community that amazes me - you can have a voice here that is more expressive, more brave, more considerate (in short, more of what is really you) than what everyday life allows. if you can stand by your voice, weather the storms that inevitably come, you'll move to a different point of understanding. all that said, i'm concerned this board is end-gaming. it is wise to move material and consistently use emusers as a backbone of communication.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 18 at 5:40 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg "you can have a voice here that is more expressive, more brave, more considerate (in short, more of what is really you) than what everyday life allows." -you nailed the biscuit to the wall with that statement; unfortunately, those who take it the opposite limit..... -never got feedback on the CIJ rewrite; did that fizzle? @timmason-i did the wordpress thing.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:29 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo 0

TimMason Jul 19 at 2:06 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo @timmason-i did the wordpress thing. OK - you're on the roster. I've also set up a private post - Backstage - for any discussions we may want to have about the Archive. You will only be able to see it if you're logged in.

eclectricity Jul 19 at 11:49 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg i'm up late smoking pork shoulder + beef brisket How do you keep it lit long enough to get a drag or two?

SelfRisinMojo Jul 19 at 8:03 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by eclectricity Don john picked through the broken bones of his thought trying to suck meaning from the marrow-it had been a long time since his brother had stirred this much odd from the brush and scattered it in so many directions.Two things were ceratin, however, money waited at the other end and the road that led there was paved with lies. Banduras had been perched on the binnacle screeching shrill diphtongs for the better part of an hour causing Don John to entertain doubts about his ability to survive all six degrees leading back to his river.He admired the jungle man's mettle but was afraid he had entered an arena that required a blackness of heart that he could not conjure. Don shook the gathering dark clouds from his head as the din of the strangling bird noises coming from Banduras threatened to bring his sturdy, well tested patience to its knees. Confident the ship could maintain a steady course, he walked over to Banduras and pulled a handful of assorted nuts from his pocket and offered them in an effort to both distract and pacify. Banduras cocked his head with bird like interest and bowed into the direction of the outstretched hand, still shrieking but with slightly less intensity; with his free hand Don John glanced a sharp, open palm blow to the head of Banduras just as he had worked a nut into his mouth with his puckered and gripping lips. Banduras caught Don John's arm just as he had begun the delivery of the more convincing back hand, "that won't be necessary captain." "You are back to stay?" "We can hope." "We will arrive in Port Louis by night fall, hopefully we will have time to girdle ourselves in drink before we are to meet the trunked one they call Edgar." "The ugly tourist....but why? "He has information regarding my brother and the frog." "Your brother?" Banduras rubbed the throbbing area of his face where he had been slapped. The captain put a nut in his mouth and chewed as he answered, "Yes, I am Don John."

TimMason Jul 19 at 3:47 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Katrina gently placed the frog down beneath the bulls heads, and then returned to the hearth, joining Don Pedro as he crouched over the cauldron. The frog quivered. Don Pedro, his head wreathed in smoke and steam, whispered this song.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 19 at 8:01 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason Banduras needed rest; he stretched his mind worn body on the deck and slipped into a deep and vivid sleep. The clouds whispered this cryptic message: "All this the world well knowes though none knowes well To shun the heauen that leads men to this hell" as a band of naked snake wavers sang this song

TimMason Jul 20 at 2:56 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo In the deserted garage, something moved. The lid of one of the boxes opened a crack, and two bulging eyes and a flickering tongue could be descried by the absent narrator. The lid wobbled and fell. The frog stepped forth, to be followed by another. And another. Soon the garage floor was a silent, heaving mass of green, until, as if at a signal, the frogs hopped through the door and into the courtyard. A few short miles down the road, Chotah tugged desperately at the thread that bound him to his captor. The boy rose, picked up his bag, and began to run.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 20 at 8:34 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason Edi looked down at Batuk with tired, drooping eyes, "you can't bring that cockroach in my shop!" Batuk pulled his gaze from the wall of treasures surrounding him and pleaded with his uncle, "but he is my friend and you have already invited so many." Edi mumbled as he brushed a gathering of insects lunching on the crumbs of an earlier biscuit off the counter, a goat lazily mouthed one of the bugs but spit it out and went back to slowly grinding the lively flavors from the electrical cord plugged into the wall beside him. "Why are you here?" Uncle in name only, Edi had promised Batuk's grandmother he would keep an eye on the boy but in truth found him annoying and lied about his efforts during her monthly inquiries. "What are you carrying in the sack, more broken toys?" Batuk's stomach was reaching for his spine; he would offer his uncle all but one of the colorful cardboard items for a loaf of bread. As he pulled a handful from the bag to show him, a papyrus fell to the floor, Batuk picked it up but could not recognize the characters scribbled across the page. He handed it up to Edi, "what does it say?" Edi immediately saw the prospects of the document and carefully held it up and read: "Cast from the sea, the first upon land; from Frey and Freya your backbone to stand. We fathered your song and mothered your dance, we will follow when touched by a boy child's pure hands" Chotah stopped his nervous twirl and landed on Batuk's shoulder, antenna working furiously.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 20 at 4:18 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Don John cared nothing about frogs or the jungle man Banduras. He had lured him with the cheap stagecraft of the bloody toad and softened his mind with drug and drink. Now, apprehension cut at his soul like the years of living in his brother's shadow. He knew he could not get to his brother without Banduras but he did not know if Banduras could survive getting to his brother. As the first lights of Port Louis pulled stars from the sky and melted them in the water, the thought of the first drink tightened knots in his throat that choked his vengeful reason.

TimMason Jul 20 at 5:27 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Katrina motioned to Don Pedro, who reached into a nearby wicker basket and reached out a handful of leaves, which he tossed into the cauldron. The steam, mingling with the smoke from the fire, grew thicker; Katrina wafted it over towards the frog who, under its influence, gave all the appearance of expanding, his throat swelling until he became yet another suspended head among the bulls. The animal's eyes bulged, his mouth opened : The Demon awaits you Don Pedro He circles in the air above you He treads the air His wings thrash the air Wafting the stench of his body down to you He has come to close his bargain, Don Pedro And you cannot escape the price. Katrina shrugged. "Stupid bloody frog," she said calmly. Don Pedro smiled. "Watch, my Lord," he said to the frog. In the swirling smoke the frog saw shadows. He saw the two women stepping off a train, followed at a distance by a slender, middle-aged man with a scholar's stoop and a bag full of books. In the swirling smoke, the frog saw shadows. He saw four frightened fellows standing at the end of a narrow road which had petered into a track leading to a large marshy pond. The men were surrounded by his progeny, eyes bulging, tongues a-flicker. In the swirling smoke, the frog saw shadows. A huge hand picked him up and tossed him into a dark corner. This room is a cage its like captivity How can anyone exist in such misery? It has been said not only here Allianza dollars are spent To raise the towering buildings For the weary bones of the workers To go back in the morning To be strong in the morning

amclark2 Jul 21 at 4:34 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo The clouds had scattered and the ship sailed now under the light of a full moon and the sharp eyes of the stars. Banduras was sleeping alone on the deck. And there came a big old ugly catfish which leapt from the sea and onto the deck. Banduras was startled awake by the sound. The catfish stood up and stared at Banduras. Banduras stared back, then, after a long time, he spoke: "I have failed you. I have failed your people." The fish blinked its great goggle eyes. Once. Twice. And its jaw dropped. Slowly, hideously. The jaw dropped to the floor, and the mouth widened. Until it was a door. Inky blackness leaked and squeezed its way out onto the deck, causing little flecks of moonlight to flee. The fish's whiskers gestured Banduras in. Banduras did not want to enter that tunnel. Every desire and every longing of his entire life put together did not hold a candle to his desire to stay out of that tunnel. But he stood up and walked in. And the fish closed its mouth upon him. Don John came roaring out of the cabin, elephant gun in hand. But he was too late. He saw the tip of the tail disappear beneath the waves, and then there were only ripples. Don John knew that the flabby white face he saw was not the fish turned back to taunt him. It was only the moon's reflection. It was only the moon. But he fired the gun into it anyway. *

TimMason Jul 21 at 9:13 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Far from her usual hunting grounds, both in space and in time, the cat took to a solitary existence. What might have been her memories faded, although from time to time she felt Don Pedro give the thread that linked them a tug. She became almost all cat, and gave herself over to the instincts and habits of her species. There came a time when seasonal impulse latched onto her body and sent her mewling and crying through the deep forest. So it was that, one morning, she broke through the trees to find the sea thrusting its way into a sandy inlet. She was about to turn when the waves were broken and a goggle-eyed, moustachiod face turned towards her. The wide mouth opened, and spat forth a struggling figure, the sight of which stirred neuronal passages within the cat's brain that had lain dormant for some months. Banduras found himself projected into the waves. He thrashed his way to the shore and looked up to see the face of a jaguar looming over him, keening wildly, body undulating, rump and tail lifted to the sky. Far above him, as if from the sky itself, he heard the hearty laughter of Don Pedro.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 21 at 10:28 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason Banduras looked to the sky and smiled as if the familiar sound of the laughter cut a swath of light through the murk of his purpose. Banduras had dissolved into the essence of the fish, once again feeling the purity that separates the species the instant the incision is made at the surface, the instant you breathe or drown. He saw the decaying lies behind the truths and the fertile truths behind the lies, and at depths where everything is at it has always been, he saw the beginning of the circle-the absolute zero of man. He saw three horsemen who seemed to be waiting for the circle to complete, waiting to be called. He knew he had been chosen to save or destroy something between the two points. The only link was this song that played constantly in his head. He sensed this cat would either kill him where he stood or lead him to his journey's end.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:27 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg 0

TimMason Jul 21 at 3:16 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg The archangel wrapped his wings around him and stood, the bulls heads behind his shoulders. His voice filled their heads like the buzzing of hornets. His anger and his desire for punishment suffused each syllable. He had allowed Don Pedro to escape, for he had not immediately grasped that the magician aimed to thwart him. Now he had studied the traces that the Don had woven upon the world, and he had seen how the this gnat, this rat, this creature of slime and putrefaction scuttered from place to place sullying his handiwork. He would be destroyed. Katrina, whose only reaction to the archangel's presence had been to swiftly thrust her toes into a pair of wooden clogs, laughed, dipped a bowl in the cauldron and threw the hot liquid at the beast. The astonished archangel made to open his wings, and found that he could not. "Look over there," said Don Pedro, "over at the wall." The archangel's gaze came to rest upon a brightly coloured representation of a woman, tall and straight-backed, sitting in a large chair. On either side of her sat a large feline - a tiger, a panther or a leopard. Although her body, massive and powerful, was unlike that of the lithe woman who stood laughing at the cauldron, there was no mistaking the facial resemblance. "You were too intent on the chase,' murmured Don Pedro. "You have wandered far from the sources of your power. At this time, and in this place, you are nothing." He gestured at Katrina. The archangel glowered. "The power is mine this world over," he said, "and in all times." Don Pedro shook his head. "Even the block from which you were chipped is seated. You are even more circumscribed than are those who gave birth to you. You arise from faiths that will not see the day here for thousands of years. Here and now, you are nothing." The archangel attempted once again to stir. Still he was caught in Katrina's net. You cannot keep me here. You cannot stay here. When you return to your task, you will find me waiting for you. Don Pedro made a weary gesture. "Even in our time, you are less and less powerful. It began when your worshippers crossed the sea and bound the gods of my ancestors. Our gods were not strong enough to save us from the steel, the horses, and the evils that you carried on the wind. But they ate away at you from within. The lizard-king drew you back. Now, even your most fervent admirers are content to play with you for the space of a weekend, dodging the pigs' heads and chanting your name before they go back to the school and the bank. You are nothing." "You were never much," said Katrina. "A city slicker that any wily peasant could outwit. Here's your peasant, Senor. He has tricked you once again." She gave a peal of laughter, then turned to the frog, holding out her hand. The frog, smaller now, hopped over to her, and was pocketed. Don Pedro, with a last gesture of farewell, climbed up the ladder, followed by Katrina. The archangel, pinioned between the bulls' heads, turned his head this way and that and buzzed with fury.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 21 at 4:43 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Port Louis had come a long way since the days when Don John could always find a belly lower than his to crawl under-it was all too clean now, too much glitz and glamour. He managed to find a tumbledown dive to plunge in that offered a serviceable amount of moons at which to howl; he had lost Banduras and therefore his chance to please his only mistresses: jealousy and revenge. The grog tightened its laces around his head as he turned to the soulless eyes staring at him from the head on the floor next to his feet,"The world is much to complicated my friend, there is no longer any room for easy evil."

SelfRisinMojo Jul 22 at 9:51 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo Uninterested in nursery rhymes, Edi put the yellowed document on the counter and noticed the colorful cardboard from which it had fallen, "What have you got there?" He reached over and grabbed it from Batuk's hand , he recognized it as an old LP record. His eyes sagged into focus on the center of the cover which seemed to dance with each slight movement of his small unsteady hands. The figure in the center, dressed in robe and tall, coned wizard hat seem to speak as Edi was entranced by the colorful movement, "I'm not much of a wizard but I have been known to jack a mean flash, play the second song on the second side of what you hold in your hand." Edi pulled an old latched case from the shelf behind him and plugged it into the loaded receptacle beside the goat. As he lowered the arm on the first spiraling line, this song hissed from the speakers and snaked through the clutter of the shop. As the music swayed time and space, Batuk's eyes rolled back in his head as he began to fall backwards; just as he started his tilt, Chotah started a rapid clicking and thousands of his brethren flew up to catch the falling boy and slowly lift him into the air. A voice closely resembling Batuk's but only as a vehicle, spoke from somewhere newly resident to the child, "We were willing to dance with you when your spirit was new and your vision was not yet blurred by shiny lures and bloated promises. We created a balance and now that balance is in peril. We will not be the first to go.The boy child is not a savior but a messenger; listen." The bugs then winged Batuk out the door of the shop, floated him over the squalor and pointed in the direction of a marshy pond a few miles down the tracks.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:28 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg 1

amclark2 Jul 22 at 10:08 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The first beetle landed on the tip of the archangels horn, ran the length of the spiral, tiptoed to his ear and whispered "We are Box Elder." This beetle was a distraction. The second beetle was a curiosity. The fourth beetle was a wonder. The sixteenth beetle was a question. The two hundred and fifty sixth beetle was a concern. The sixty-five thousand five hundred and thirty-sixth beetle went straight up his nose, causing him, inspite of his formidable archangeleness, to cry out, at which point several dozen poured into his mouth. At the landing of the four billion, two hundred and ninety-four million, nine hundred and sixty-seven thousand, two hundred and ninety-sixth beetle there was no archangel left to be seen. And yet they continued to land. Slowly the writhing mass carried him out of the hut and down to the shore. The fish walked out and stood facing him and the beetles cleared away from his face. "you are not older or more powerful than me" said the archangel. The fish blinked. "you cannot kill me" said the archangel. The fish blinked. And the fish swallowed the archangel and leapt into the water and swam as fast as it could out into the deep. It is a particular conceit of humans to believe that the immortal things cannot change. That good is always good and evil always evil. That a toe-nipple-sex loving beast cannot somehow become the quiet jesus of some dusty out of the way place like Adelaide or Nuuk. But the fish knows better. As he knows that it is better to recycle your enemies than to simply bind them. Perhaps, he thinks, he will not remember me in his new form. The fish is swimming very fast now, creating a huge wake and a rooster tail that shoots thousands of feet into the air. He reaches the shelf and dives to the bottom of the trench. He knows that no human must ever hear the things that the archangel will scream as the stomach juices perform their transformative work.

TimMason Jul 23 at 2:56 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Don John was no stranger to hallucinations. He shook his head and blinked, but found that the eye still fixed his. Nose and chin had, by now, emerged from the floorboards. "As the silly Prince said, before he accepted my gift, there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." The archangel's shoulders came into sight. He grinned, showing a set of perfect gnashers. "There are those who would say that he got that from me." "He's just a man in a story," groaned Don John. "Stories aren't real." "Come, come. You know full well that only stories are real. The rest is just noise." By now, a pair of arms was above the wood. The archangel flexed his fingers. "Mind you, it is the case that noise is just information seen from another point of view." He cracked his knuckles and looked up at Don John with his head to one side. "Did my PhD under Shannon, you know. After all, information theory is the Devil's science." Don John found that his head was slumped down upon the table. He struggled to collect his thoughts as he felt a hand groping at his ankle. "What are you doing here?" he stuttered, "What do you want with me." "I've an offer to make you," replied the other, showing his teeth again. "What do you want most in the world?" Don John saw his brother's face swimming before his eyes. He growled, as he felt the fingers tighten their grip on his ankle. "Do allow me to accommodate you," buzzed a thousand hornets in his ear. The mouth opened, and a wriggling tongue, forked and prehensile flickered towards him. The last thing Don John saw was a pair of basilisk eyes staring at him, and the huge maw opening. The bar-tender looked across at the table behind the door, and pursed his lips. The drunken matelot had left without his hat.

TimMason Jul 23 at 3:10 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason Of the peoples there were recorded eleven. The twelfth has been lost so completely that no bubble may arise to the surface. But if the bubble were to do so, the story that follows might permeate the air at its bursting. In the beginning the first ancestor arose from the vast and fiery hole, sailed through the air, and landed on the spot that, to this day, bears the mark of the tiger. Burning brightly, the great cat walked the forests in the night-time and in the day. Each morning, she would make her bed upon the coast, and leave it as a platform for the gods. The second ancestor arrived by sea, thrown up by a great fish. The ancestors coupled, and their tumultuous fucking resounded throughout the island for a year, a month, a week, and a day. When the great cat gave birth, she spawned birds and fishes, she spawned flowers, corn, berries, and dogs. she spawned men and women, and the men and women coupled in their turn, and their couplings lasted a month, a week, and a day. In honour of the first man, we erect stone statues that look over the land. We name them Banduras. In honour of the cat, we eat the goods she gave us. Now there are no longer enough goods. We will forget the cat. We will cast Banduras down, and break his limbs. We will look for other gods.

SelfRisinMojo Jul 23 at 6:10 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by TimMason The four men stood in the shallow golden ponds of their fear. They were frozen in the stare of thousands of bulging eyes while thousands of tongues darted at them like pistons of accusatory fingers. One of the men noticed what appeared to be a floating child approaching them with a quickness of sound but a creeping locomotion. "l-l-look...." The bulge of the men's eyes surpassed that of their captors as the sea of green parted and the boy spoke, suspended in front of them, "Go now; tell the under privileged, the under paid and the under educated that a mooncalf lurks, spreading contempt and ridicule, seeking to deprive them of their choices. Tell them not to fear his paranoia dressed in its pompous veil." The men need no more persuasion as they beat a wet and hasty retreat. Batuk opened his eyes, clutching his precious satchel, comforted by the familiar tug on his finger.

eclectricity Jul 23 at 7:20 AM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by SelfRisinMojo interlude

amclark2 Jul 23 at 11:31 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by zypressenweg I hope you're saving stuff this time around.

zypressenweg Jul 23 at 11:34 AM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by amclark2 wordpress - exclusively from this point forward. clink.

TimMason Jul 23 at 12:08 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by amclark2 Like 68, I'll be doing this at the WP site from now on. I'm still signed up to eMu until February, but I'm finding the boards less interesting by the minute. This is both because of the scrapping, and because information about Sony is of little interest to subscribers outside the USA. If anyone other than the other writers is reading this, I want to say thanks to the people who have introduced me to a lot of music I wouldn't otherwise have picked up on. I hope I've name-checked you in past posts. Stalwarts like kargatron, frogkopf and nerrefid, all the people who keep the regular music-seeking posts going, and all the people who were also up for a little mainly harmless banter - thanks a million. As for the present nature of the board; well, it has been given over to Melmoth, seeking someone to carry his curse for him. It is seemingly a heavy one, but I have no wish to share the weight. And now, with a clink to all Drama Queens, I'm over and out.

amclark2 Jul 23 at 12:06 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason shit.

amclark2 Jul 23 at 12:38 PM EDT

not with a bang but with a gulp.

in response to the message by amclark2 frog on a bullrush waiting for his fly. old catfish jump up and grab that frog. this is the way the world ends. **

eclectricity Jul 23 at 12:40 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason :-(

indieb0i Jul 23 at 2:13 PM EDT

RE:The 68 memorial farewell thread

in response to the message by amclark2 .

zypressenweg Jul 24 at 6:58 PM EDT

RE:The 68 resurrection thread

in response to the message by TimMason ah - great to see this thread finally make it to the back of the heap. shiat. proper fare-thee-well, you say? ok. tim: i enjoy your hum. when you hum, the rest of us are indestructible (holy shiat...as i typed that my 7 y/o was chattering on about his frozen pop-stickle he shot out "it's basically indestructible.) srsly + freaky. where was i? yeah. f'n indestructible, man. every thing that gets alit in the blackholes seems to have its own place in jackassery and take-it-to-heart - it ends in sync. thx for giving that to us clinkety clink (japanese noise) cookie monster vocals.