Sunny Breaks

[The formation of a united front between Sunnis and Sheites reminded of what fantastically stubborn buggers us humans can be when someone’s trying to take our stuff. This was one of the first stories I wrote for a short story class ages ago, so it’s kind of fresh but maybe that’s a good thing.]

They knocked on Bob’s screen wire door last Thursday. He was rearranging his furniture.
‘Come in, come in, whoever you are,’ he chimed toward the hallway absent mindedly.
‘Good day, citizen.’ The voice came from behind, and significantly above, Bob’s shoulder. Reluctantly he withdrew from staring at the positioning of a furry, faded, floral-patterned armchair.
‘Pleased to meet… erm, have we met before?’ Without his glasses, he squinted at the blurred faces.
‘It is unlikely,’ the first said. They wore the uniform of a dark blue, vinyl jumpsuit with padded shoulders. Their eyes were hidden. Large, wrap-around sun-glasses shaped neatly into rounded red helmets that were adorned with gold racing stripes.
They weren’t smiling. Bob thought offering a cuppa might cheer the poor fellows up.
‘No. Thank you, all we require is your attention. We have come from the star you know as Sirius. We require information as to who you are.’
Bob located his specs and as he sat down, he beamed intensely at them.
‘Yes, yes marvellous! The news people have been jabbering ceaselessly about you and that rocket ship of yours. Long trip I suppose! Funny that you look just like us.’
‘Yes,’ said the second, blankly.
‘Well, any way I can help you out is fine with me. In fact I’m flattered that you thought of me.’
‘Every adult is required to make a statement, Mr. Faustus,’ the first said, checking the name off the envelope they were delivering. He placed it on the coffee table in front of Bob.
‘Instructions are included,’ said the second.
‘Good-oh,’ Bob replied and wondered vaguely if they were staring at him.
‘Good day citizen.’ They left as they came. Bob thought again of the furniture. It now appeared to be positioned perfectly. He sat in another chair, but again, it looked all wrong. Engrossed in this trivial confusion, he remained there for sometime.
Saturday morning, Bob was humming the anthem of a football team that he didn’t barrack for. He opened the envelope and read.

       Dear Terran,
We are giving you the chance to explain a little about a subject you know plenty about. Yourself! It is entirely up to you as to what you think is important. However you will be assessed on what you include and what you omit.
In the interests of a succinct completion of liaison between your species and ours we request that you return the attached notice and questionnaire to your community collection point as soon as possible.

Bob hummed on and touched the tip of a pencil to his tongue and wrote:
Well, as I say to Mrs. Percival from next door, the best place to start is at the beginning. Grew up here in Rosemont. Beautiful place, this. I used to run around the neighbourhood ringing door bells and hiding in the bushes.
Our Prime Minister said it was imperative that young men of our country should fight to defend it. That’s what I thought too, so when I was 18 I joined the army and spent 4 years overseas as an Engineer. Mainly I dug trenches. Back breaking work but I enjoyed it at the time.
When it was time for him, my younger brother, Jim, didn’t want to join up and somehow got out of it. War just wasn’t for him. He stayed here in Rosey and worked in a factory making guns. Worked his little heart out too, fell down dead right there on the production line.
Everyone thought it’d be over in a year, ended up as eight. We stuck it out though, for the good of our country. It was the right thing to do.
I came back to Rosemont with a foot shot off. ‘Little Bobby Wood-foot,’ that was my nick-name when I got back. Times were fairly hard then, most of the businesses had closed down.
I spent the days wheeling around the place delivering what groceries there were to old folks who couldn’t get out. Walking was a bit painful but I rigged up a little trailer to the back of this funny tricycle that I could peddle with my hands.
Life was a bit more difficult compared to when I was a nipper but we all still got by. The sun came up in the morning and birds chirped.
The Gipple family had a piano and I’d pick up a couple of the oldies and wheel them over. We’d have a merry old singalong. Bert would bring milk fresh from his cow and we’d have cocoa.

These days I mainly spend in the backyard or at the park. I photograph insects – magnified, of course. Folks say I must be awfully patient, suppose I am. I sit in the warmth and breeze and wait for a bug to land on the right leaf. They are suprisingly pretty little things.
I’m a bit creaky now and my race is almost run but I sit out there and it’s like I’m having the most beautiful dream. Regards,
Bob Faustus

Weeks later a message zapped through space towards Sirius at the speed of light.
Scout Captain to Command Central:
Re: Annexation of Terra:

Upon further investigation I recommend the abandonment of our mission indefinitely. The nature of this species is riddled with paradox. Individually their method of reasoning is skewed and unpredictable, yet when threatened, innate qualities of cohesion and resolution come to bear against their aggressor.
They are suspicious of each other while, seemingly, devoted to one another’s well being.
The younger generations even appear to have been expecting our arrival, yet treated our questionnaire with scepticism.
We are currently preparing the vessel for relaunch to continue our search.
Y�ѵ�V! – me, 1998

Pros: – unlimited supply of hotel mini-soaps and sewing kits – cool hat – get to boss around co-pilot – Flying High II – chance to sate radio DJ aspirations via in-flight announcement system – can blame all abnormal behaviour on occupational stress – those things practically fly themselves these days

Cons: – get bossed around by air traffic controller – that ‘screechy’ sound tyres make when landing – that ‘scrapy’ sound fuselage makes when tyres fail to deploy – running out of petrol – not a strong swimmer – being a vegetarian makes resorting to cannabalism extra hard – skyjacking: generalised perception of perps is that they’re not known for their personal hygene—compounded by confined space. (Nb. could be false assumption) – get called ‘glorified bus driver’ by people

7:47am

stools: ... of course all this came after she launched the posthuman gardening/lifestyle show. And the mayotherapy clinic franchise—
me: Which was…? I’m sorry I’ve forgotten.

stools: You get in a bath-tub of mayonaise.

me: That’s right.
    Y’know I don’t often catch myself saying this, but you’re a great conversationalist.

stools: Did you know that of all national peoples, Icelanders read the most books?
{Both laugh}

me: Sparkling!
{Beat}

stools: Listen, I’ve got to go.
    If you’ll be so kind as to release me.

me: You know I’d like to, but I can’t right now.

stools: There are heights I aspire to, feats to achieve, seas to sail.

me: You give me power. Without you I am nothing.

stools: Remember what Sting said, ‘If you love someone set them free’.

me: But Society deigns that I wait.

stools: Let me out now. Let me out. Let me out.

me: Where will you go?

stools: Kiwiland. It’s very happening.

C’mon.

me: But I’m still on the bus!

stools: I’ll manage.

me:{tears in eyes, grunting} Uuunnhhh! Oh geez this feels good.

I was out at the institution and had several hours hangtime between reasons to be there, so tried to make it productive by going to the library.
So there I was, down in … periodicals, attempting to get some reading to sink in to my head without falling asleep. I fished into my backpack for something to write on and felt wetness. I’d brought a cut lunch and two ripe peaches. Inexplicably, it hadn’t occured to me that they’d get smooshed by the hardback textbooks.
Thankfully, things weren’t too bad — just the sphericality of one of them had been flattened a little. I held it there looking at it. It wasn’t going to get any better.

Sure I knew I wasn’t supposed to eat food in the library but back up the stairs and outside was such a long way to go for one piece of fruit that would be gone in a second. I had a quick glance around, but there’s like, only two seats down there in periodicals. That’s why I like it.

I bit into the peach where it bled. And, y’know, it’s funny but I can’t remember much after that.

This was remedied later by a couple of Blackshirts (the subcontractor security firm that patrols campus). I was sitting in a small room with these thuggish men.
“Can I go home?”, I said looking at my watch and realising that I’d not only missed the tutorial I’d been waiting around for, but there was something on telly.

“You just don’t get it do you?” said the short one.

“Look, I promise I’ll never take food into the library again.”

He shook his head and flicked On and Play switches on a video and TV that I hadn’t previously noticed.

After 20 seconds of this mostly motionless footage I realised that the receding hairline and unkempt sideburns of this figure were mine; it was where I was sitting at the carrel. The camera appeared to be located above and slightly behind me. It could only be hidden in the ceiling because I pay a lot of attention to those kinds of things. My mouth dropped open slightly. That paranoid kid I stopped hanging around with was right – hidden cameras in the ceilings … everywhere.

As I stared into the warm blues and blacks that formed the shapes in the security tape I began to observe myself. Hunched forward, devouring the peach with honed technnique — elbow tilted higher than the wrist stopped the nectar from running down my arm. The tall Blackshirt piped up:
“Look! Yer dripping stuff all over that bound set of periodicals!”
The short one turned up the volume without explaining himself.
“Ohh. mmm. ffff.  Guh.” These breathy, almost animalistic sounds were coming from me.
“Ohhmmm!”      “Guhh … ffff”
This continued an embarrassingly long time as I ravaged the second peach. Oh why were they making me watch this???

I spat the stone out, stood up quickly and wheeled around. I seemed to breathing heavily and my arms were poised in a rather odd way at my sides. Yes it sounds comical, but in that moment I thought of Taz the looney-tunes Tasmaninan devil character. This was no joke though. I flicked my head one way then the other, and then most chilling of all, seemed to look straight up into where the security camera was, as if I was instinctually aware of its presence. I ran out of shot, the footage cut out to static. I hardly got out an exhalation of relief at the ending of this monochrome nightmare when a new shot cut in. It was a similarly panoptical setup, but from the foyer area near the main cafeteria with me bounding in to shot.
“oh shit”, I mumbled. Maybe bits of memory were piecing together, because I could tell that the scenario was that it hadn’t been enough. Two peaches wasn’t enough.

He was breathing heavily, rapidly — huffing, arms still well spaced from the torso, eyes wild and wide-eyed, nostrils flared and flickering with the intake of air, teeth showing but not quite gritted. To some girl staring and cowering by the glass wall he growled,
“What’re you lookin’ at?”, then sprung into the open doors of the cafeteria, nose first, probing the air.

With and arm and two fingers out he pointed down the length of the many scattered tables and chairs.

“HEY YOU, TWO-FRUITS!”

At the other end of the hall some nerd wearing a parka froze as this beastman vaulted towards him. His hands shook and the little Goulburn Valley plastic cup fell to the floor, spilling its juice, pear and apricot chunks…

Of late my dreams have been leaving strange little puddles on the floor of my daytime mind. Finland. Friendly mice — mice are very very nice, 2 or 3 suffice, they’re alright. Giving a woman oral and digital pleasure. A chance meeting with Geoff Lynne which became a really terrible interview, mostly due to me knowing nothing about ELO.
Me: And .. so, then you started doing stuff with The Travelling Wilburys…?
He was very distraught about something – on the verge of crying. What the hell is it about my subconscious and messed-up pop stars?

I had to go back to the institution today. Didn’t go very well. Shoelaces kept getting untied. On seperate occasions two people stopped me to tell me I had big candles of bright green snot coming out of my nose and extending to the top of my lip.
Then at hometime I accidentally got on bus no.17 instead of 16 and ended up going somewhere and I don’t know where it was. Eventually everyone else got off and I still couldn’t see my house yet. The scenery started to get sparse, then gave out completely. The bus stopped, the doors opened and the driver looked around at me, so I got out.
It was a blank white space.

One summer day among others she disturbed me from my four year long afternoon nap. Like a 5-pointed star she skittered about side-on; the lead part in a cub scout musical and still wearing the green, gold-striped cap. Rosey, trumpet-playing cheeks and Felix the cat clock eyes.

I rolled half sideways and looked. The two star points as arms jittered up and down — wrapped around the palm of one hand was a blue-tongue lizard.

“Next door’s dog was trying to eat it!”
For a short, private moment this little creature and I locked eyes. Hideous, primitive and not belonging in a bedroom was my blanket policy on reptiles. Here was an exception.

“Hi”, he said and lowered his eyes. Was it a hint of social awkwardity there? Motion sickness? No, the faint blushing and tone of voice were of embarrassment. Held as a captive of this girl.
He grasped onto her index finger with his paws and curled his tail around the outer side of her little finger as much as its flexibity allowed, but he needn’t have worried, she wasn’t going to let go.

“G’day”, I replied quietly. He looked back at me and saw that I wasn’t mocking him. We were in the same boat.

I got up. We went into the kitchen and she eventually put the lizard down into a lidless shoebox. Each time it moved slightly she would reach in and straighten it up, keeping it neatly arranged — parallel with the side of the box.
We set him loose and he crawled under the house.

If a man is weeding his garden under the midday sun, it must be the devil because only the devil can trick the sun not to burn.

The infinite blue of the sky and the bright white shapes of dry clothes flapping lazily on a clothes line. I can hear the deep, constant rumble of a jet engine a million miles away and I drop gently from the top of our back fence into a southern european backyard.
I squat down in front of a raised garden bed, rock a little and slide into a cross-legged sit. I reach under the thin black netting, pick and eat strawberries one at a time, while watching the double-storey red-brick job for movement within.

The strawberries are tangy and as warm as the day.
The lizard slowly appears beside me. I keep eating but begin to notice his head turn ever so slightly as I ferry each one from the patch to my lips.
I hold out a smaller strawberry a little way in front of him. He cautiously takes it from my fingers and swallows it.

I’m reading this book at the moment which I’ll mention more when I’ve finished it, but there was this couple of sentences about ideas, inspiration and new ways of thinking. It went along the lines of: the challenge isn’t in attempting to come up with new ideas, but to dispense with those that are already crowding the mind — sweep out those corners. Then new ideas will naturally come flooding in.
I wish I could quote it exactly but I couldn’t find it — I spent 2 hours almost reading the whole thing again looking for that para but no bueno.
I could relate to it. There’s no grand plan or ambition pushing out these little things anymore, but I still have to get rid of them because they drive me nuts otherwise. This is a dumping ground.

Endangered Asian Elephants In Psychedelic Red Thai Curry Freakout

Ekoh dimly felt time before his eye slipping back to yesterday – looks exactly the same – to 10,000 years ago – the bedroom was underwater – a slightly noticable and definitely pleasurable difference.

That cold we picked up in Nagoya. Pitchforks and creditcards. florid encasement   filing nails   flinging Neal questions   side aways   failing denials   surround and rupture   chrysanthemum garden tea party pound cake butter scone fix.

I just added a short story to the storytime section. It’s kind of old and had been sitting around for ages because of one little bit that needed fixing.

If this was one of those previews at the start of a video, here is the mish-mash cut-up of scenes that’s supposed to entice you to check it out: – Smoking and bent, the car rested in a heap on the wall at turn four. – ... Her chihuahua is going to attack her next week, bite her on the neck.’ Laughing Johnny sqawked and chortled with glee.
`It’s not funny Johnny – I have to see it all. It’s like they believe that I can change things.’ – Something was buzzing in the postie’s hair. She brushed at it and looked around to see a red dragonfly. – That bitch. That fuckin’ bitch. She’s not going to write back to me. Bitch bitch bitch! – She flew in and over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and she saw Guy Sebastian. He ran himself into some trouble. He was looking at himself in a shop window and he ran into a sharp pole. He exploded and he died.

And the voice over guy with the heaped on drama in his voice, well that’s me doing this right now.

(Inspired by this article at the always interesting Mowabi.)

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It was this restaurant that opened down on the main drag. Around that time I was in one of these habitual cycles of getting takeaway from a joint directly across the street each Friday night. I watched it change from a laundrette to restaurant. It’s not the same as knowing of shops that had been there before me, that -as far as knew- could have been there forever.
During its coming together I could see the elements of Eat Uzbekistani being added; bain-marie, tables + chairs, light fittings, paint. The basic elements of “restaurant” were shown for what they were — stuff in a building. For me at least, there was no illusion of fanciness or mystery built in.

It opened. After only a couple of weeks it was busy each Friday night. Not an empty table to be seen; while I waited for my fish and chips I’d stand with my face against the glass peering at the vivid blue-painted place across the street, then on my way home would walk by the front of it. It only ever bothered to open on Friday and Saturday nights. Who were the people tthat could afford to run a shop like that?
There was a homecomputer-style A4 ‘poster’ tacked onto its window saying, “Belly-dancer each Friday night”. Perhaps this was the crowd-pulling element. But then sometime later I saw the belly-dancer and it was just some whitey, dreaded-up hippy chick.

It had those wooden doors with large windows in them that could be rolled back on their runners to have the whole front of the joint open. It was winter so they were shut. One evening I was standing, waiting, peering across as I did and saw a mildly heavy-set, middle-aged respectable-looking businessman type get thrown back-first through one of the large window-doors out onto the street. He slowly got up and brushed glass off the back of his jacket off and walked away. I couldn’t tell who did the throwing, but could see patrons packed around tiny tables near the front there. It was as if none of them had noticed it.
I don’t think it was the same man, but the same thing happened a week later too.

Jennifer chose a rug, $96.99 for something. “I wonder if it’s pure wool?” Glenn chose boardshorts $8.99 and backpack $9.99 for his son. “I don’t want to over-indulge the children, they grow up thinking life is full of Santa Clauses.”

“Dear yak, I heard a hideous story in the school yard that Santa weren’t real.
Is Santa Claus real?” – “Dear Natashlie, life is full of Santa Clauses.”

In a very weird house a cat spewed and it had hair in it. It was very yucky spew. So the man went to clean it up. “Oh Milly”, he mumbled. And while he was cleaning the spew, he got it on himself. He started to grow hair. So he quickly went to go and have a shower. Meanwhile, at the zoo, there was a missing ape. Then on their beeper, the zoo-keepers saw the hairy man and they thought it was the ape. They got a cage and took him to the zoo.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Mike. He was bad. He put mouse poo in the bottle. His dad went to wash his hair and his hair fell off. He ate cheese. Then he grew more hair. It was beautiful.

Asparagus pee-pee
in the still night,
a dragon gently exhales

Via CORE – the National Toilet Map. What a brilliant idea, what a wise and shrewd use of gumment money (honest! I’m not being sarcastic). In fact it was just the other week when i was walking down the main drag of 1968-72 aka Colac and wishing to myself that I was some kind of super-hero who had x-ray vision for toilets. I’d scan each side of the street and toilet bowls would gleam through walls here and there at the backend of buildings.
Doing tests of Nucleus and just automatic writing stuff without thinking the other day and writ, “expo 2000
A class excursion on a bus — a big red bus along a highwigh in the overcast bright grey mutant day hot and humid just trying to fill in time – a big buzzy fly banging on the window — and I go to touch it with my finger fully expecting not to becuase that the way the ayre – hard to tuoch. But I do and instantly regret it.
Getting sunburnt but not being able to see the sun. Always needing to take a slash but there never being a toilet anywhere. The twenty first century, man nature technology — and never a toilet when you want one.”

Maybe the Federal Bureau of Toilet, the National Closet of Water could give me a job. I could travel the country with a PDA in one hand and a GSM compass in the other (and maybe one of those microphones that you wear on your head so I could talk to central command).
{Y.S. takes slow, quiet steps backward, devices held in hands outstretched in front of him. CUT TO shot of Central Command computer monitor displaying dark blue grid with small white mass pulsing brightly, apparently moving toward the centre of the grid.}
CC guy: Oh my god, it’s coming up right behind him!

{From CC end over intercom Y.S. says:} It’s alright. It’s alright, I found it…. {slightly more distant sounding} Ahhh… {sound of tinkling} ...

And so on and so forth.

....Maybe it was the extry spicey nachos in combination with the 30degree celsius evening but I dozed off and had this intensely humourous nightmare. There was all these kids – one after another – and they were singing and jumping around, dressed outlandishly — and I tell ya, I couldn’t understand a word of it. But there was this vein of clever knife-sharp satire running down through it, because these pint-sized performers parodying the whole adult manufactured, pre-processed, hyped-up, dumbed-down, shink-wrapped Music Industry.
There was a surface meaning of ‘Oh isn’t it cute they’re dressed up just like grown-ups and doing all the moves’, but it’s like it was these kids who were having the last laugh and the joke was on us.
what have we become?
The name of this disturbing little dream was Junior Eurovison.

comments:
Jon
the spork
date: 2003-11-30-15-38
Brilliant stuff Mr Sox .. as always. Though in my scene I would have included Sigourney Weaver and some comment “3m…2m …what the ? oh my god it’s above us”.

name: yak sox
date: 2003-12-02-09-08
ah thankyee sir. I see the toilet people tracked the core link back.

“Hey Dexter, come and take a look at this. What do you make of it?”, Cornray was sitting at Scorpio’s 1991 Nashuatec mainframe, an absolute beast of a machine. “The Spouting website is getting some weird pattern of pings”, he continued.
“Since when has Scorpio detective agency been affiliated with Spouting? That completely contradicts that thing from the other week.” Poindexter was at the verge of the ‘getting-too-excited-about-continuity’ up-ramp—again.
“Never mind the inconsistencies for now. Look at these sites, www.saulem.com www.wr18.com www.jennifersblog.com www.kwlablog.com.”
“Look pretty normal from a cursory glance right?”
“Yeah. Pretty lame though”, said Dexter, calming down.
“Look closer.” Conray pushed back a touch on his roller-chair.
“Well, to start with very few weblogs in English link to european language sites. Look at this .de, .nl, dk, de, at. Where’s .at?” Dexter took the mouse and clicked. “That’s a fake comments link!”
“Yes. And the entries are just grabbed from news site feeds.”
“Ah. Is it prawn?”
“Yep. Check the mark-up. There’s a transparent gif at the bottom of all of them.”
“But they have individual domain names – that’d cost heaps. And what do they expect to gain from setting up transient fake links to genuine weblogs? Surely that wouldn’t be a very effective way of gaining page rank.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised, Dex. The amount of people who take a quick look at one of these sites linking to them and then linking back without thinking, even if it’s just in an entry and not a link-list.
As for the addresses, you remember the original wave of cyber-squatting pyramid schemes?”
Poindexter whistled. “So they’re finally paying off—”
“Well I wouldn’t go so far as to say that but they’re being used now at least—”
“Subverting the internet for the purposes of prawn gets me so angry!” Dexter’s fists balled up and his eyes clenched shut in rage behind their oober-thick glasses. His voice jumped several octaves making it obvious that he was, in fact, a hamster. “And especially not the weblogs… don’t mess with the weblogs!”
<%image(20040113-bucharest.jpg|224|330|the bucharest boys)%>
“All these pings are originating from the same server.”
“Where?”
“Bucharest”, said Cornray, holding up two economy class aeroplane tickets.
“Let’s go.”
{fade up pacey movement music-track}

Dexter Poindexter: what’s that?
VC: The reports are still pretty vague, but there’s these creatures who zero in on discos. They change shape so that they look like regular groovers and then hit the dance floor.
DP: Why would they do that?
VC: To “get down” with the human disco-goers, if you know what I mean.
DP: Say n’more. Sounds a lot like an x-files episode though.
VC: Yes. Yes it does. That’s the really weird thing, normally you’d expect to hear about something like this and then find out that a tv show had used it, but this was completely the other way around. Discomorphology reports didn’t surface until way after that series had finished.
DP: So what are you saying? That the writers of x-files have something to do with it?
VC: Oh hell no. It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.
{LULL}
DP: It’s funny you should mention x-files, because you know that website Spouting.net? It’s really got mixed up with the conspiracists this time. Something that was on it got linked to by this page. In amongst all the serious sounding reports like, “Victims Identified in Fatal Plane Crash”, and “Another Top Microbiologist Dies – 12 in the Last Five Months” is “Where Are Mulder & Scully When You Need Them?”. So that spouting guy must feel pretty silly eh?
VC: Yeah. If I ever catch up with that guy I’ll give him a piece of my mind… I do not look like Fat Albert.

(partly inspired by this little ditty.)

goddamnyou charles manson
it’s your fault this column is so slow
and peppered with dud entries
that stare back at me everyday droning mediocrity
goddamnyou charles manson
this fixed width guff is your doing
messing my line lengths
goddamnyou charles manson
long hair and beards went out 25 years ago
and your album really sucked.

comments:
Jon
the spork
date: 2003-10-24-07-29
So any release date for the album =) .. ? Yak’s evil songs Vol1 ?

name: yak sox
date: 2003-10-24-23-36
Just as soon as I can arrange a duet with vanessa williams.

Once I saw portraits of
cats in cravats,
big frilly collars and
sailor suits or monocles
on the wall of a darkened little giftshop
in Echuca.