In the morning, they came to a town with a river running through it. On the left side of the river lived a band of pirates, and on the right, a peasant collective. They entered on the side of the pirates.

“Are you coming back?” asked a woman sitting in front of a shack that looked like nothing so much as a boat pulled onto land and doused in red paint. At once, they looked away. The woman had no teeth, but acorn caps sewed to her gums. Blood stuck to her lips, tacky and dark. The caps rattled back and forth as she spoke.

The street leading to the river was quiet, save for a Tall and a Short who stood at the edge, gazing into an eddy against the bank. The water was muddied and dark, but where the pair looked, reflections of things distant appeared as clear as in a pond. The Tall reached a long arm around and tapped the Short on the head. His hair was the colour of a hazel nut. He grunted and looked up. The water shivered and collapsed into a tiny whirlwind.

The Tall looked out at the water hurrying by and whistled without direction or tune, but with some spirit. The river stopped to listen, and tangled itself in the wind, which in turn bumped into the bank. The Short leaned over and stepped into the mess, holding out a hand through a curtain of dark hair. They followed her nervously, but the confusion held, and with the Short’s hands for paddles they reached the midpoint of the river.

Cheers

And now for something completely different.

---

My friend was introducing me to a boy.

"This is Colin," she said seriously. "He can smoke a cigarette in under forty seconds." Colin blinked uncertainly. I blinked uncertainly. We blinked uncertainly in perfect synchronized patterns.

"Is that true?" I asked. He looked confused. It wasn't a good look. "Is what true?" Apparently the blinking had distracted him. I clarified. "The cigarette thing." "Oh," he said, sounding relieved, "yeah. It's true. Fiery fire, and all." I nodded sagely. Fiery fire indeed. I knew all about fire. Clara seemed ready to walk away, but he caught her sleeve. "Um, who is she?" He sounded terrified. I wondered if my reputation had preceded me. "Oh, this is Gillian. With a G. She -"

I could not smoke a cigarette in under forty seconds.

"She can clip her toenails with her teeth."

Once we got home, Clara and I were going to have a serious talk about smoking and personal hygiene.

"And she can read your mind."

Better.

Cheers

"What's with the fish?"
"...Excuse me?"
"The fish, the fish on the backs of the cars. They're Christian, right?"
"Oh, Darwin Fish?"
"No, the ones the Darwin fish are cruelly mocking. Jesus fish. Fish for Jesus. Anti-abortion fish."
"Um - can you draw one for me?"
"If you don't know what it looks like, you won't know what it means. There's just no point."
"No, I have a photographic memory. Really. Take the coaster."
"I need a pen."
"Do you have any lipstick? Use that."

Silence.

"I'm pretty sure drawing a Jesus fish with lipstick on a bar mat is blasphemy of some kind."
"Whatever. Anyways, looks kind of like a five year old drew it, but there you are."
"Uh huh. Jesus fish. It's coming back to me now. Jesus went up to the apostles and said, 'So you're fishermen, are you? I will make you fishers of men.' Slick, right?"
"Seriously, why?"
"I'm telling you the truth!"

"A pun, it's a pun."
"...Jesus makes puns."
"Made puns, made puns. Please try to show a little sensitivity."

"So, fishers of men, right? We, the Unified Fishermen For Jesus, will yank men from their natural environments,beat them with clubs until they die a slow painful death, skin and cook them, sprinkle them with parsley and consume their very marrows. The bones can go in the trash for the cats."

"...I don't think our trash can would fit a thigh bone inside. What do you think?"

Cheers

I love the Jesus fish.

She's rocking it on out from a basement in Kentucky -
He's leaving his girlfriend to make it in the big city -
They started a hair band in the year 2006 -
His mom knocks on doors and delivers pamphlets to the Christians -
She dropped out of cooking school to become a chef -
The cheerleader has a crush on the captain of the chess team -
We can't have New Years' without any party hats -
Last summer they had a barbeque indoors with sunscreen and a kiddie pool.

Now they're tired.

Cheers

The Internet reminds me of a beach. Cause you can go swimming if you don't mind the static shock!
But honestly, things wash up into my line of view, and I've no idea where they come from or what their history is. If I were reading books instead, they'd have a bibliography - but then, they might not contain the same kind of glass in the first place.

The best job I had was moving a stone from one side of the road to the other. This required a permit which require a bribe. The bribe took all my salary. Yet because I hadn't finished the job
I had no salary, and to pay the bribe I took a job moving the stone the other way. Because the official wanted his bribe, he gave me a permit for the second job. When I pointed out that the work would be best completed if I did nothing, he complimented my brain and wrote a letter to my employer suggesting promotion on stationery bearing the wings of a raptor spread in flight over a mountain smaller than the bird. My boss, fearing my intelligence, paid me to sleep on the sofa and take lunch with the official who required a bribe to keep anything from being done. When I told my parents, they wrote my brother to come home from university to be slapped on the back of the head. Dutifully, he arrived and owed to receive his instruction, at which point sense entered his body and he asked what I could do by way of a job. I pointed out there were stones everywhere trying not to move, all it took was a little gumption to be the man who didn't move them. It was harder to explain the intricacies of not obtaining a permit to not do this. Just yesterday he got up at dawn and shaved, as if the lack of hair on his face has anything to do with the appearance of food on an empty table.

Cheers

15 (Huan): If you continue in this vein, you inevitably end up with a totalarist government.
14.5 (Kim): Totalitarianism?
15 (Huan): Yes, totalariasm.
14.5 (Kim): Could you define 'continue in the vein' please?
15 (Huan): Continuing to stunt the freedom of speech of which our nation is fundamentally based.
14.5 (Kim): Thank you. Could you define 'totalitarianism?'
15 (Huan): What, you want the definition of totalitarianism?
14.5 (Kim): Yeah. I mean yes.
15: (Huan)You don't know what it means?
14.5 (Kim): I want your definition.
15 (Huan): It's when people suppress others.
14.5 (Kim): Oh, you mean socialists.

...

Cheers
Julia

Also: Are you saying that coal is radioactive?
No, I just -
Could you define radioactive?
Um, I just meant that coal is fifty times more prone to radioactivity than nuclear material.
Define radioactivity.
When radioactive isotopes fission. The fission of isotopes.
And you just said coal has radioactive isotopes. Doesn't that make it radioactive?
...do I have to answer that question?

Putting the employee lockers at the back of the store is just asking for trouble. I can see Ellen and Chelsea Ann and Mark taking off their coats and fiddling around in the pockets for their lock combinations - Chelsea has two hair ties and a bobby pin in her velour track jacket. She immediately puts her hair up in pigtails and clips a piece of her bangs back with the bobby pin so she doesn't have to deal with them. It's cute, but I'm sort of disgusted by the fact that it took her so little time to do it. Girls should do their hair because they want to, not because they have ties in their jacket pockets.

Damn. While I was watching Chelsea, Mark managed to get his locker open. He's so awkward; it always seems like whatever he's about to pick up is going to send him over the edge and he'll topple dramatically onto the linoleum along with his cargo. The apron looks weird on him too - it hits right where a micro-mini would on a girl, and he's always pulling it down over his thighs like he isn't already wearing a pair of jeans underneath. I don't have to wear the apron, because I told Laurie at the beginning of the week that it makes me feel self-conscious and emasculated. Afterwards, Mark asked me how I did it and I told him I threatened to rip out her nose ring if she tried to make me put it on. Today he's a lost cause anyways. He always dials the lock back to zero after he moves it, and bends down to check that he hasn't dropped anything.

"Ryan!"

Someone is talking to me - Ellen's locker door is open and she's standing in front of it with a scrap of paper in her hand. Perfect. I affect disinterest. "What's up?" Her hand goes up to the back of her neck, where the faded green colour is still going out of her hair - she does it every time she talks to me. It's incredibly annoying. "I had to take my uniform home to wash it. Do you still have yours?" I'm a little surprised Ellen takes such progressive steps as washing her apron, but this is a golden opportunity. "Sure," I say, moving towards my own locker and twirling the dial at random. My lock doesn't work, but nobody else seems to notice or care, so why should I? The door swings open and I pull out the red lump of cloth - my fingers scratch against the polyester. She grabs it with both hands and the paper she was holding falls to the floor. "Thanks-so-much-Ryan," she fires and disappears past the shoe racks.

Laurie comes past, so I can't do Ellen's locker right now, but I'll get around to it. "Hey, Ry," she pipes. I hate it when people call me Ry, but she's been trying to be especially nice to me since my little confession in the break room, which is sweet I guess. I didn't even have to cry. "You're just colourizing today, so head over to Skirts." She hurries off to talk to Mark in the back room. I like the piercing she has in the base of her neck. It reminds me of Frankenstein.

I am a colorizing rebel. The clothes are meant to be racked in a specific pattern - colour first, then tones within different shades. Today, I organize them in alphabetical order according to their realtor-names. The only situation in which the use of these words to describe colours is socially accepted is when an agent is trying to sell a cruddy little split-level in the middle of Surrey with a blurb about the Butter Yellow wallpaper. They probably actually look like someone wiped cat vomit over them, but whatever.

Aquamarine. Bluebell. Blanched Almond. Chrysanthemum. Cinnamon. Dun. Ecru. Fuschia. The fuschia skirt is about three inches long and fringed with tulle. Goldenrod. Honeydew. Realtor names tend to make me hungry. Ivory. Khaki.

Khaki has made a breakthrough into mainstream phrasing - if someone asks a man what colour his pants are, it is an acceptable response. 100% fag-stigma proof. Laurie comes by and catches me holding a long khaki skirt covered in cargo pockets and iron-on patches to my chest like it's my long-lost baby blanket, but she doesn't say anything. Last time she gave me Skirts I organized them by lengths in the piano-key way:

- Long short Long short Long Long short Long short Long short Long -

Repeat. I put the khaki skirt down and continue. By the time I get to Steel Cloud Grey, my mind is entirely focused on what could possibly be in Ellen's locker.

Cheers
Julia

More people should dye their hair white and pretend that they are their own grandparents. I think this would be a societal improvement. We could put talcum powder on our faces and wander up and down the streets like ghosts or memories. You wouldn't have to talk if you didn't want to, and then only in a quiet breaking of your larynx.

Do you think that there's some sort of vocal hymen nobody knows about because the cry of birth breaks it in every child? Some mark or membrane or hole that closes when that first ugly wail wrenches out of the underdeveloped throat of a new ball of chemicals?
Even dream machines break down sometimes.

Cheers
Julia

I have to find the boy in the wheelchair and explain to him that it's not his fault. Then go after the kid with the bottle and make sure he ends up back in prison. It's my job to do it.

It feels like I'm not meeting the minimal requirements for life.

I was listening to girls talk about filming themselves and putting it on the internet. It disturbed me. So, obviously, I wrote dialogue about it to get over the squick factor. Casey is a boy. Can't decide if this was supposed to be funny or not.

[Dining hall]
Wendy: This is the shittiest college semester I've ever had.
Casey: Please tell me this isn't my cue to say "This is the only college semester you've ever had".
Wendy: I'm serious, Case. I'm broke, living off EZ-Mac and paying the academic world seventeen grand a year to fuck me up the ass.
Casey: Oh, so it's the money that's bothering you. Why don't you just get a job?
Wendy: [irate] Do you think I haven't tried? As soon as they hear I'm a double major prospective, it's 'Sorry, but we need someone with a more flexible schedule'. I wish there were work I could do from my room, freelance writing or something like that.
Casey: Or something, yeah.

[pause; they walk out of the dining hall. It's raining.]

Casey: What about camming?
Wendy: Camming?
Casey: You know, doing sexy stuff for guys on the Net.
Wendy: What part of your tiny, malnourished brain has led you to consider the possibility that I would even think about contemplating doing something like that?
Casey: I guess the part that just heard you're strapped for cash.
Wendy: Not that strapped! Anyways, I don't know if anyone sent you the memo, but the Internet is free. Where does the money come into the equation?
Casey: Guys make requests and send money through the Web. Paypal and stuff. It's a pretty simple system.
Wendy: Casey, you haven't ever paid a camgirl, have you?
[pause]
Casey: ...No. Think about it this way. You put a video on the Internet. Somehow, someone you know sees it. Are they going to confront you about it? Hell no.
Wendy: Why not? I know I would.
Casey: Because in order to chew you out, they'd have to admit they'd seen it first.
Wendy: Oh. Good point. But I still think it's disgusting.

[Later, in Wendy's room]

Wendy: [awkwardly] Thanks for helping with the camera, Case.
Casey: Trust me, it's no problem. Move the drapes down so there's a backdrop... good. Did you pick a song yet?
Wendy: Um, I was thinking Weezer.
Casey: [scandalized] You can't do a striptease to Weezer! Unless it's Beverly Hills. Is it Beverly Hills?
Wendy: Why can't I dance to Tired of Sex? It's ironic.
Casey: Dee, the guys watching this are not looking for subtle irony. There are looking for tits and ass, both of which you will be happy to provide. Anyways, there's a very limited list of permissible webcamming music, and Weezer is most definitely not on it. Any song involving the words 'smack that' is go, or if you want to be daring you can go for the hardcore denomination and strip to Black Sabbath.
Wendy: [nervous laugh] Aren't you the expert. Lots of research behind these opinions, ladies and gentlemen.
Casey: Cut it out and put this on.

[long pause]

Casey: Well, take it!
Wendy: I'm not wearing that. It's disgusting.
Casey: Look, do you want to do this or not? I assure you, for time invested to money earned, this is an extremely profitable job.
Wendy: Can't I strip in my clothes?

[pause]

Wendy: You know what I mean.
Casey: Wendy, you're wearing a sweatshirt. Even if you only have it on for twenty seconds, you're going to lose almost all the viewers right there. You have to lay the goods out on the table.
Wendy: God, you're sleazy. I can't take off the shirt, I'm all... blegh.
[she indicates her stomach]
Casey: I don't know, you're okay-looking. You've got good hair.
Wendy: Don't you think a camgirl needs more than okay looks and good hair?
Casey: Nope. Guys who need to jerk off have surprisingly low standards.
Wendy: [irritated] I'm just so flattered by your tact and sweetness. Give me that.

[she snatches the outfit]

Wendy: Go get the camera.

[pause]

Casey: Wow, the shoes really help.
Wendy: Just shut up and film.
Casey: Oh my god, you're an awful dancer. You dance like a Peanuts character.
Wendy: [snaps] Shouldn't you be quiet? I can't imagine small-talk turns many people on.
Casey: Actually, you can say whatever you want. I'm editing this for sound before I put the music in anyways.
Casey: Move your hips. Turn around and bend over.
Wendy: What is this, Legally Blonde?
Casey: This is a favour, Wendy - the least you can do is cooperate.
Wendy: [sits down on the bed] I feel like a whore.

Sorry if you read all the way through that.
Cheers

Things I remember:

I remember picking up a plastic fish-shaped trophy mounted on plastic wood at a garage sale. The woman standing behind the table told me that if I put batteries into it, it would dance and sing. I bought it for twenty-five cents and took it home to insert the batteries. We didn't have any so I rode my bike (with training wheels) down to the IGA and bought some; AAAs, I think. When I finally turned the fish on, it just sort of flopped its head and tail back and forth, but it did sing the Talking Heads cover of 'Take Me To The River'. Which I thought was really cool at the time. I think my dad bought a rocking chair at the same garage sale.

I remember recognizing that a bit in a film was supposed to be a sex scene for the first time. I was watching The Craft with my friend Aimie - which I recall as being kind of weird, but apparently it had Neve Campbell in it - and there's a part where this girl disguises herself as another girl to get some kid to screw her and the real other girl comes up and looks at what she thinks is herself in the bed with this guy and it's weird, but all I remember thinking was, "Oh, so that was a sex scene." With the little lightbulb and everything. I don't think they actually show it, either.

I was sitting at a bus stop and a couple came and sat down next to me; maybe thirty or so, they were. I had my headphones in, so they weren't paying attention to me. The woman had a hat on, they started arguing about a car. Apparently the man had forgotten to fill up the gas tank after a business trip to Olympia and they were stranded in the wilds of Port Moody. Who the hell gets stranded in Port Moody? The conversation quickly devolved into an accusation on the wife's part that he hadn't been in Olympia for business reasons, but I don't remember how it ended. This could be because it was well over five years ago, or because my bus came and I got the hell out before someone got shanked.

Things I don't remember:

Well I don't remember them, obviously. Geez.

Cheers

Why committing suicide is a poor idea:
Statistics tells us that if today is utter shit, the probability of tomorrow being equally shitty is greatly reduced.

Of course, statistics are mostly bollocks, but applying mathematical logic never worked so well in the real world.

Cheers

I'm writing a story about the world's least inviting gay bar and the people who frequent it. Most of them are not very pleasant.

Thanksgiving is over.

Cheers

Wait I think I remember now there was something about an ark but maybe not he sent an ostrich to go find land no that's not right either ostriches cant fly he didn't let any of the women come onto the boat no I must have dreamed it because if there were no women on the boat then where do the women come in maybe they came out of the ground like trees tree-girls I somehow doubt that's the case but wouldn't it be kind of sick if there was only one woman who was his wife because then if she only had sons it would be a bad thing maybe that's why the human race is non-functioning because Noah didn't bring enough girls onto the ark and his wife had to fuck her sons that would explain a lot he should have brought little girls so that when there were kids their kids would see them and think

'hey, those girls grew out of the ground like trees'

...I don't think that's how the story actually went.

Cheers

This is a fragment of the dream I had last night, reproduced in exquisite detail for your viewing pleasure. I think I need an interpretation manual of some sort for these things.

Ext. stone building, Amy is sitting on a low brick wall swinging her legs against it.

Enter Jeffrey, a sixty-something year old man carrying an enormous backpack and a large wooden mallet.

Jeff: Hey. [looks around] What's eating you?
Amy: It's not working. I'm just stuck in the worst way.
Jeff: [nods knowingly] Ah, that again. Don't you think you'd be better off just backing away for a while? I mean, it's not like it's going to come out easier if you squeeze harder, you're not having a baby here.
Amy: The damn thing's almost done, I'm not going to just let it go now. I just have no idea what to do with him, I mean - he's just... hanging there after the denouement, you know?
Jeff: [offhand] Kill him off, cancer or AIDS or something. Or maybe not AIDS - was he a faggot?

Amy glares reprovingly at the ground.

Amy: [restrained] No, he's not.

Can't remember any more, but that was a direct quote from Julia Brain Tele.

There's this kid in my English class who also lives in Mac, a floor above me, who says Hi to me when he sees me in the halls. There's not really any reason to do it, no one else does, but he seems to make a point of it. I don't know why... he has lots of friends, it's not like he's desperate for companionship or anything. Going up the stairs after one of these encounters, my head switched off.

Nate: Hi Julia.
Julia: Oh, hey Nate. You know, I really appreciate your acknowledgement of my existence.
Nate: Uh... it's not a problem. That's the polite thing to do and all.
Julia: You'd be surprised. Who knows, you could have averted the next Columbine by talking to me.
[smiles disarmingly]
Nate: Right [nervous laugh as he starts to climb the stairs]
Julia: Don't worry Nate, I'm just kidding. I didn't even buy a gun yet.

I wonder how that would go over?

Cheers
Julia

Thought someone might find this amusing -
http://copycommaright.blogspot.com/
She just collects and shares covers of various bands by various other bands. Has great taste and you can listen to all the music online.

(There is some weird shit on here, but in a good way. Techno-electronica covers of Sufjan's folk stuff, for a starter. And a Lush cover of the Rubinoos that sounds suspiciously like that Avril Lavigne song. I guess I should say that the Avril Lavigne song sounds suspiciously like the cover, but you get the gist.)

I really don't want to do work right now. Time to go listen to Gal and Lad.

Cheers

Halloween approaches and we enter the Twilight-Zone like Slutville. Where criminals sporting miniskirts cavort with half-nude girls posing as WonderWoman. I really wish I had a hijab. Or possibly a tablecloth.

On another note, damned if I'm coming the NEXT time your mom has a funeral.

Cheers

I just watched Empire Records. What a clunker of a movie.
Seriously. How can there be fans?


GAAAH.
And I thought it might be worth my time.

Cheers

[This is...]

We were sitting in the living room on the sofa, the wrong way round, looking out the window. It was quiet, and then in the car park across the road we saw Elvis - look, there beside the postman's van, and he was walking around the postman's van, looking in the open door. He looked as if he was thinking about getting in, but then the postman came back, and he swaggered off, walked past the window and down the stairs, and then at the bottom of the stairs right by the caretaker's office, he started licking the pavement.

Every night now since we moved in that new house there's this noise outside the door at just about half seven or eight o' clock every night. And if we go and look outside the door, Elvis'll be standing there waiting to be let in. And then he wanders into the living room, maybe sits down on one of the chairs or even lies down on the floor. He doesn't say much, he just stays there for an hour or two, watching the TV. We talk to him a bit, and then around ten o' clock, he'll go away again, and not come back until the next night.

There's a lot of lanes and stuff around here, around the house - although it's right in the middle of the city it seems quite like the country, it's dead hidden - safe I suppose, made for night living. There's a lot of squirrels and birds, and Stuart says he's seen about nine foxes there when he's jumped over the fence on his way to Byres Road. Sometimes you can go out walking, and when you've been out for a wee while even you don't know where you are anymore, so it would be pretty hard for anyone else to find you. I suppose that's why he spends so much time there, that's why he's come to live there, or maybe it's just the squirrels. I read about somewhere that he likes squirrels quite a lot.

There's these two videos that we got for wedding presents - called the e-files, e-files one and e-files two about how Elvis is supposed to be still alive. And one time when he came round we were watching one of those, but he didn't say anything, he just sat on the armchair. He was playing with his collar a bit, and we watched it right through and then when it finished he just got up and walked off into the mist and didn't say anything. The first few times he came around I didn't speak to him at all, I wasn't really sure what to say. And Karn spoke to him quite a lot - she seemed to know what to do more than I do. He had quite a strange manner though, he'd go into your stuff and look through it, then he'd maybe pick something up and play with it for a wee while, but he'd never make any comment about any of it. Seemed pretty rude to me. I just watched whatever Karn did, and listened to how she talked to him and then, after a while I started to copy that, and tell him a few things, not really bothered about whether he responded or said anything back or not.

I think the first time I spoke to him we were sitting up on the mezzanine and I said that I would tell him about me and Wee Karn, and how it was that we'd come to be living there. I thought he probably liked the fact that we were living there because he came around so much, so I thought he might want to know how it was that it came about.

We did it all over backwards, I told him. First of all we got to know each other, and then a while after that we met, and when we'd known each other for about seven years we decided to have an anniversary, and that went quite well, so after the anniversary we had a honeymoon, and that went well too, so after that we decided that we would get married. That's why we're living there now.

I used to think my dad was Elvis, but I haven't told him that yet. I haven't told my dad either . . .

[...my favourite Belle and Sebastian song.]

Cheers