Hee. Yeah, I know. That's why I would rather pony up the cash. But surely it's an art form that someone is obsessive over. I mean, this is the internet, right? People do fan vids, surely someone is doing arty cloud vids.

I'd want a whole panel of screens on one wall, so I could look at clouds all day long. Someone make it so, please?

Binary Numbers

They say there are two sides to every story. There is black and white, good and evil. Like computers, humans try to put everything into a binary format; strings of ones and zeros that add up to something meaningful to us, even if not to the uninitiated. Unlike computers, though, we put moral values on our ones and zeros. A one in one person’s math may be good, but to someone else a one is bad. Yet, they are both ones. It’s hard to see the other side of the story when everyone thinks they have-- the one true story.

I like, Sail. Okay, all caught up. I'm going to go watch tv/dvds now and get all behind again.

The Other Side of this Mountain

Wherever I stand on this land, there is another side. Every other side is inhabited, ghosts and memory, unrealised wishes.

East, there's all of America; Chicago, Boston, shows in upstate New York, at the Garden, in clubs. Beyond that, the Atlantic, England: your roots, my escape that wasn't.

West, there's the Pacific, remembering how your English skin disliked the Hawaiian sun.

South is LA, where you ran from me after I ran from you.

North, Marin - Mt. Tamalpais, our house tucked under the mountain's back shoulder.

Someday, maybe, I'll figure out where on the other side I lost my courage.

Wow, deb, that is quite haunting. Lovely.

The Other Side

On the other side of the door, a man may be waiting for her.

If she pushes the door, one of three things will happen:

They will become lovers, laughing at his outrageous chat-up line.

She will realise he is mad as a march hare, and will leave, red-faced.

She will have to acknowledge this is not about sex at all; that she is changing into something terrifying and unknowable, and the night bristles with unseen angels and monsters only he can explain.

Her fingers tighten on the handle. She feels the metal start to bend.

She pushes the door.

Her fingers tighten on the handle. She feels the metal start to bend.

And there's your story core, right there. My kind of writing. Dayumn, Fay.

wrod.

Beautiful, Fay.

Here's mine for this week:

One Way Out

She looked around at the floor that had taken forever last spring-days too nice to be cooped up all weekend. Nice little cocoon.

She could pretend that he had only gone out to get some more paint. Well, except for the blood and the unfinished wallpaper project with its pock-marked patches. Stay in the cocoon, a little bit drunk, and a little bit numb. Only stirring to open up another bottle of wine they’d planned on sharing someday. After the baby was born.

The baby. There was a definite time limit on this cocoon. And a lonely life-yet never alone- on the other side.

Wow. Power in that one.

My (probably) final on this challenge.

White Rabbit

I am falling like Alice into the darkness of improbability:

the problem
of course
is that the improbability is my history.

Down, and down.

Not really Alice; I don't ponder the eternal verities. I never ask
do cats eat bats?
but rather, where is this love I had
this quiet storm of passion
where did I leave myself, given to you too young, rejected, unreclaimed?

Soon I will land, but not in Wonderland
the bones of my soul will break
there will be no caterpillers, no hookahs, no rabbits, no mushrooms

Only memory
and the other side of this life.