I wouldn't want the four people who read this to get bored, especially since my last post was largely nonsensical.

Well, almost all of it was quotated without appropriate documentation. Also, if you're not listening to "Fat-Bottomed Girls" by Queen when you read the post... well, it's largely nonsensical.

I apologize for the lack of electronic information from me. check out Yoshville for some stuff. He's got some great arguments, and if you want to learn about anything, just reply to his posts.

I'm working on a screenplay right now, and so have nothing significant to add. While you grapple with the fact that I've got nothing for you, ponder this:

Where are all the good men dead? In the heart, or in the head.

Yeah, it's not my line. Fuck you. You're just supposed to think about it.

Are you gonna take me home tonight?
Oh! Down beside that red firelight.
Are you gonna let it all hang out?
Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin world go 'round.

This post is for Monica Lewinsky, Alisa Walters, Lisa Cook, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Onassis, and all the ladies whose names may have already been lost to the great beast of time. Mostly for Alisa Walters, because I feel her contributions to the world in a very real, and legally binding sense.

This song is for all the fat-bottomed girls.

You ladies make it all worthwhile.

Oh! Won't you take me home tonight?
Oh! Down beside your red firelight.
Oh! And you give it all you got.

Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go 'round.

GET ON YOUR BIKES AND RIDE!

----

And I couldn't have said it better myself. When a man works a job he hates, and tries to manage everything else in his life. When he's exhausted, and when he still tries to do the things he feels he has to do. Not for any base instinct, but because he feels an obligation to himself and his reality. The only reason is a fat-bottomed girl. One more time? You're right.

I was just a skinny lad
Never knew no good from bad
But I knew life before i left my nursery
Left alone with big fat Fanny
She was such a naughty nanny
Hey big woman, you made a bad boy out of me.

Hey hey.

Are you gonna take me home tonight?
Oh! Down beside that red firelight!
Are you gonna let it all hang out?

Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round.

I would like to thank everyone on the feedback about Firmly Disenchanted. I really want to flesh out that story and finish it. However.

I have to put it on the back burner for now because I want to tell a different story. This other one started as a screenplay, so I'm attempting to finish it in that format. Honestly, I haven't worked on the screenplay in a couple of days (i mean really worked on it), because my life keeps getting in the way.

Right now I've just got the beginning and the tenative end.

It's hard, but I want to see it through until it is finished and I can show it to someone who's willing to read a 100 page script. I want to be able to show it to that person unabashedly.

This might take a while, but after it's finished, I want to finish "Firmly Disenchanted."

Here's a transcript of the beginning of the script:
----

Ext. Afternoon. Establishing shot of a largish, white house on the corner of two streets. Cut to the sidewalk in front of the building, again to the front door, again to the interior. (3 fast cuts, each one zooms in slightly with a broken up, jagged feeling, almost as if someone is teleporting thirty feet every few frames.)

Int. Afternoon. A disheveled living room has shoes, jackets, grungy socks and taco bell wrappers littered on almost every surface. Seth appears to be sleeping on a couch, with an aerospace engineering textbook open over his face, while Nate is working (playing poker online) on a laptop.

Nate screams and flails his arms: FUCK. Fucking shit on a . . . fuck. FUCK. What the fuck. Fucking... (he begins to trail off and sputter, forming only a few more real words) Who the fuck does that?

Seth doesn't move, but from under the book he says something inaudible.

Nate (tersely, without looking up from his computer): WHAT?

Seth lets the book fall to the floor as he sits up.

Seth: I said, "How many finals do you have Tuesday?"

Nate: Is it...? (he looks up from his computer and glances around) What day is it?

Seth: Sunday. It's Sunday. How many?

Nate: I don't know, two maybe. (gestures to his computer) This fucking asshole...

Seth: Maybe you shouldn't play the game if it gets you so strung out. Just drop it if you can't be Zen about the shit, you know?

Nate: Fuck you. Do you even know who I am? Agriculture infuriates me.

Seth: Ri-ight. How many finals do you have?

Nate: I dunno, I'd have to check my ... (he starts looking around without getting up, moving shit around near him, but making no significant progress). Fuck, where are my syllabuses?

Seth: Ballpark it. Ten. Two. ... Less?

Nate: Why are you crawling up my ass about this? Like one, maybe. (he starts looking around again) Where the fuck...

Seth: I have five. FIVE. So I need my fucking sleep. Oh, and it's syllabi, by the way.

Nate: Who's the English major here? That's how it's pronounced, number boy.

Seth: Whatever.

The conversation stalls, Seth closes his eyes and Nate goes back to his computer.

----

It goes on from there. Comments? You can click on the comments link at the end of this post, OR hit up the tagboard. The possibilities are almost limitless, if limitless is three, and almost limitless is two.

Anyway, after that conversation the characters decide to go to a coffee shop. It's self-important drivel really, pretentious as all hell, but I'm going to finish it. Once the plot is finished, I can make the rest of it better.

It takes so much patience to fill in all the dots between the beginning (which i've been working on) and the end (which i've been thinking about), because I have found that I absolutely cannot just write it chronologically. When I'm writing it I have to jump around and write whatever conversation I'm thinking about, so it takes a lot of cutting and pasting to get something that flows.

Anyway, it's late and I'm finished working on shit for now, because I have to work a job I don't give a shit about tomorrow. I guess I just wanted to squeeze a little more time out of my day off.

Good night kids. Don't work too hard for anyone but yourself.

Nate

I just read "Firmly Disenchanted," again, and I think it will be one of my better stories after being edited.

It's basically about a Political Science student that instigates a social revolution in the United States of America.

Anyway, I think that the thing people really disliked about the story was the obtuse way it is told. It is an interesting story, but I had too much fun with the language.

You see, the main character's name is Firmly Proctor, and I personally find his name hilarious and love making puns with it. Other people don't find it so funny.

Honestly though, it amuses the shit out of me.

Anyway, this is me deciding to edit the Firmly story. It was originally called "Firmly Goes and Gets Some," which is an inside joke with a person I've never met. She's an author in the twin cities named Emily Carter who published a book titled "Glory Goes and Gets Some."

I think her writing is very, very good. Chick stuff, but still awesome. Pick it up if you waste your time watching soap operas, if you want to see some fucked up relationships and personal delimmas, without all the bad acting and commercials.

Oh, if you like that kind of stuff, I also recommend Jonathan Franzen. His characters are so flawed that you can't like any of them, but it's really fun watching them fuck each other over. Again and again.

So, this post is mostly a reminder to me to either continue the plot of Firmly Disenchanted, because the intro and the conclusion match, but the middle of the story, where everything happens, is much, much shorter than it needs to be for the story to make sense to a reader.

Also, editing the story would be good, because the language is like muddy poop in parts.

If you're interested in the story by reading this post, you can find it in the archives, I think it's got a title and everything, or I could just link it here.

It's about 22 pages double spaced. Email me if y0u require a word .doc and I will send it.

TAG THE TAGBOARD!

Post comments!

Good lord, someone has to be reading this. I want guilt and or sympathy posts.

*begins to cry* You bastards!

I'm werking, and the place is dead, so I've been writing a rough draft of a fiction piece.

Here it is:

Christine dreamed herself into a different universe. In the dream, she opened her eyes.

Immediate knowing assaulted her consciousness. She grappled with it for a few moments, and when all seemed lost, scored a late submission hold for the victory. Control of her senses, and the ability to interpret their input rushed to meet her like friends and family after her wrestling match with knowledge.

Knowledge was a fierce opponent, and she knew that the more information it held, the more fiercely it would fight her. All of this is beside the point though. We want to know exactly what knowing assaulted her, and why, not the intricacies of ego destruction and belief systems.

Chris knew that she was in an alien universe, a foreign world, she was dreaming it, and it was wonderous.

Her visual cortex told her she could see a certain wavelength of light, indicating an endless field of grain refracting the golden color of a setting sun. She could see the sun setting behind an ocean of grain. The wheat, or other plant-structure, looked like a three dimensional audio-track of her favorite song. The very motion from the faintest air movements brought great crests and valleys. Everything was working perfectly.

The wheat waved to her like a beloved relative welcoming her home. She was home. Stalks trembled and bent in the slight breeze, sheparding the golden waves of light from the sun.

She had one thought for a long time: Oh my God. This is so beautiful.

Only one real word came into her mind.

Harmony.

But the thought she had wasn't exactly a word. It went farther, deeper into her brain. Her language called the feeling 'harmony,' but she knew that any language would have a word for the concept she was thinking about. It was an idea. Of perfect beauty. Of a beauty so immaculate, that one could spend eternity looking for the flaw, spend twenty million human lifetimes trying to uncover the naked ugliness it was hiding, and never find a single thing wrong with it.

She said, "Harmony."

The sun disappeared and the moon rose. The moon set and the sun rose. This rotation began to speed up to her perception, until the two celestial bodies became a godly blur in the infinite darkness beyond.

Time became malleable, but Chris did not shape it. She wished it would slow down, that the rotations the sun and moon would slow to a pace she understood, but she did not try to stop it herself.

How much time was passing in each second? Was she still asleep? Had she dreamt? What was the dream, and was it important?

Chris had no illusions about only forgetting unimportant information. If that was the case, she reasoned, her language wouldn't have had a word for forgetting. What would be the point if it was unimportant in the first place?

What was important? The blur? In the unique location of time-space she was in, differences between things became insubstantial, faint, unimportant. Then, completely insignificant before disappearing altogether.

She began to panic, though she hadn't been the least bit afraid before. Difference between herself and everything else was something she was used to holding as truth. Looking through the amalgam of energy around her, she was unable to differentiate where anything ended or began. Everything was essentially the same.

What made her special?

She couldn't think of anything, and began to scream.

Her apartment in Dallas, Texas reverberated with the sound, and when she found herself back in a reality that she recognized, she forgot the dream.

Sleep wrapped his arms around her again, shushing her over-evolved, over-achieving thinking organ. The organ that never thought about Chris. The brain began sorting things, slightly cross that Christine had panicked and woken up the lower levels of herself that needed reassurance in a chaotic universe. They were too simple. They would never understand. The brain filed the dream away in the section Chris had no access to, a place she would never see them.

There was still something fundamental, at the core of her being that the brain couldn't sort out.

Couldn't find it, and didn't know what it was. There was something, though, beyond the science that explained her. Her brain knew the science that explained most of her actions, but she continually surprised it, as she had done when she woke herself up.

Maybe it wasn't really there, this imaginary thing that kept her brain from understanding her entirely. But the brain had to admit, that there was evidence to support a theory.

----

Anyway, I haven't proofread that story, and I just wrote it. Keep in mind the fact that I'm at work.

I apologize for my shittiness.

Fuck.


---

This is the second draft, but I'm not going to update what I wrote at work. Meaning the stuff after the story and before this paragraph. It's there, and I'm going to leave this here when I do a third draft. If you've read the story in it's entirety before but not read this... try reading it again, I added a whole paragraph!

I'm gonna go do something else for now.

Sometimes, when I look at a blank page, nothing pops into my brain. This is one of those times. I could write about how I've been reading HP Lovecraft, and how it amazes me. Cephaisis is my favorite story so far, though the journey to unknown kadath was excellent as well. Just the balls this guy puts onto the paper, and after you get the impression that he really might know the answer to life, the universe, and everything and is expressing it to you in this story, right after that happens, the main character wakes up and goes back to work in everyday London.

The character gets so close to complete understanding that we as readers feel as though we completely understand something. Then, that character wakes up. The entire, 120 page story was a fucking dream. I didn't know you could even DO THAT.

In fact, I know it's considered bad narrative style. You are not supposed to leave things open to your audience, you wrap it up into a neat, little pre-digested ball of information that you've figured out and tie the bow on it (that's the conclusion part of the story-arc).

What you DO NOT DO, is write a novella, where the character begins to go insane and die, then whoops! it was all a dream, the character wakes up. He has a life in the reality we know of.

There is no more story after the main character in quest for unknown kadath wakes up. That's RIGHT where it ends. And it's absolutely beautiful.

It's, it's just that it's the perfect expression of aesthetically pleasing reading. The kind that gives us pleasant thoughts, and something that leaves us thinking. It was beautiful.

I don't mean it was well done or cunningly crafted. Those are different qualities a story can possess, it was beautiful, in the most basic definition of the word.

Pleasing. His stories ease the stress involved with the very FINITEness of my existence, using their absolute beauty like a soothing balm. I know you didn't tell me to put on the balm. But I put on the balm, and honestly, it helps. It feels better now.

I can't explain it any better than that, but if you've ever wondered what it will be like after you die, read some Lovecraft, he's got a better idea than the current leader of Catholicism. Which, in case nobody has told you, was a fucking NAZI in his youth.

Maybe I think being a NAZI would prevent you from leading a religious order.... but I'm no economist.

Maybe I'm rambling. Mitch Hedburg is dead, and I feel that loss much more personally than I feel the death of Pope John Paul IVXIVIX or whatever the fuck letters go after his name. Was he the ninth? Twentieth? Does anyone give a fuck? No. I feel bad for saying that, but I think that the Catholic Church is an anitiquated institution that has no fucking bearing on the conditions people are trying to survive.

Though the former pope did some nice things, which I honestly don't know a damn thing about, I must say: Thanks for trying.

I do know that birth control pills still send you to hell. And God, and the Bible.

Good night.

Proofreading is a bitch.

Alright. It's way past due. I'm adding a link to Yoshville.

It's a great site, and since the guy does his own code, I'm calling it a site instead of a weblog.

Anyway. It's in the links page now. I've got a post about something right here though, so hold your curiosity about yoshville for a second.

I've been thinking a lot about genetics and selection lately. Evolution. Particularly the evolution that created Homo Sapiens Sapiens, because it is such a unique and interesting animal.

It is, in its own collective and recorded existence (which it calls history) an absolutely unique animal. Personally, in all my years, I have not encountered an organism that behaves the way humans (as they call themselves) behave.

Now, there are certain animals and bacteria, and even more primitive forms of life such as RNA viruses and such, that possess behaviors humans routinely exhibit.

Several examples of this can be found. My favorite example of a simpler organism that shows something about human behavior is yeast.

What we call yeast is a name for a number of single-celled fungi that are, in reality, separated into several of their own subgroups. It is an organism that Homo Sapiens Sapiens utilize for an interesting ritual that will be explained later (see section 17, "Getting Tanked and Loving it"). Most cultivated yeast belongs to the genus Saccharomyces. The yeast called "Brewer's Yeast" is Saccharomyces cerevisiae.

There is a quality which all of the things Homo Sapiens sapiens call "yeast" share. One interesting thing about this same quality is that all Humans share that same quality.

This quality I speak of is a behavior, and will be my final point for the night. First we need to understand how a delightful substance called "Beer," is formed. Three things are absolutely required for beer: yeast, an oat or grain (This is what gives the beer flavor, anything you've got laying around will work though. I think. I'm getting sidetracked, but I think you'll want to make a sort of wine or more heavily distilled liquid if you don't have a grain or an oat or barley or something.), and something for the yeast to eat. They like sugar. Sucrose, anything. They just love sugar, and will eat the shit out of it day in and day out.

Yeast will eat whatever sugary substance you put them in a container with. They're only one cell in size, but they absolutely love to consume. They will eat and shit until there is no food left (when they go into hibernation) or they all choke on their own shit (and die).

Yeast shit is called Ethanol, and it has an intoxicating effect on humans. It loosens their control over themselves. Being restrained in a society such as they are, humans have an unhealthy amount of self-control. They like the relief yeast shit gives them.

Ethanol, or yeast shit if you prefer (I know I do), is poisonous to yeast. Every animal's shit is poisonous to it. The solution every animal has is that it is adapted into a system that keeps its population under control, because every animal will eat, reproduce, and shit until it kills itself (within the geographic location this portion of the species is located) unless controls are imposed upon it.

Humans have removed the controls set in place to keep them from exterminating themselves.

There are two options for Homo Sapiens sapiens now that they have recognized the exact size of the bottle they are trapped on. They must learn to limit themselves, or they must concoct an escape plan to flee their cage.

--

The sad part, is that the second option only prolongs the extinction of the race, because unlimited growth and consumption has to end sometime. I think.

I've heard the universe is big, and sometimes, I really hope it is.

Einstein said the only neverending things were the universe and human stupidity, and he wasn't positive about the universe. Unless population growth is reduced or eliminated, we may learn (as a species, not individuals, this will happen after we are all dead) which is actually larger.

Until we know how big, and can travel it in periods of time shorter than our lifetimes, let's all take it easy on the consumption and propagation, OKAY?

If your genes are too fucking stellar to pass up, throw them in.

ONCE. That's all you get.

Maybe the universe truly is infinite. Once we know that, we can go hog wild. If the universe is infinite, and there are no other species like ourselves, then I don't see a problem with all the FUCKING that's going on right now.

However, if the universe is infinite, and human expansion continues unabated, contact with a sentient life-form alien to Earth is exponentially more likely than you might think. I'd be so audacious as to call it probable. If that ever happens, bad things will follow.

---

Sapiens, we need to get our shit together.

Do it! Right now.

---

I'm too tired to proofread this anymore. Nate.