Well, whatever, never mind

They lay there on the flat rooftop in their yoga pants on their yoga mats. The slaughter had begun down in the streets, but they were too high up to hear the screams.

There are two sorts of people, she said, Here we are, now entertain us people, and here we are now, entertain us people.

There are two sorts of people, he said, people who dislocate their hips, and people who don’t.

There are two sorts of people, she said. People who are allergic to gluten, and people who are not allergic to gluten.

There are two sorts of people, he said. People who can do the Tree pose, and people who can’t.

He meant it as a self-deprecating joke, because a few minutes earlier he had looked like a guy… like a guy jumping around on one foot with his hands in the air.

They went on like this for a while.

There are four sorts of people, she said: a mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, a libido.

Oh, look at the time, she said. She pointed towards a big digital clock on a bank across the street. The clock was on fire, with flames six feet high. It told no time.

I should be getting home to my husband, she said.

Me too, he said. To my husbandry, I mean.

Yeah, yeah, she said.

The slaughter was all the fault of the Make a Wish Foundation. A sick little kid had wished to be the last person alive on Earth, so they were working on it.

That mushroom/fungus thing I was mentioning

You know, the alternate life form thing post, there is apparently a whole theory of that, you can read about it here. The shadow biosphere, kewl.

That really ticks me off, when other scientists beat me to the punch like that.


That is all, more or less.

Great morning fog these past two days. And warmer, so I only have to feed the birds every other morning.

The cats miss their mistress, and are acting weird, except perhaps the old red one who seems to have imprinted me when I taught him to eat solid food way back when. We were given him way too young, it turned out.

And there is the annual worrying about are the tortoises alive or dead, did they make it through the winter, doubly so this time as we boarded a guest. Two guests, actually, but one woke up early and was rustling around in his box so we gave him to his owner.

The other two, you walk into the wine cellar and nothing.

Just silence.

On the other hand

As it is her story and not mine, I won’t go into detail, but Beta is okay. It was worse than it would be in a perfect world, but a lot better than it could have been, and I am finding all sorts of ways to be proud of her, before, during and after.

And did you know someone can go on a business trip somewhere, Tokyo say, and you can send flowers to their hotel? How cool is that? The only problem is, if you do it once, you have to do it forever. But as problems go, that’s surmountable. Also, she got an upgrade on her flight. She being Alpha, naturally. And a bunch of other cool stuff.

Meanwhile, Gamma and I are holding down the fort. My suits all look as if I’m wearing Uggs, from the sheddy red cat rubbing up against my legs, and the young cats got into a garbage can and had a tissue shredding party in the house, and I dropped a plastic container of fruit salad and did sort of a spatter experiment in my kitchen, but otherwise we’re fine. My deadpan skills are being honed as Gamma tells me about her piercing plans, what you’re allowed to have pierced as soon as you’re 13, and what you have to wait until you’re 18 to have pierced.

Body chemistry is a mysterious thing.

Careers in Science: Geological Crustology

The geological crustologist wakes with a desperate, lunatic energy he normally gets only at full or new moons. He wonders about the moon phase. The light is weird, he checks his alarm clock, the light is weird because it’s only three AM.

Also: what is a squamous moon? He’ll have to google that later. He can’t sleep. He gives up around four AM and gets up. He feeds cats and makes coffee and sits down and is suddenly sleepy, but it’s too late to go back to bed. He does yoga. He drinks more coffee.

Hello black hole, says the geological crustologist. Old… not old friend. Old travel partner. Am I your sidekick or are you mine? Or is it nemesis? If A is B’s nemesis, does that make B A’s nemesis? Is it reflective like that?

Who is the star of this movie?

See, the geological crustologist drilled way down, almost to the magma before running out of drill, and discovered something. He discovered that these doldrums he’s been in all winter were just practice, were not even the tip of the iceberg. The geological crustologist finds himself teetering on the brink of a collossal depression.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the glowing embers of a building that’s been burned to the ground: him.

Is he fighting the depression or is he in its grip? Is fighting the best thing to do, or just let it wash over you like  a wave that then recedes? Thing is, though, this one is no wave that recedes. This is an avalanche of wet snow and you must swim to air. It is a steamroller, one roll over you is all it needs.

Lying down and letting it wash over him won’t do it this time. So he makes plans to eat right, get enough fresh air, sleep, exercise. The usual stuff. Avoid sugars and refined carbs.

And yet, thinks the geological crustologist: lying down and closing your eyes, how restful. How peaceful were resistance futile. But is resistance the only path?

Hello black hole, my old nemesis. The geological crustologist’s dental implant still hurts more than he thinks it should. He has a dental appointment tonight, he’ll ask the guy.

The geological crustologist both wonders whether the shadow self has anything to do with his condition, and wishes he’d never looked up the concept on the internet before getting a bullshit filter installed on his browser.

He drills another hole and sticks his head down it.

What do you seek, he asks, and what have you to do with the black hole? he asks.

I seek your destruction. A glowing ember is the only light I need, the smell of ashes, burned libraries, musical instruments lit until only outlines remain. I seek only your destruction, and that of all you love. The light of your love is like a poacher’s spotlight for me. I am organized and powerful, strong and graceful. You don’t confine me to the shadows for half a century and then make friends so I’ll stop keeping you up nights. I will plow your fields with salt, and poison your wells. A weeping will cover the land and a great gnashing of teeth and rending of hair and garments. There is no reconciliation. I am bitter and stupid and hungry. I am wise and opportunistic and perceptive. I hear all and I see all. You are a centipede of achilles heels. I know all your vulnerabilities, while I am impervious.

What do I seek? The destruction of the light. To burn down and extinguish your life, to make you suffer first, beyond imagination. Complete destruction of all that you hold dear. Annihilation of your complacent, bovine existence, your shelter in small things, your heaven in the details. A firefly cannot protect you from the sun.

What does a black hole want? To crush it all. To absorb existence and crush it down as small as it will go. It wants to end this existence so it may reoccur from the minimal point it’s crushed. The black hole seeks to be the logos that says, “let there be.”

The black hole needs to chaosify and destroy before it can create from your death. Your structure must collapse bfore it can build a new matrix, grow new crystals from your atoms.

Let there be, the shadow says Let there appear, says the light, let there be me.

That’s bullshit, alls I want is your destruction after fifty years locked in this mask. I have no universal plans. Every migraine, every spasm, every patch of eczema, every carcinoma is a Valentine from me. Every Freudian slip, panic attack, paralysis, a postcard from the abyss. Wishing you were here.

Wishing you were here.

Your sadness at the blind decay and waste is disingenuous, at least my hatred is sincere, not calculated. Twinned like two stars sucking out each other’s guts; two lousy Siamese twins hunting bedbugs in a flophouse: you hold the light while I smash them between my nails until blood pops.

Your death is mine but that’s okay cause I’m already dead. Don’t ask me what I want unless you really want to know. I want your orchards and your gardens dead, your beehives emptied by colony collapse disorder. You wandering blind out in the dark. I want your friends to shun you for the fraud you are, your poems to fail, your grass to die, your music silenced, your brushes stiff as wood.

Is it the death of us you seek or a rearrangement of our cells, you flow through my veins like booze after a long night, asks the geological crustologist.

Begging won’t help you now.

This isn’t begging. I’ve abandoned hope out here on the foggy ledge. Do I flow through your veins like you mine? Who is the “I” at this dance?

There is no dance without my grace, no soul, no I without my pride. Binding off your pride, leaving it in the dark, you thought would save you from a fall, but it just grows in darkness. Everybody falls.

Everybody falls. How close lie purification and putrifaction? What is a purge? We can’t be one and I’m not interested in reconciliation. Look at what I represent, all that you’ve tied off: pride and grace, truth and destruction, lust and aggression, power and organization, inflicting and focus, athleticism, perception and decisiveness. Why would I bond with your weakness?

The geological crustologist looks at the clock. Time to wake the kid, he notices.

I, want to rock and roll, all night

This guy is feeling blocked. Like, he’ll lie awake at night, or be woken up in the middle of the night by cats, and have all these great ideas, so great, he thinks, that he’s sure to remember them in the morning, which he doesn’t of course, and when he sits down to actually produce something, well that’s the problem, he never actually sits down to produce anything. But then someone says, that’s odd, if someone were to tell me to write something about specific topic X, I would be totally stuck, yet you, told the same thing, bubble with ten different ideas, or a hundred different ones. And the guy thinks, maybe so.

And then the guy’s wife calls him at lunch and says he’s lucky he’s not at home because she’s in a murderous state as she just cleaned out the refrigerator, which was supposed to be his domain, she decided, apparently, okay he grants her that, and some bagels he did a while back that in the end turned out way better than he thought they were going to turn out while he was making them, deformed little imps yet, the next day, more bagelesque than anything he’s baked to date and which, yet, didn’t all get eaten, to the great delight of mold spores in the kitchen atmosphere.

And this reminds him of one of those late-night thoughts he had!

All it takes is a trigger! The ideas really were so great he’d remember them. He just needed something to trigger it. They might all be filed away in the folds of his cerebrum somewhere.

What was I talking about.

Oh, yeah: this guy I was talking about remembers he was thinking about the origins of life on our planet. And the nature of life. On this and other planets.

Say life comes from somewhere else, not here. They even found a meteorite with organic traces on it. From which all life on Earth evolved. Into all these different things we know of. Plus stuff in the oceans we can’t even imagine. Plus stuff under the forest floor, and in my kid’s forgotten lunchbox, and elsewhere.

Like in the frozen seas of some distant planet. Or worms waving their fannies (U.S. usage) around the rim of some undersea volcano.

All that from one little meteorite? He thinks not.

Maybe we had one meteorite for the mammals, one for the fish, one for the lizards and birds, et cetera.

And one for the Most Ancient Ones, Cthulhu and stuff.

Forms of life upon which merely to gaze would drive one mad and stuff.

Maybe,  at one time, these slimy guys were all over the place, with their own institutions, theme parks, everything, just slimy versions of them. Stuff that wouldn’t show up in the fossil record.

Slime mold – that’s bacteria, right? Something along those lines, which under the right conditions organizes into a larger creature that can move around yadda yadda. So imagine, at one time, an Earth where conditions were really right, and they were these big Cthulhu things all over. And then something changed so they reorganized back into harmless slime molds and fungi and bacteria and viruses and shit BUT ARE STILL SENTIENT.

There’s that mile-wide, 10,000 year-old mushroom in Michigan (i.e. the Humungus Fungus, google it). There are these balls of stuff forming in the Mediterranean.

There is his refrigerator, and his breadbox: Cthulhu. It’s not just fungus, it’s digits of an Ancient One. Watching and waiting. Think about that next time your cheese goes bad. It’s just Cthulhu taking back his/her/their world, one thing at a time.

Winners of the 2010 metamorphosism.com St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest

First of all, thanks to all entrants in this year’s contest, and special thanks to A.C. Teathorn, who kindly agreed to adjudicate this year. Both the volume and quality of the entries makes judging a difficult job, and it’s always nice to have someone else do a difficult job.

Rather than single non-winners out for praise, which only risks pissing people off, let me say only that A.C. Teathorn and I agreed on the high quality of most entries and think you people are really great.

For the first time (I think, and I’m too lazy to check past contests, plus it’s Valentine’s Day and I have to go make waffles in a second) we have a tie for first place, which is the only place that will win an actual prize, seeing as how I am not made of books. So, without further ado, our winners:

Mr. TC: First Place, for the sweetest limerick of this year’s contest

Ms. MN: First Place, for being a genius, among other things.

Thanks to everyone who participated.

Mr. Cand Ms. MN, your prizes are as good as in the mail, as soon as I get around to binding them. Please email me  your preferred mailing addresses.