Monthly Archives: October 2013

“Scenes We’d Like to See” by Jack Rickard ~~Pinocchio~~

comic-ScenesLikeToSee-Rickard-Pinocchio

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27 October 2013 · 11:10 pm

Excerpt from “Ulysses” by James Joyce ~~Gerty~~

picture-Ulysses-Joyce– Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It’s the bazaar fireworks.
But Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their beck and call. If they could run like rossies she could sit so she said she could see from where she was. The eyes that were fastened upon her set her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance, and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they were left alone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he could be trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible honour to his fingertips. His hands and face were working and a tremor went over her. She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were and she caught her knee in her hands so as to not fall back looking up and there was no one to see only him and her when she revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his heart, his hoarse breathing, because she knew about the passion of men like that, hot-blooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in dead secret and made her swear she’d never about the gentleman lodger that was staying with them out of the Congested Districts Board that had pictures cut out of papers of those skirt-dancers and highkickers and she said he used to do something not very nice that you could imagine sometimes in the bed. But this was altogether different from a thing like that because there was all the difference because she could almost feel him draw her face to his and the first quick hot touch of his handsome lips. Besides there was absolution so long as you didn’t do the other thing before being married and there ought to be women priests that would understand without your telling out and Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of dreamy look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, and Winny Rippingham so mad about actors’ photographs and besides it was on account of that other thing coming on the way it did.
And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned back and the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent and they all saw it and shouted to look, look there it was and she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer was flying about through the air, a soft thing to and fro, dark. And she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees up, up, and, in the tense hush, they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more to look up after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could see her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb from being bent so far back he had a full view high above her knee no-one ever not even on the swing or wading and she wasn’t ashamed and he wasn’t either to look in that immodest way like that because he couldn’t resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking. She would fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms for him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow the cry of a young girl’s love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages. And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!
Then all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She glanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of piteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl. He was leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is he) stands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. What a brute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called to him and, wretch that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he had been. He of all men! But there was an infinite store of mercy in those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even though he had erred and sinned and wandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was their secret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to know or tell save the little bat that flew so softly through the evening to and fro and little bats don’t tell.

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Excerpt from “A Small Furry Hope” by Steven Kotler ~~Chow~~

picture-SmallFurryHope-KotlerShe was a white terrier with a host of problems: abused, abandoned, blind, deaf, gloriously fat, comically ugly, disliked humans, disliked other dogs, bit all species equally and with little provocation. Her heart was failing, most of her other organs not far behind. She took seven different medications daily but was a longshot to last the summer. Joy wanted for her dogs what she wanted for herself: for their last memories to be of love. How to pull this off with a dog like Chow is among the reasons rescuers dislike hospice care. Personally, I wanted a way to remember that she hated my guts. Most people pet their pets, hence the name, but the adjustment was taking some time. I was always forgetting and reaching for Chow, and she had a mouth like a piranha. Pretty soon I had sore need of a better plan.

Rescue can be a very intuitive process, and by intuitive I mean that one afternoon, possibly because some tequila was involved, my better plan was “Fuck it.” I just reached down and picked Chow up. It was like trying to cuddle a tornado: spinning, shaking, snarling, biting, barking. I kept her at arm’s length with my elbows locked and fingers firm until that first wave of panic subsided. In those moments of exhausted reprieve before the next round, I sat down in a chair and locked her waist between my legs. This was perhaps not the best maneuver. I had inadvertently exposed my genitals to her claws and my eyes to her teeth. Chow was already availing herself of the first target and working her way toward the second. I was all set to hurl her across the porch when intuition struck again and I shoved my perfectly healthy hand into her vigorously snapping maw.
I guess that’s why they call it intuition. Chow’s mouth turned out to be small enough that with my fist wedged inside she couldn’t apply nearly as much pressure. She chomped and chomped and after about ten minutes the feeding frenzy vanished, suddenly replaced by profound befuddlement. Chow had finally noticed that my other hand had been stroking her back the whole time. This may have been the first time in her life that she’d felt affection, and where was it coming from? She glanced over her right shoulder, then looked left. Pretty soon she was whipping her head back and forth like a speed freak at a tennis match. It was fear of neck snapping that finally made me let her go. Then she leaped off my lap and shot across the porch, but froze at the edge, one paw lifted, the other legs bent. Whatever the next move, Chow never made it. Instead, she waddled back over, plopped down at my feet, and began licking my toes.

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“Man Enough” released by Lloyd Cole

Now that the low life has no meaning
Because you’ve been there, now you’re gone
But your heart won’t keep from cheating
And stringing you along

Stranger to me, well what’s the lowdown
Are you man enough to pray?
For a better way of living
I believe I’ve lost my way

Oh Mae, could you please hold me
I believe I might fall
I believe that I might fall

Could there be a better way of living
Better than the easy way?
Could the wretched be forgiven
Are you man enough to pray?

I wore my heart upon my sleeve
To court the wretched and the free
But if by chance I’d lost my way
Would you help me find it, babe?

Oh Mae, could you please hold me
I believe I might fall
I believe that I might fall

I wore my heart upon my sleeve
To court the wretched and the free
But if by chance I’d lost my way
Am I man enough to pray?

 

http://www.lloydcole.com/music/dgwomb/main.html

picture-DontGetWeirdOnMeBabe-Cole

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Excerpt from “The Dark of the Sun” by Wilbur Smith ~~Bridge~~

picture-DarkoftheSun-SmithBruce stared down into the hole in the floorboards. His eyes began weaving fantasies out of the darkness; he could see vague shapes that moved, like things seen below the surface of the sea. His stomach tightened and he fought the impulse to shine his flashlight into the hole. He closed his eyes to rest them. I will count slowly to ten, he decided, and then look again.
Ruffy’s hand closed on his upper arm; the pressure of his fingers transmitted alarm like a current electricity. Bruce’s eyelids flew open.
‘Listen,’ breathed Ruffy.
Bruce heard it. The stealthy drip of water on water below them. Then something bumped the bridge, but so softly that he felt rather than heard the jar.
‘Yes,’ Bruce whispered back. He reached out and tapped the shoulder of the gendarme beside him and the man’s body stiffened at his touch.
With his breath scratching his dry throat, Bruce waited until he was sure the warning had been passed to all his men. Then he shifted the weight of his rifle from across his knees and aimed down into the hole.
He drew in a deep breath and switched on the flashlight. The beam shot down and he looked along it over his rifle barrel.
The square aperture in the floorboards formed a frame for the picture that flashed into his eyes. Black bodies, naked, glossy with wetness, weird patterns of tattoo marks, a face staring up at him, broad sloped forehead above startlingly white eyes and flat nose. The long gleaming blade of a panga. Clusters of humanity clinging to the wooden piles like ticks on the legs of a beast. Legs and arms and shiny trunks merged into a single organism, horrible as some slimy sea-creature.
Bruce fired into it. His rifle shuddered against his shoulder and the long orange spurts from its muzzle gave the picture a new flickering horror. The mass of bodies heaved, and struggled like a pack of rats trapped in a dry well. They dropped splashing into the river, swarmed up the timber piles, twisting and writhing as the bullets hit them, screaming, babbling over the sound of the rifle.
Bruce’s weapon clicked empty and he groped for a new magazine. Ruffy and his gendarmes were hanging over the guard rails of the bridge, firing downwards, sweeping the piles below them with long bursts, the flashes lighting their faces and outlining their bodies against the sky.
‘They’re still coming!’ roared Ruffy. ‘Don’t let them get over the side.’
Out of the hole at Bruce’s feet thrust the head and naked upper body of a man. There was a panga in his hand; he slashed at Bruce’s legs, his eyes glazed in the beam of the flashlight.
Bruce jumped back and the knife missed his knees by inches. The man wormed his way out of the hole towards Bruce. He was screaming shrilly, a high meaningless sound of fury.
Bruce lunged with the barrel of his empty rifle at the contorted black face. All his weight was behind the thrust and the muzzle went into the Baluba’s eye. The foresight and four inches of the barrel disappeared into his head, stopping only when it hit bone. Colourless fluid from the burst eyeball gushed from round the protruding steel.
Tugging and twisting, Bruce tried to free the rifle, but the foresight had buried itself like the barb of a fish-hook. The Baluba had dropped his panga and was clinging to the rifle barrel with both hands. He was wailing and rolling on his back upon the floorboards, his head jerking every time Bruce tried to pull the muzzle out of his head.
Beyond him the head and shoulders of another Baluba appeared through the aperture.
Bruce dropped his rifle and gathered up the fallen panga; he jumped over the writhing body of the first Baluba and lifted the heavy knife above his head with both hands.
The man was jammed in the hole, powerless to protect himself. He looked up at Bruce and his mouth fell open.
Two-handed, as though he were chopping wood, Bruce swung his whole body into the stroke. The shock jarred his shoulders and he felt blood splatter his legs. The untempered blade snapped off at the hilt and stayed imbedded in the Baluba’s skull.

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“Sounds of Then” released by GANGgajang

I think I hear the sounds of then,
And people talking,
The scenes recalled, by minute movement,
And songs they fall, from the backing tape.
That certain texture,that certain smell,

To lie in sweat, on familiar sheets,
In brick veneer on financed beds.
In a room, of silent hardiflex
That certain texture, that certain smell,
Brings home the heavy days,
Brings home the the night time swell,

Out on the patio we’d sit,
And the humidity we’d breathe,
We’d watch the lightning crack over canefields
Laugh and think, this is Australia.

The block is awkward – it faces west,
With long diagonals, sloping too.
And in the distance, through the heat haze,
In convoys of silence the cattle graze.
That certain texture, that certain beat,
Brings forth the night time heat.

Out on the patio we’d sit,
And the humidity we’d breathe,
We’d watch the lightning crack over canefields
Laugh and think that this is Australia.

To lie in sweat, on familiar sheets,
In brick veneer on financed beds.
In a room of silent hardiflex
That certain texture, that certain smell,
Brings forth the heavy days,
Brings forth the night time sweat
Out on the patio we’d sit,
And the humidity we’d breathe,
We’d watch the lightning crack over canefields
Laugh and think, this is Australia.
This is Australia etc..

 

picture-SoundsofThen-Ganggajang

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Excerpt from “The World Is Six Feet Square” by Alan Caillou ~~Escape~~

picture-WorldIsSixFeetSquare-CaillouWe waited in silence. The guard at the door was singing quietly,
“Perche, Lili Marlene . . .
  Perche, Lili Marlene?”
Otherwise there was silence. I climbed up on Frank’s shoulders and struck the plaster a light blow with the heel of my hand. It was something of a ceremony. Frank squinted up at it and said.
“Jesus Christ. We can get a battalion through there.”
The window looked enormous; it was magnificent. I pulled away the iron bars and handed them down. Then I slithered to the ground and grinned at Frank. It was too good to be true. I boosted him up on to my shoulders, and then felt his rubber-soled boot on my head, tearing at my scalp. He was a long time, and I was listening to the singing of the guard. I thought, Keep singing, you bastard, keep on singing. I saw Frank force his shoulders through the window, and for a few moments his feet slithered noisily along the ceiling, making a horrible noise. The guard was still singing,
“Una volt’ anchora, la voglio salutar’
  E poi contento, partiro . . .”
Then Frank started sliding back, worming his hips back again, and I thought, Oh, God, It isn’t big enough. I had a moment of panic when I realised how much bigger I was than Frank. Then his groping feet found my shoulders again and his head re-appeared.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered angrily.
“I can’t reach the shelf, it’s too far down.”
It had seemed the shelf was only a couple of feet below, that it would have been easy to reach. There was nothing for it. I whispered,
“Well, for Christ’s sake, do a neck roll or something. Get on with it, blast you.”
Once more he disappeared with a wriggle, and this time his legs grew shorter, hesitated, then with a final awful slither disappeared altogether in growing momentum. There was a horrible thud outside, and I wondered if he had broken his neck. A moment later I saw his arm come through and I handed him the bottles, the blankets, just as we had arranged. I gripped the rough edge of the window, pulled myself up, clawing at the wall, one foot on the board, and thrust my arms through. There was a little difficulty and Frank whispered, “Try keeping your arms to your side,” and I thought, Jesus, it’s too small, I’m too wide, I shan’t make it. Frank pulled savagely at my head till my muscles were torn, but it was no good. I dropped down inside again and slipped off my jacket and shirt, handing them through to Frank. When I tried again it was better, I put one arm through first, then my head, twisting sharply at right-angles, then almost all my shoulders were through. Grunting at the strain, Frank tugged at my arm; I found the ceiling with one foot and pushed, and wriggled, and swore, and finally I was through, the rough stones scratching my flesh as I fell. I fell on my shoulders, as Frank had done, with an awful wallop.
It was quite black now. There was no moon, and we could not see the road below us. We hoped there might be a stairway down and tip-toed round to have a look-see. There was a skylight above us, and I crawled slowly up to it, testing the roof carefully before I moved. Suddenly, there in the lamplight below, were the guards and the appuntato playing cards together. I felt that the light was on my face and drew back. I wandered round the roof for a while, looking for a way down; there was none, so I rejoined Frank who was waiting anxiously.
I whispered, “No other way, we’ll have to use the blankets.”
We tied them to the bars of a window which was conveniently near; the knot took up an awful lot of the “rope” and we couldn’t see if it reached the ground or not in the dark pit below us. Frank looked at the clumsy rope snaking down into the silence and muttered, “Mon Dieu.” He swung himself slowly off the shelf, gripping the blankets tight. His eyes were anxious as they slowly sunk below. There was the sound of a tear on the way down, but they held, and a moment later I heard a whisper, “Va bene.”
I was worried about the tear; I could not see where it was. After a moment’s anxious thought I decided to leave the glass bottle behind; I did not fancy the thought of a fall in the dark with a glass fiasco in my hand. Frank had the metal water-bottle; it would have to suffice for us both. This was a lucky decision; the moment I put my weight on the rope it ripped in two with a long tearing noise and I fell to the earth. I landed on a flight of steps at the bottom, and rolled on to the road. I had let myself go limp as I fell, and I was unhurt, somewhat to my surprise, as it was a long drop down.
I told Frank about the bottle and he swore softly. We stood still for a moment in the angle of the wall, listening carefully. There was not a sound. Above us, the stars were bright and the sky was black. A cricket was calling; the rest of the night was silent.
The first obstacle was past. The worst was behind us. We were out.

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