http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/ its for new stories you know? so people can criticize them. en Copyright 2008 Sun, 20 Jul 2008 10:55:30 -0500 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss There's something about fluorescent lights that I had forgotten long ago. It's not the schizophrenia-inducing short-wave ultraviolet or the constant low buzzing that's designed to comatose kids into submission. It's the property to display the full atomic spectrum of the basketball-toting guy who was spoon-fed with confidence since day one only to take a dump on kids like us. It's the smirk of an asshole. It's time to re-unite with the class of '98. Only this time I have my mentor with me. Avoiding eye-contact we sit down beneath the potently fluorescing phosphor with the rest of them; we walk as one. My pupils still belong to a highschool play version of Barnes in Platoon: take the pain motherfucker! It's those insomniac's 4 am astral claymores that make you limp like me. Throw in a few non-productive panic attacks and all the websites you browsed like the other kids exchanged STDs by the Amazon river and you'll know exactly what I went through. Let's take a moment to assume the tear-jerking position. In it there's no room for social relativism. During the somewhat lamented socializing the two of us stand back and visualize robberies in Bali, threats by a mob of passing militants, hep C, and lots and lots of wasted stock market options. Let's long for all the things you and I managed to draft-dodge because we stayed home and took the pain of being who we really are. This inner odyssey of unsung heroics, one you can' t buy from a cheap airliner to some troubled continent as your once-rebellious bandmates turn into these hate-filled insurance men with the same hunger in them before their conquests began. Their parents still deal in law, international politics, BMWs, and now they share the same foreign bungalows. What about the breeders? The salt of the Earth, Mars, and Distant Cluster Z. Without these guys there wouldn't be class reunions, let alone a mankind. It is through their zygotes that we celebrate our continuing existence. Their primordial urges and terminal normalcy set them apart from you and I. It is this grave lack of enthusiasm and karma, this care-free abandon to baby-shit on all forms of the extraordinary and treat regions beyond their A to B with some unfounded arrogance. You start to flicker and we both fade in-out-in. The mercury vapor suddenly discharges its flow of electrons. The following crackle confounds them, but to us it is a repose. We are immersed in a purifying confusion as all visible light dissipates during a speech by one of the former-hipster-turned-lawyer who just seconds ago displayed an inherited baldness pattern. This should've been the energy policy around here. The only equation for the elimination of school massacres worldwide is "no neon gas equals no typecasting - keep 'em in the dark!" A majestic life will decorate one's trophy cabinet not just with blowjobs from fashion designer babes, but with fiery sorrows as well. For each Adolf Hitler -treatment from an art school and for each hand-me-down from bi-sexual women, dark side kids get something the alpha mutts will never achieve: synaptic impulses of utter and complete failure, a touch of the void within. Darth Vader moments without which one can't even fathom to cross that elusive threshold. It's in this darkness that you fully emerge, bright as a class M star. My lonely guy -pill took me to you, and you were right. My seventeen-year old self with the big Marshall amp. You're the only one who changed and change is the only constant in the universe. Those who embrace it are welcome wherever they are. The others never left this place and they're falling to pieces over a little photon-loss. They had to learn what you already knew. Now that I've found you, I am unstoppable. Seriously broke and bordering on saccharine, maybe, but still pushing the fucking envelope. As for you, we'll be friends to the world. It's back to the amps once more. Cue Bon Jovi. http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2008/07/a_minimum_threshold_of_coolnes.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2008/07/a_minimum_threshold_of_coolnes.html Sun, 20 Jul 2008 10:55:30 -0500 I lie with my head in your lap as the earth lies with its head in the lap of the night and elsewhere there is a brightness you can't see like the guilty grin that would have come over my face had I another face on the side looking away from you and of course there is ray confession an orbit of a kind, words circling the worst of what you can make of them looking for a way in to cling to you to make sound seem like peace I am holding my restlessness in like the earth does I am spinning through your flesh even as I keep my bones so still expecting you to digest what I am saying to you like the day does heat and light eventually you just say be quiet be still but you cannot make it sound like be victorious outside the hours move on as if there is a destination somewhere that isn't always when they are http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2008/07/a_guilty_planet_in_repose_by_j.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2008/07/a_guilty_planet_in_repose_by_j.html Sun, 20 Jul 2008 10:54:30 -0500 Careless whistling of construction worker's blues sweat bricks odours of fly meat seared by hotter equatorial explosions black jeans burn white cap stutters TNT evolves eyes closed still seeing the radiant sea of sunclouds witnessing own resurrections deaths of whole cultures at the white guy's realm dream borders why are my ears and noses around to witness all lack of luck and luck of lack-all happy to be blinded and deafened by my white guy's categorizing lunacy why erect them spacy glass works hotels solid roof mosquitoes figments of Aztec legend chaotic processions of summer ripped out hearts gold torture if not for the pleasures of failure will leave this jungle hell lodge misused as heaven treated like portraits of sunsnow in dim light lakes so the careless whistling continues not aware of its consequences ten thousand years from now http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2008/07/whistling_workers_by_aj_kaufma.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2008/07/whistling_workers_by_aj_kaufma.html Sun, 20 Jul 2008 10:52:58 -0500 applique cruickshank, allotted compose crone, cygnus clausen. coco anhydrite camden compound chris astrophysical alfalfa. c hoosy benchmark balk australia chisel aflame coney daytona ado aviv affectionate choreography. booky bare belly dichloride dilemma candace cockatoo http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/06/cygnus_clausen_a_postmodern_po.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/06/cygnus_clausen_a_postmodern_po.html Submissions Tue, 19 Jun 2007 23:25:03 -0500 One ultimate goal of this project is to condense all the best works as submitted and published on the site (and of course, this means anyone accepted under the "traditional" online submission route) into an annual/semi-annual volume. Part of the difficulty of getting words into print is, of course, the cost. Another difficulty is liability, which can be solved more or less easily with a little bit of money ... Anyone who has worked in publishing will know that as much money as is obviously needed to produce high-quality printed works, there is at least as much money needed for some out of the way yet essential functions. Enter: the Literary Nonprofit, mixed media mashups, Oprah's book club and author biopic releases paired with book launches. Now it may seem I am criticizing these trends .. but in actuality, I see the point in doing whatever could be appealing to keep literature going strong. Yes, good literature is good enough to stand on its own, but no, it is not going to go out and find readers for itself. Until we lovers of the written word manage to glamorize literature enough to pull a critical mass of fans from the woodwork, we're just going to have to work extra hard in the margins to get the word out there ... fiction is till relevent! As for Lingua Year #1 ... look for it in a webstore near you sometime next Spring. And until then ... spread the word to any artists, writers, futurists, critics, or fans. http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/06/participation_spam_and_printin.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/06/participation_spam_and_printin.html News and Dev Mon, 18 Jun 2007 09:10:23 -0500 Tim wanted to be the first in line for the new submarine ride at Our Texas Galveston, but he couldn’t let on to his friends that he still had a seasons pass. Captain Nemo , even Nautilus—that name was probably still under copyright—, would have been a better name for a submarine ride, Tim thought. Tim sighed out loud. The Confederate theme had been downplayed at the Our Texas Cleburne, but Our Texas had obviously revisited it for the H.L. Hunley. Tim wondered why. He wondered about the politics involved, the need to raise questions about the course of events, however abstract those questions might be. But for all his mathematical savvy, the best Tim could do was a senior essay on Profiles in Courage, a book supposedly ghost written for John F. Kennedy, a book concerning, of all people and places, Sam Houston and the State of Texas. Tim wondered if a movie theme was in the making: he obviously couldn’t dress as a Storm Trooper to go to this event. How would ride enthusiasts dress? His sister was into Gone With the Wind; he wasn’t. “This question might be a good one for Bruce Sterling,” thought Tim. “Perhaps I should email him.” Had he not had work, Tim would have gladly camped out to be the first in line, but his notion of firstness was deflated by Susie Cluck, one of the sales ladies at his office, who had already been to one of the private openings for the H.L. Hunley Tim decided to hang out in the computer room the rest of the day. Dejected, Tim didn’t have his mom drop him off that night so he could camp out in line. And the next day she dropped him off in the parking lot of Super Boxes, across the street, and Tim could see that the line would be long. Tim finally got his Later pass for the H.L. Hunley. His ride time wouldn’t be until 9:30 that night. Tim rode a few rides, but spent most of his day in the Raphael Semmes Pizzeria on the internet. Unlike the picture of the H.L. Hunley on the internet, there wasn’t a place to sit. Tim heard a whistle. He then felt the boat bubble up, and as he peered through the portals, he realized he wasn’t in a glass bottom boat. He was under water. Bright lights lit the underwater scenery for a while. Tim had wondered why a submarine ride in the dark would be interesting. And Tim began to doubt himself. “Was that a fake lamprey?” he asked aloud. A submarine ride with nothing to do or see would be stupid, and Tim began to wonder where the submarine was going. He listened intently and occasionally clamored for a spot at the portals, but the aquarium that constituted the scenery for the in-park ride was long gone. Though he had not forgotten who he was, Tim now answered to the name Alfredo and spoke fluent Spanish. Tim was part of a clone crew set to replace the Ecuadorian government at a social gala. He had no idea how long he had been under water waiting to go ashore. His handlers told him he was not the only clone Alfredo; other submarines had similar parties. Someone began to sing, “These Are Your Confederates”—in Spanish. Tim thought to check his cell phone to see if he had coverage, but it emitted a strange tune. When he flipped it open to catch a glimpse of the familiar, the screen read: “No Regrese.” For a second, Tim began to sob. He almost felt as though he were in middle school again, and someone had stolen his lunch money. But perhaps now his life was entirely gone. Tim rubbed his nose. Some scent was acting as an irritant and his eyes welled for an instant. Tim thought for a second that the perfume the clone President’s wife was wearing was going to make him sneeze, but then he noticed that she had a warm musk about her. That stinky powder had come from elsewhere. Tim felt his face: the smooth but slightly oily texture of hair. Tim had yet to experience stubble; he now had a well-groomed beard. Tim gave an eye to the President’s wife’s backside, and he lost himself tracing the angle of her rib cage into her hip. When she almost backed into him, he didn’t flinch. His gaze fell to her calf, into the heel of her shoe. Her legs were shapely. Tim looked around for his partner, knowing he should have one, but he didn’t spot her, not that he knew what she looked like. Tim remembered that he had left his sinus medicine in his Storm Trooper mask, and as usual, he had no tissue. The curve of the woman’s back had made Tim think of astronomy and of the philosophical problem known as abduction. Near the exit hatch of the submarine, Tim saw a spittoon. Perhaps it was there only as a kind of joke, as something meant to give the submarine an 1860s look and feel. Tim stretched his arms above his head, hawked a loogie, and spit it heartily into the spittoon. Tim thought he heard a female voice, slightly in disgust, slightly in surprise, say, “Alfredo,” and he looked around, an internal sunburn radiating from the bottom of his neck and out his ears, but found no one. More than ever, he suddenly felt dignified, invigorated—his mother, could she have known it—would have believed him cured. Outside, one of the handlers shouted, “Vamalos!” Tim wondered why he had taken Spanish, yet Alfredo felt good about that decision, his boots hitting the gangplank with a clop. http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/05/hl_hunley_by_jeff_crouch.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/05/hl_hunley_by_jeff_crouch.html Submissions Tue, 15 May 2007 10:41:57 -0500 See the full text here]]> http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/05/reading_the_papers_of_borges_s.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/05/reading_the_papers_of_borges_s.html Submissions Wed, 02 May 2007 18:34:09 -0500 Duotrope. If you're already reading this, you probably don't need to go read our details, but check out this fabulous site aimed at helping writers and editors find each other. ]]> http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/update_market_listing_at_duotr.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/update_market_listing_at_duotr.html News and Dev Sat, 28 Apr 2007 13:27:39 -0500 with every step I take. I wonder how old it is, and imagine it being poured some twenty or thirty years ago. “Excuse me; do you know where Liberty Street is?” The voice is light and sharp. I am brought back into reality and give my attention to this disturbance. She looks like her voice, with a fine nose, smiling eyes, and light, untamed hair. I’m not sure what she was looking for that day, and I never remembered to ask. Sometimes you know right away… I have found my muse! I think about how I felt twelve years ago, when life seemed full of promise and potential. Writing wasn’t even on my radar back then. I just knew that I had to share my inner world, my perception of our reality, with others. They didn’t see it the way I did, but they could! If only I could show them! I struggled through college until I settled on writing – I can’t draw, and I don’t have the patience needed to play or write music. All the arts are too imprecise anyway. Every painting can be interpreted in many different ways, and the only way to get across the right idea is to write a good title, or even an explanation. But throughout it all, I felt that I was only learning, practicing, and improving. I was preparing myself for the real thing. But after years of practiceruns, I could bear it no longer. I decided that I’ve had enough practice, and that I needed a fresh start to do some real writing. So I topped. I let my relationships lapse through inaction. And I moved to Virginia, where nobody knew me. Pretty standard “finding yourself” stuff. I point her to Liberty Street, but keep the conversation going, and we go out for coffee, and then back to my house. Making love to her is like being in the mountains; She is pure and sensual, and unafraid. She is eternal. She is sure of her own substance. She knows that this is one brief moment when it is insane to worry or hold yourself back. The rest of the universe stops in its tracks to watch in awe. We continue to see each other. We exchange life resumes. I tell her about my short-lived writing career. She tells me about temp jobs, renting month-to-month, and moving often – by choice; She has lived in more places than I have visited. I note that she is clean for a gypsy. In fact, she is strangely clean in general. I ask her if hygeine is a passion of hers, and she laughs this off, as if it's nothing. She seems to respect the idea of writing for a living. This Thursday, it will have been exactly three months since we’ve met. I haven’t written a word. This doesn’t bother me. I bring her flowers and reservations to a nice restaurant. I think she appreciates the cheesy gesture. Her temp job at an engineering firm runs out, and she takes one at the town newspaper, and then a company that installs alarms in people’s houses. She tells me anecdotes about people who take their jobs too seriously. The sinuous quality of her skin, the almost plastic gleam, has spread to her hair. When the alarm company job ends, she takes a break and we drive across the country. We have a destination, but we make many detours. She shows me places she has lived, and others along the way. We sleep in the back of her station wagon. The gas stations, diners, grocery stores all blend together. My collection of supermarket membership keychains doubles after a year-long standstill. We sit around in diners and talk for hours. Sometimes just us, but more often whoever we happen to run into that’s also looking to talk. The conversations, the diners, all coated in this mysterious sheen, this glow around the edges of all objects. When we return – only three weeks later – my house feels foreign and small. Not just my house, but the street, the town. It feels like I have been away for years. I am startled, and I think that I may finally be able to write something that I’m content with. I try for a week straight, until I realize that I no longer want to write at all.I am content with being the only one to see the world through my eyes. I’d ratherjust see it together with her! I am ecstatic with this revelation. I’m in love! Fuck everything else! I run out of my designated office room. She’s gone, and on my kitchen counter, I notice this mysterious pile of abaster twine… http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/untitled_by_ilya_revised.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/untitled_by_ilya_revised.html Submissions Tue, 17 Apr 2007 21:49:29 -0500 It all seems so primitive, traveling along the various above-ground tracks and suspended docks, rock jetties—certain Connecticut towns daring to construct their piers a few feet higher than average. Haughty, if you ask me. All the darling little islands are a certain reminder of the impending liquefaction. You know if they put it in the Globe, they must have something planned. I imagine the big dig turning into Nine Eleven Two, anther national scandal turned insidious and mythical through having made an acronym. “The BD” old people will say, and sigh, thinking back to the times when they weren't old but young, and looking forward to the bright future promised them by various gleaming-tooth politicians. A symbol of Boston's progress. Predictably all gone to shit. The marshes seem easy enough; all the discovery channel programs I’ve watched tell me that fish absolutely love moss. The trees (so valued in fall for their predictable decline—like clockwork) will perhaps provide temporary luxury accomodations. Perhaps killer sharks love living in trees. The real pathetic thing about all this is the mobile homes sitting squat and frightened under the constant watch of Rich Hill Dwellers. You know the people living in the mobile homes have little to no capacity to actually move the things. I highly doubt any white trash or white trash populist politician is going to suggest pre-emptive floaters for all the low income housing. The man across the aisle is staring into the abyss and laughing, laughing. Maybe that's Bill Hicks on his itunes but I don't see any headphone cords; I don't see anything but the slabs of land floating at ridiculous angles along the turbulent coast. http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/liquefaction_by_jesse_geno.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/liquefaction_by_jesse_geno.html Submissions Sun, 15 Apr 2007 21:35:45 -0500 some books i stole from libraries and people i don't like they are spending the summer getting mouldy and i'd move them its not like my karma's gettin wet http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/high_ground_by_lacy_stuart.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/04/high_ground_by_lacy_stuart.html Submissions Wed, 04 Apr 2007 17:47:51 -0500 Authors by their nature seem to require long and verbose title lines. Granted \nscientists too prefer to create long and explicitally categorized titles which \ntend to contain several colons as well as the word 'on' used in a declaritive \nway, like 'On the subject of Dragon Anatomie' http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/authors_by_their_nature_by_clo.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/authors_by_their_nature_by_clo.html Submissions Sat, 10 Mar 2007 17:09:27 -0500 "OK Critter, bring her down" Chaz adjusts his earpiece and shoots a glance at the large com screen at the front of the room. The curve marking the craft's descent is smooth, and right on target. "Looking good.. Watch the joint.. " He holds his breath during the tense final seconds. A roar of applause goes up in the room. Chaz is relieved. He mumbles that's a wrap to Critter and barely remembers to switch the earpiece off before dropping it next to another receiver. Executive Commander Leslie is at his side before he can turn to rush with the crowd to the launch pad. "Walk and talk?" she inquires in her usual demure yet commanding tone, and begins walking crisply to the door before waiting for an answer. Chaz correctly assumes she will speak her mind with or without his permission. "We have a special job upcoming" she remarks with a wink to Chaz. He realizes she must mean he is the man for the job. "What's the catch?" He asks although he knows he'll do it anyway Knows he'd do anything for Leslie (and the potential promotion she represents) "The cargo is .. less than pleasing," she begins, with awkward hand motions meant to reveal what she doesn't wish to say. "Foreigners?" Chaz demands, peeved He gets paid so much dough in part to not have to worry about extra terrestrial jerks (It's a class thing.) "There will be a modest bonus." Chaz hears again the roaring applause of the crowd. No matter that the applause, next time will pale compared to the green http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/what_will_be_interesting_about.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/what_will_be_interesting_about.html Submissions Thu, 08 Mar 2007 12:43:06 -0500 it's an amazing thing circuits interfere, intercept with circuits static in the seasons the nasa's plans other things i can't seem to connect to now >it's all a (recusive (mess(>)) http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/end_where_you_begin_by_euler.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/end_where_you_begin_by_euler.html Submissions Wed, 07 Mar 2007 12:39:31 -0500 Serene, calm, peaceful, puzzled I could go on forever Finding words to describe her I gently kissed her still lips I thought I saw her cheeks blush But my vision deceived me My magic was not enough To bring her back ****** Eyes are red, and mind is blue Packets fly across the band Programs crash without end And as the sun begins to rise I sadly start to realize That you and I just cannot fit A fact my heart will not admit Why do I waste my time online When I could be in bed by nine I could be having pleasant dreams Of flashy, happy beauty queens The sun and I would be best friends As we woke up we would shake hands And drink our tea and read the news And share what we thought of the blues "Those funny people", we would smile, "They cannot break out of denial They cry and sigh and have the blues When it is up to them to choose" The sun has gotten out of bed It looks at me and shakes its head There is no sense to talk again I've spent another night in vain http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/poems_by_ilya.html http://lingua.phobo.us/blog/2007/03/poems_by_ilya.html Submissions Fri, 02 Mar 2007 12:33:10 -0500