April 17, 2007

semper doody

I'm driving to work, drifting along in the right lane, getting my head around the day, and this little green truck whizzes by me in the left lane. Kind of a sporty little truck, small but husky, and it's a business truck, it's got a big orange stripe down the side, and the 'be a tattletale' bumper sticker, it's got a toolbox in the back, and some big bulgy orange letters saying something on the back.

so I speed up to take a closer look, what the heck is this thing? It's got orange polka-dots on it for crying out loud. I get close enough to read it and it says, Doody Calls . 1-800-DOODY CALLS. And underneath that in smaller letters: Premiere Pet Waste Removal Service. And it has a picture of an orange dog with a flower in it's mouth, looking a little bashful. and over all of that on top of the tailgate it says: Franchises Available.

the mind reels.

I look again and there is a sticker on the corner of the back bumper. "04". There are at least FOUR of these trucks! Nah, it's probably one truck, but the owner wanted to make it seem like it's part of a fleet.

Doody Calls. They come to your place and pick up after your dog. One easy phone call. Sally Struthers, you can't compete with that for your sixty bucks a month. Maybe a hundred, who knows?

There's this serious-looking chick driving the truck, wearing gold rimmed glasses and tooling down the road just as fast as she can go. She's on a mission, I'm thinking, to get through the day just as quick as she can.

Think about this: how would you write a help-wanted ad for that job?

But then I remember what I figured out, it's just a local operation, she probably owns it, it's her truck. And I ease off the gas, and she zips away into the traffic.

As she does, here comes another little green truck passing me, only this one has a different number on the bumper. 07.

doody calls. read the press release. no. shit.

---

supplemental link: please visit the Doody Calls newsletter page and scroll down to the bottom for "A Sensitive Children's Story, With an Unlikely Character." you can find it here. This information provided as a public service.

Posted by matthew at 11:42 PM | Comments (1)

February 21, 2007

directions

to build a fire you need

a spark
fuel
and
oxygen

much like love.

Posted by matthew at 08:38 AM | Comments (1)

November 10, 2006

islands in the clouds

I found myself at forty-thousand feet last night, sitting in a window seat of an airplane flying over the south-east of the United States; Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas. The just-past-full moon lofted up and away over the ocean. There had been some weather in the area and the clouds were showing off their full repertoire.

When you fly at night over the west, or the midwest, you float in an ocean of stars, and the lights on the ground are delicate traceries that link tiny clusters of orange and white splashes, here and there a highway stretches out straight and long between the nodes of the evidence of our hunting and our gathering, the places where we find comfort together and work to pay our taxes and escape to the shopping malls for the unifying balm of retail therapy, the lights mushed together with all the order of a gaudy and artless diamond brooch, designed by a system that values counting and weighing above beauty and wonder.

But when you fly above the east coast at night, the impression is quite different. The streams and flows of roads are twisted and tangled together, linguinilike; and the streetlights in each subdivision cluster seem to -- almost, but not quite -- spell out hieroglyphics that call out to space "We're here. Understand us if you can." This is because when the human eye sees a series of dots it is incapable of perceiving them as dots only, but seeks a meaningful pattern, we sort and combine and permutate the points of streetlights into constellations, flickering in baroque pizzicatos.

The megalopolis that we are joining up - connecting the urban corridor from Boston to Miami - is impossible to deny, pretending won't make it go away. There may be many many resorts and holiday escapes nestled here and there within it, but it is now possible to walk the full length of the coast at night, and never step into darkness, real darkness. Or find a place of silence under the stars.

And for all the efforts of all our best designers to delude us that we are living in the park-like setting of the elder days, when your eyes look down through the tiny oval window of a jet plane it becomes is clear is that we are living on the surface of a hive, on the face of the borg, fueled by burning oil and gasoline and the burning filaments in the mercury-vapor and metal-halide lamps, electricity throbbing along the highway corridors, cars and trucks endlessly swishing past one another on errands in opposite directions -- I was on the street in a city yesterday and an ambulance screamed past me from behind and a moment later another passed going in the opposite direction, polar emergencies; each in need of machinery.

Looking down on the distant twinkling lights of the cars and trucks, knowing the drivers inside the vehicles were looking down on the twinkling lights of their dashboards.. and perhaps, here or there, one of them looking up at the twinkling lights of the jet plane above, all of us carrying the secrets of hearts, the burdens and joys of the days, our small defeats and victories and heartbreaks and happiness, coming from or going to a loved one, a family, to see the new baby or bury the great uncle; it occurred to me that maybe this is the story of the hieroglyphs we write on our hills, the meaning of our great nazca lines, route 95, route I-80, as we form our Courasant, slicing our time thinner and thinner and each of us pulling our horizons closer and closer to ourselves, building and inhabiting machines that extend our reach and also limit what it is we are able to grasp.

The clouds intervened in my mechanical reverie, graced by the bright moon. For a while below us the tendrils of clouds lay in the low places, like night-smoke, nestling and comforting the sharper and pointed patterns of the too-dense pinprick lights. I was distracted for a moment, and then looked back to see a wonder. The clouds had thickened, bunched together, but left empty spaces where islands of the urbanizing landscape showed through, looking as though they were islands floating in the mist like great kelp forests in the Sargasso. The clouds flowed away into the distance and merged with the stars that arched high above and behind the moon, making a world without gravity, the islands bristling with lights floating like parallel galaxies in a soft interstellar mist.

Below, from time to time I saw a strange darting silver-white light. It seemed to flash and move, like the foam of a breaker on a distant sandbar, like the sudden flash of a silver fish darting to safety, like the pivoting beacon of a solitary lighthouse combing the sea and relentlessly moving on. Try as I might I couldn't determine the source of these flashes as I looked down on them. They weren't localized, they seemed to travel with the plane, so it wasn't a factory exploding or a sudden sinkhole draining an inky lake. Finally, I looked up at the oval moon and slowly understood. She was reflecting her light, bouncing it off the waterways back up at the plane, back up at my window, playing hide and seek with the glittering waters, flashing. As she has for millenia of millenia.

And I wondered, what is it, exactly, that we are doing to our world, and are we thinking about it; and, are we even thinking about it at all? The Nazca did.

Posted by matthew at 09:49 AM | Comments (3)

May 01, 2006

from the land of opportunity

...a correspondent writes:

NAVAJO MESSAGE TO THE MOON

When NASA was preparing for the Apollo Project, it took the astronauts to a Navajo reservation in Arizona for training.

One day, a Navajo elder and his son came across the space crew walking among the rocks. The elder, who spoke only Navajo, asked a question.His son translated for the NASA people: "What are these guys in the big suits doing?" One of the astronauts said that they were practicing for a trip to the moon. When his son relayed this comment the Navajo elder got all excited and asked if it would be possible to give to the astronauts a message to deliver to the moon.

Recognizing a promotional opportunity when he saw one, a NASA official accompanying the astronauts said,"Why certainly!" and told an underling to get a tape recorder.

The Navajo elder's comments into the microphone were brief. The NASA official asked the son if he would translate what his father had said. The son listened to the recording and laughed uproariously. But he refused to translate.

So the NASA people took the tape to a nearby Navajo village and played it for other members of the tribe. They too laughed long and loudly, but also refused to translate the elder's message to the moon.

An official government translator was summoned. After he finally stopped laughing, the translator relayed the message:

"WATCH OUT FOR THESE ASSHOLES. THEY HAVE COME TO STEAL YOUR LAND."

---

message received..

Posted by matthew at 09:17 AM | Comments (6)

April 22, 2006

whopperettes

the moon has become a strange place of late.

Posted by matthew at 02:56 PM | Comments (2)

March 27, 2006

Arthur

I got a letter from Arthur C. Clarke the other day, writing about a matter of some importance...

We can't feel the pressure of light on Earth because gravity and air molicules dominate our enviornment. he says But out in space, even a force less than 10 millionths of gravity can be important -- for it's acting all the time, hour after hour, day after day. Unlike rocket fuel, it's free and unlimited.

Of course, he continues the accelleration is tiny. But acting continuously, speeds approaching 100,000 miles per hour can eventually be achieved, all without burning a single drop of fuel! All of this makes solar sailing the only known technology that could one day take us to the stars.

Although (my short story "Sunjammer") was based on sound science, the idea was pure science fiction at the time (I wrote it 40 years ago). Now, 40 years later, science fiction nearly became reality when a pioneering group called The Planetary Society attempted to launch their own solar sail spacecraft.

Sadly, he goes on to say this intrepid craft was lost on it's initial attempt when it's launch vehicle failed to propel it into it's planned orbit...

he continues in this vein, and suggests that we review the attached questionaire, which is as follows:

---

SOLAR SAIL
1. The Society made history when we launched the world's first solar sail spacecraft. Although Cosmos I was lost, it heralded a new era in humanity's quest to travel to the stars. Space leaders and enthusiasts are urging us to try again.

Should the Society build and launch a new solar sail spacecraft and be the first private group to conduct a successful solar sail mission?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

Do you agree that private, nongovernmental organizations should participate directly in space exploration?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

MISSION TO MARS
2. NASA's Opportunity and Spirit rovers and Mars Express found dramatic evidence of sites once "drenched with water." These discoveries make a compelling case that Mars could have harbored life -- perhaps the best reason yet to send human explorers to the Red Planet.

Do you think sending human explorers to Mars is:
- Very Important
- Somewhat Important
- Important
- Not Important

Do you think we should send human explorers to Mars:
- As soon as we have the capability to send humans safely and efficiently.
- Only after we have established a base on the Moon.
- Not at all
- Not sure

SPACE SHUTTLE
3. A new U.S. plan would change the direction of human spaceflight and phase out the shuttle. However, the policy does not employ international cooperation in sending humans into space. The Planetary Society believes cooperative, international participation is crucial.

Do you believe international cooperation is essential for successful human exploration of worlds beyond our own?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

Should the space shuttle be retired now even if it affects the future of the space station?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

TO THE OUTER PLANETS
4. Jupiter's moon Europa shows evidence of a water ocean beneath its icy crust.

Since liquid water is essential for life, do you think a mission to Europa should be one of the top priorities for the world's space programs?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

NEAR EARTH ASTEROIDS
5. Catastrophic comet or asteroid collisions -- lie the one that may have killed off the dinosaurs 65 million years agoe -- are rare but inevitable events. The Planetary Society funds observers worldwide to discover and track near-Earth objects.

Should governments allocate additional resources for finding and monitoring near-Earth asteroids?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

Should we invest now in technology to deflect an asteroid headed for Earth?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

EXTRATERRESTRIAL LIFE
6. The Society is known worldwide for it's steadfast support of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) -- with projects like our new All-Sky Optical SETI and the citizen-based SETI@home, which revolutionized distributed computing.

Do you consider SETI a worthwhile, scientifically sound endeavor?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

SPACE ADVOCACY
7. Government funding for the world's space programs can be cut back at any time due to changing priorities, budgetary restraints or political whim. This makes it difficult to maintain vigorous programs of exploration.

Do you agree that citizen advocacy and grassroots mobilization are effective methods for encouraging and ensuring innovative space missions?
- Strongly Agree
- Somewhat Agree
- Disagree

THE PLANETARY SOCIETY
8. Society Members -- tens of thousands of citizens from 125 countries -- directly participate in planetary exploration through our vital projects like SETI, SETI@home, Mars Microphone, the search for NEO's and extra-solar planets and our recent solar sail mission.

Do you think an organization such as The Planetary Society can effectively help make planetary exploration and discovery happen?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

---

... i just want to know what the heck they meant by that 'established a base on the Moon' business... did they think they could just slide that in there like that without us noticing?
- Yes
- No
- Not Sure

Posted by matthew at 09:47 PM | Comments (5)

March 24, 2006

terrorists

i was sitting with uncle sam whitebread and sparky in the dollar donut shop yesteday morning, they were reading the paper and crunching old-fashioned glazed lunar donuts, mobius strip donuts, one-sided toroids. they're a specialty worth trying the next time you're at the beach over in mare umbrium.

sam folded the paper to the back pages and asked me which team i was rooting for in the sweet sixteen. i said budweiser. he said what do you mean budweiser, they're not playing. i said, oh yeah? he said, yeah, it's college teams. i said, hey sam, get a freaking clue. if you want to back a winner, back the sponsors. sports is all the same thing. one team wins, the other team ...loses. big deal. ok ok, i said, now and then, there's a tie, whoopie. all the sports writer does is change the names.. the rest of the story stays the same. i said, pull out all the sports reporting that has ever been written, you'll see for yourself. he said, you're full of bullshit, and he gave me some organic pills, these'll clear you out, he said. you and elvis both.

i said, you know sam, i think you should get your hands on the post-game interviews from all the championships from the past ten years and listen to what the coaches and players say. i think there must be a course in college where they memorize those tired lines. the coaches all get together in the off-season and promise each other what they'll say. it'd be refreshing to hear just one of them say something that was true, something like 'this means a lot of money for me, i've been wanting a new boat.' or house or plane or non-profit tax-shelter foundation or whatever.

sparky was drinking his miloko and sucking quietly on his toroid, he puts it down and says, you know, there's no such thing as a terrorist.

sam looks at him, what are you talking about? of course there is.

no, says sparky. terror is something nobody can put inside you, it's something you create within yourself.

sam says, sparky, you've really lost me. those bastards blew up our buildings, they shot down our planes, they killed innocent people.

sparky says to him, sam, fear isn't a drug you take, it's not injectable, any more than courage is. if there could be such a thing as a terrorist, there could also be such a thing as a courage-ist. those bastards only get as much power as people give them. they want people to be afraid. they're merchants of fear, but we don't have to buy the shit they're selling, we have a choice.

sam says to him, you're a subversive bastard, you know that?

sparky looks at me and he says, if somebody says 'terrorist' you know what i just realized? THEY are trying to be a merchant of fear themselves. fuck 'em. fuck em all.

he put out his cigarette and went out the back door.

me and sam finished our donuts. sam went out the front door, leaving the check for me to pay.

Posted by matthew at 03:13 PM | Comments (4)

February 26, 2006

what a weird fortune cookie

mike was asking about this, and then abracadabra! i get this thing with my sweet and sour pork.

Posted by matthew at 12:29 AM | Comments (7)

February 16, 2006

sign

our orbital correspondent writes that on his journey he encountered the following:

sign on graphite-titanium picket post, floating just outside our galaxy, pointing towards earth:

'no dumping; no feeding humans'

added by alien species #7942:

Posted by matthew at 08:31 AM | Comments (1)

December 31, 2005

a friendly reminder from Sparky

in the lunchroom today i noticed that Sparky had posted one of those helpful signs, you know the kind that encourage you to think positively, be future-minded, and hitch your wagon to the stars?

How to keep your job:

Be polite and respectful to your superiors and fellow workmates.

Follow the firm's policies without suggesting any great changes unless you are invited to do so.

If you are an expert, don't refuse other work simply because it is different from your speciality.

Be punctual and don't be absent unless the situation is beyond your control.

During working hours, avoid personal work unless you have permission to do so.

Be interested in your work as if the company was your own.

If there is any real need for extra work, or occasional overtime, co-operate without complaint.

Don't consider your employer as an exploiter. A well done job will most likely be rewarded.

Avoid bothering your superiors with your personal problems.

---

later i caught a glimpse of him sneaking behind the whorehouse carrying a couple of bottles and a bucket of cigars and singing jingle bells with Santa Claus.

Posted by matthew at 06:36 PM | Comments (5)

December 24, 2005

a note from Sparky

here's to a Holiday Season chock full of Holiday Seasoning.

Posted by matthew at 10:13 AM | Comments (7)

December 18, 2005

united we sit

i got a letter from President Hilario Faulkner this morning, and it got me to thinking. he said:

---

Dear Supporter:

Since 9/11 we have been working tirelessly to protect the American Way. The way that is so important to all of us, that we have received from our forefathers. I want you to know that I am very proud of my actions on your behalf, particularly as follows:

• we have finally dispensed with the nuisance of habeus corpus.

• we have eliminated the troublesome nit-picking legal restrictions on torture.

• we have streamlined the Bill of Rights from 10 to 4, and we're working hard on those last four.

• we have fought those who believe in senseless killing by killing thousands of people who look like them.

• we are eliminating the bigotry of religious intolerance in foreign countries all over the globe, one radical Islamicist at a time. these people are haters and we will not sleep while one of them lives.

• lying, cheating, and secret prisons are a small price to pay for truth, justice, and freedom; my administration is founded on the principle that there is no price too high to pay to protect our precious freedoms, in fact -- and it brings tears to my eyes to think of it -- we may have to soon acknowledge that we will have to pay with our freedom itself in order to protect it from those who would take our way of life from us.

• in order to protect our citizens from danger, it might be necessary for a government agent to take the life of someone you know, perhaps even a loved one. you can rest assured that they will have died from an american bullet, fired from an american gun, in the well-trained hand of an american law enforcement officer, and not from the filthy bloodstained fingers of a foreign hate-mongering murderous terrorist.

Our critics try to smear us by saying that we have become the very thing we oppose, but this can hardly be further from the truth. We are much stronger then our enemies; our resources are vaster, and while our enemies depend on the fervent support of a small minority of their population, we are able to sustain our efforts because of the absolute disinterest of our population -- people just like you -- tuning it out day after day.

Your support in this manner since 9/11 has emasculated the opposition party, and we celebrate this every sunday with a dinner of exquisitely prepared donkey orchis.

I mean, can you imagine, we're having a debate about the acceptable uses of torture! That is funny, isn't it? It just goes to show you how far we have really come since 9/11. You understand of course, that the government tolerates everything except competition.

Anyway, I wanted to take this opportunity, not to ask you for money, not to ask you to sign a petition, not to ask you to take a stand that shows your support for us, we're fine with you just doing what you're doing, sitting there with the remote in your hand. Ah, Patriotism. 9/11 dawned a new day in America indeed!

Very Truly Yours,

Hilario Faulkner (Pres.)
(his mark)

p.s. the Southland Corp. is wondering if you would be interested in taking a poll as to whether you approve of the re-naming of 7-11's to become 9-11's. It's a sponsorship opportunity for the government, the revenue from the royalties would not be insignificant. Please take a minute to click over there, and show your support before resuming your stupifyingly dull activities whatever they may have been. H.F.

---

i read the document through three times then checked the zip code and realized that it had been mis-delivered -- it was intended for earthlings, not lunatics. it was a great relief to me.

truth be told, i think it was a practical joke my friend Martin played on me -- and not a very good one either, we know that none of those things could ever happen. ...well, not on the moon at least.

Posted by matthew at 09:57 PM | Comments (5)

December 11, 2005

for the person who has everything

...i think i'm going to get an ambient stock orb for uncle sam whitebread this year.

at stock market mood ring! perfect for the person who has everything... and is maybe just a little afraid to lose it.

Posted by matthew at 10:30 AM | Comments (4)

November 21, 2005

Notice to Realtors

...our agent saw this and this, Sparky is going to be pissed!!

Posted by matthew at 10:10 PM | Comments (1)

November 11, 2005

points

i stopped in to see my sister, she's pregant. she's so pregnant she looks more like a belly that has a woman attached than a woman with a big belly. the new baby is coming any day, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow...

she's got two kids, B her seven year-old son, and F who is just three. When I asked F if she was ready to become the meat in the sandwhich, she gave me that sideways look that women seem to be born knowing.

my sister said that this morning B had surprised her by bringing her breakfast in bed, he thought of doing it and did it all by himself. she was beaming...of course.

i said, "major points dude." i'm his uncle so this is my job. i say, "B, let me tell you something i just found out, but i want you to know about while you're still young. girls have this thing called points. they give points to you when they want to. and believe me, you just scored MAJOR points with your mom."

he looks down at the robot in his hand, then he looks up and he says to me, "my sister doesn't have points. she takes points away from ME. she has negative points."

i said, "yeah. that's because she's your sisters."

would you argue with him? none of *us* did.

Posted by matthew at 06:18 PM | Comments (3)

November 09, 2005

muscle

Dear Jack --

don't give up on your dream! a lot of folks have been asking me about why in the heck anybody would want to buy property on the moon. ...meahwhile i've been wondering why anybody would think there was anything wrong with selling it!!

so i did a little research, kinda some behind the scenes legwork, (i went and asked Sparky about it) and here's the story. Santa Claus,

see, Santa has a kickback scheme going with Wal-Mart, he gets a piece of the action. not too many people know this, he likes to keep it quiet. and the thing is, Santa needs a place where he can stash his cash, quietly. so he started buying up some parcels up here. he's a cagey son of a bitch, i think he was also thinking about setting up a franchise up here.

when Sparky got wind of this and he went over to the quandry mines, down to the deepest pit and got six of the strongest, biggest, meanest quandry-miners he has, and he told them what to do, Sparky doesn't take no shit from no jolly ol elf -- bowl full of jelly or not.

when the miners came back they had all the deeds except yours, jack; i think Sparky wants you to keep your parcel as a kind of trailer insurance. yeah, trailer insurance. you know, that's where you do your neighbor a favor so they won't cut half an acre of thir property off -- a piece right next to you -- and sell it to somebody who will put a trailer on it. Sparky knows you jack, he knows you as well as you know yourself, and he would bet his left horn that you won't be bringing a trailer with you when you come.

anyway, just wanted to make that clear to you. i was in his office when he paid the miners for thieir work. after they left, he said to me, "when you get back from your trip, i have something i want you to do for me." I looked over in the corner, but he just smiled, he said, "how'd you like to open an office selling real-estate on venus, eh boy?" he blew some cigar smoke at the ceiling. "bowl full of jelly, my ass. that fat son of a bitch was trying to muscle in on my territory."

Posted by matthew at 08:29 AM | Comments (3)

November 07, 2005

take 2

this one's for Carroll...

the wingman stoppeed by again, i think, maybe one of his friends... i found this on the fridge, behind a butterfly magnet..

Western Union Phoentic Alphabet

Adams
Boston
Chicago
Denver
Easy
Frank
George
Henry
Ida
John
King
Lincoln
Mary
New York
Ocean
Peter
Queen
Roger
Sugar
Thomas
Union
Victor
William
X-ray
Young
Zero

Coherent sentences anyone??

Posted by matthew at 02:44 PM | Comments (4)

he don't mess around

never say Sparky don't have no pull. those chinese never had a chance. baby.

Posted by matthew at 01:02 PM | Comments (7)

October 29, 2005

contestant

Sparky is on a special diet, after his bypass, the doctors told him he needed to lose thirty pounds or so. and they said no cheating at the gravity well... no carbs, lots of veggies, you know the drill.

so yesterday we're at lunch, sitting with Sam and Daffodil and the waitress comes over to take our orders. Sparky orders a bowl of chicken soup, i order a blt, Sam and Daffodil order their favorites, we all order diet cokes and ice teas, and the waitress turns to go. Sparky always buys and he's a very good tipper.

"Honey," he calls to her, "you know, bring me a bowl of beans," he says, "I'm entered in a contest tonight."

...so she brings the food and drinks and it is delicious and Sparky eats about half his soup and gives me his garlic bread, and he finishes off the beans. Daffodil was enjoying her pie and Sam wasn't talking, he was pushing a cheeseburger sub through his face.

the waitress comes back to refill our drinks. when she's done, Sparky says to her, "Bring me another bowl of beans, will you -- I don't want to lose."

later, out in the street, he told me the three judging criteria, but i will spare you the details.

Posted by matthew at 02:57 PM | Comments (1)

October 28, 2005

fifteen tons

there is a gravity well a little south of town. the increased gravity there is fun; we go down there all the time to lose weight.... we go into it and weigh ourselves, then we step out and weigh ourselves again. then we're free to say, "oh, i lost thirty pounds this week." and it's the absolute truth.

funny thing though, the ghosts on the moon can't tolerate it; see, they are immune to the normal gravity here, but if they get near the gravity well, they get sucked in and they can't escape. they just don't have any way of getting loose, they are not strong enough to do whatever it is that ghosts have to do to move around...the difference in the gravity is just enough to catch them. so they just bobble there like blow-up knock-me-down popeye dolls moaning and rattling their chains against the sides of the crater. it's kind of weird, in a way.

the doctor told me i really had to get more exercise, lose some weight, and i figured what the hell. i packed up my scale and headed out there. Sam Whitebread came with me for company, he's as thin as a rail, so he just goes to enjoy the feeling of the extra weight.

the ghosts make such a ruckus that it's easy to find the spot. we went over to a corner that didn't seem too crowded and put i put my scale down. Sam was silly-walking, picking up and putting his feet down in big clumping steps, laughing. as i was about to get on the scale, there was a loud wail behind me that shivered my spine, i really wasn't expecting it from the shrimpy ghost that was standing there, footrooted. Sam jumped, or he tried to, but his feet kinda stuck to the ground.

"pleeeeeeaassse help me." the voice said.

Sam turned to him, "you know that's against the law."

"pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaassssse." the ghost said, and in a way that made me really want to help him, if only to make him go away.

"who are you -- or rather, who were you?" Sam asked him.

"Albert Einstein." he said, holding out his chains.

"Albert Einstein," Sam said, "the ghost of Albert Einstein. i always wanted to talk to you. i've studied your work and i think there's a pretty big problem with it."

"if i can clear it up will you help me?" he asked Sam, his face wrinkled up like a prune, his eyebrows reaching towards us.

"deal." Sam said. i looked at Sam, surprised at the quickness of his answer. if we got caught, there'd be the devil to pay, Sparky comes around once a month to collect the ghosts, he sells them by the gallon on the black market.

"so what's the problem?" Albert Einstein's ghost asked Sam.

"not a problem," Sam said, "it's just that you got it wrong, you missed something major."

Albert seemed surprised, his eyebrows rose up in the air about two feet above his head. "nonsense," he said. "i taught at princeton for many years; how can you say such a thing?"

"look," Sam said, "the problem is with the whole time thing."

"the time thing?"

"yeah, the time thing. you forgot that there is no such thing as time."

the eyebrows came down into a tight V, and he coughed a laugh at Sam, "of course there is such a thing as time."

"dude. i really expected better from you. you're supposed to have been a smart guy." Sam would have been strutting, except for the heavy gravity, instead his feet were plopping down into the dust with thick dull thuds.

"prove that there's no such thing as time," the ghost said.

Sam stopped and held up three fingers "ok, let's say there are three kinds of events. events that have already happened," he folded down one finger, "events that haven't happened yet," he folded down another, "and all the other events." and he held up his last finger, victorious.

"so?" Albert was getting annoyed. "you're telling me the obvious."

Sam smiled an evil smile. "see, there are no members in the third set. either something already has happened or it hasn't happened. it's a total illusion that there is something between the past and the future. they touch."

"in the now," Albert the ghost said, crossly.

Sam shook his head "where the past and the future touch there is nothing between them. events in the future change to being events in the past. instantaneously."

"they have to pass through now to do it," Alfred said. I could see the stars through his face.

"OK, how long is now?" Sam asked him, "is it an hour? a minute? i don't think so. a second? nope. a millisecond? -- no matter how you try to slice it there is always another slice that is thinner. it is tangential to zero, equal to a duration of exactly zero. there is no such thing as now."

"young fellow, this is where you're wrong," the ghost of Albert Einstein said, "there actually is no such thing as the past or the future, there is only now... you have a theory that there is something that has already happened. can you prove it happened? you cannot. can you photograph it? weigh it? measure it? for all you know all the evidence you think you have that there is a past could have been created right... now!" and he snapped his ghost fingers, or tried to. "and as far as the future is concerned, that's even more etherial than the 'past'. everybody says they think they know what happened yesterday, but none of us knows what'll happen tomorrow. You can't show me a shred of evidence for either the past or the future, in fact. but now, now is all around us and that is all there is."

"is not." Sam said.

"is too." the ghost of Albert Einstein said.

"not"

"is"

"NOT!" Sam was getting mad.

"you can't prooove that you said that," said the ghost, "when did you say it?"

"in the past. proves my point." Sam's eyes were hard.

"does not."

"does TOO!!!"

"guys! guys! take it easy," i said, "look, fact is, you are both right."

they looked at me, quiet for a minute. Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. the ghost of Albert Einstein worked his eyebrows up and down.

me and Sam scooped him up with one of Sparkey's buckets from the cart and headed home, thirty pounds lighter.

Posted by matthew at 08:44 PM | Comments (3)

October 27, 2005

new lyricist

I got an emergency call this morning from the accounting department, they said they had a major problem, they were out of zeros.

"out of zeros?" i said, "i didn't know you could run out of zeros."

"we try not to," she said, "but sometimes we forget to order them in time. Can you run over to the plant and pick some up for us? payroll is monday."

"Can you use ones instead?" i asked.

"Sparky would kill us, it would cost him a fortune."

So I got in my cart and scooted over to the big empty plant where we make the numbers. I met Alfonse at the gate. "Alphonse, accounting is all out of zeros, they asked me to see if you could give me a couple of pounds."

"that's bad, i don't know what to do, we're all out of nothing, too."

"how can you run out of nothing?" I asked him.

"supply and demand." Alphonse shrugged. "how can you run out of zeros? why doesn't she just write it out in words?"

"i don't know, i'll ask her," I said and jumped back into my cart, but the battery was dead.

there's new moon a-comin' i thought to myself... sounds like that would make a good song.

---

later when i asked her about wrting out the numbers in words, why they didn't do that, she said, "oh, we thought of that, but we ran out of Zs last week."

Posted by matthew at 08:50 AM | Comments (5)

October 25, 2005

polly tickle

I know I don't usually write about politics up here on the Moon, it's really not a big part of our daily lives. But the political season is heating up and I thought you might be interested in the way we have it set up. In some ways, it's the same system you're familiar with, and in some ways it's totally different.

For example, if you are elected -- say as a Senator -- which is a six-year term, before you can be sworn in to office you have to serve a prison term equal to the term you were elected for. Saves a lot of trouble, really, and keeps our newspapers thin... for two reasons: in a way, the candidate has to admit he's a crook, that's why he's running, and you gotta figure, no matter what he does while he's in office, he's already done his time...heck, when was the last time one of your politicians actually served time in jail that was longer than his term of elective office when he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar? Think about it. It's kind of like the opposite of legislative immunity, and it really makes more sense. And if you get re-elected, it's back in the pokey with you, where you can cool your heels with so many familiar faces. PLUS -- you should see how nice the jails are!

Also, it's written into the constitution that the number of words in the law is fixed at a million. It took them about forty-five minutes to reach that. In order to pass a new law, they must strike an equal number of words from some old law. It's like the conservation of mass and energy, only applied to the law. We have a fixed amount of law that we can tolerate... ignorance of the law, after all, is no excuse.

Another way things are different here is: you are not allowed to vote for any candidates, only against them. The candidate with the fewest votes against them is the winner, and goes directly to jail. There was a problem once, two years ago, when there was a three way tie for last place in a senatorial contest, but we solved it by sending all three to jail for two years, and now they serve alternate days in that august and historic body, where they vote against various proposals, ammendments, and bills of attainder. (We solved the other problem by changing the system so that, in any given election, you have one less vote than the number of candidates there are. You can use them all to vote against one candidate, or distribute them among them as you see fit. Unfortunately, you can't vote against them all. There is a ballot initiative coming up against this restriction, and I'm hoping not too many folks will oppose it... but we'll just have to wait and see...)

During the campaign, our candidates are forbidden from advertising in favor of anything, only in opposition to it. Or saying anyting positive in any way. And I have to admit, they don't seem to regard it as too much of a hardship.

And the campaigns actually, they are more accurately described as lying contests. Each candidate thinks of the biggest lies they can, the bigger the better. Whichever candidate tells the biggest lies.. well, usually most folks vote against their opponents. Above all other qualifications, we value dishonesty and disingenuousness in our elected officials. That's how we choose 'em.

These are just a few examples of how different things are up here.

Posted by matthew at 08:25 PM | Comments (4)

October 17, 2005

negotiations

there are ghosts on the moon, did you know that? and invisible men. and invisible women -- especially invisible women. there are actually more invisible women on the earth, but that's another story for another day. (all the invisible men you used as base runners when you were a kid playing baseball with only three kids on a side? they live here now. they don't get along with the ghosts, nobody does, actually.. but that's another story too).

what makes a ghost linger on the moon? it has secrets. it's the secret things that it can't let go of, can't disentangle itself from. the ghosts are in bondage to yesterdays dreams, they're covered with the dust of the prison of their false expectations. they could be free, they could be alive, but they won't ..or can't.. let go of the chains they've forged for themselves. or the chains they've accepted from someone else.

you can tell they are ghosts because they leave no footprints, they effect no changes, they do not make a difference. they walk the same routes everyday, from pillar to post, from post to pillar, and they think they can do no different, that they have no other choice.

the ghosts on the moon are like the tigers that could be held by a paper chain, they're a prisoner of their illusions, their external condition is entirely attributable to the things that exist in their mind, and nothing else.

they used to train the tigers to be held by a paper chains by chaining them when they were cubs with heavy iron chains. then as they got older they would put a paper link in the chain, at a distance from the tiger. then another. the tiger would be so accustomed to the limitations imposed by the heavy iron chain that it would stop testing the chain's strength, and accept the paper chain as though it were iron. perhaps they still do to this day. many parents do this, i believe.

the ghosts on the moon have a union, a very good union, and their benefits are second to none. they have a retirement plan that can't be beat, they have health insurance as good as any congressman, they have matching charitable donations, they have direct deposit, they have paid personal leave, they have sixteen holidays a year -- even the french are jealous of their benefits, believe it or not.

last year the union had a new president, a young guy, he wanted to shake things up. when it came time for the contract negotiations he put a new demand on the table. he said, the ghosts up here do a lot for the economy, they perform an important public service, and we want, we demand, more than we are getting, he said, we want a guarantee of job satisfaction. we want jobs that we enjoy, that we look forward to going to in the morning, that we hate to leave in the evening.

well, what do you think happened? Sparky took a look at him and blew some cigar smoke in his face. Sparky said, kid, if you know what's good for you you'll take the three percent we're offering and you'll be happy with it. don't make a mistake boy, Sparky said.

the kid said what are you going to do about it?

Sparky just shook his head, then he picked up the phone and called the tv station. said he wanted to have a press conference. tomorrow at six pm he said. then he hung up the phone. then he picked up the phone and he called Sam Whitebread.

Sam, Sparky said, Sam, I want you to go out and find every ghost you can and i want you to tell him that this son of a bitch they elected to run their union wants them to have jobs that they can't wait to get to in the morning and that they don't want to leave at night. he wants them to have freedom, Sam, do you understand? you've got twelve hours Sam, got it? and then he hung up the phone.

the ghost kid across the table sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. you could see the back of the chair right through him. he had a crooked smile on his face. what the heck difference do you think that will make? he said to Sparky.

Sparky just sucked on his Cohiba (you can get them up here).

about fifteen minutes later there's a knock on the door and one of the ghost ward bosses comes in and leans over and whispers in the kid's ear. The kid goes pale (you should see a ghost go pale sometime, it can happen) and gets up. excuse me, i'll be right back, he says.

Nobody ever saw him again. they signed the contract for two and a half percent and they applauded at the press conference louder than they ever had before.

Posted by matthew at 10:00 PM | Comments (1)

October 13, 2005

the implex part one

been struggling how to tell the story about what happened at the implex yesterday. the implex is a spherical structure on the edge of the colony, they have a five dollar cover charge to get in. and you can't wear white shoes. that's a rule. there's a truth-field generator in the center of the place, so it's basically a fiction-free environment. some folks like it, some folks don't. Sparky likes to take visitors there without telling them about the truth-field generator, things can get pretty funny -- or uncomfortable as the case may be. He also tries to do all his business negotiation there -- he's impervious to it's effects, but I'm the only one who knows that besides Sparky, and he doesn't know I know. So, mum is the word, ok?

it's a part of the university's light-gravity experimentation, the one-sixth gravity here makes the physics possible that run the generator.

what's interesting is how clear your thinking gets in there, how easy it is to sort things out, to slip the chains of illusion, be free from the bondage of impossible dreams, and see the beauty of what is. i mean, it's fun to hear people lay it on the line with each other in the way they grew up learning not to do, it's funny to watch couples try to hook up in there, you can imagine. on the other hand, it's so wonderful now and then when some honest magic happens between two people, and they both have the confidence that it's real, that it's fundamental. maybe that's what keeps some of them coming back. i'd say about three-quarters of the people who have been there have been there only once, the rest go there pretty regularly, once a week or so.

more, later...

Posted by matthew at 08:22 PM | Comments (4)

October 07, 2005

shades of gray

back in the old days, back on oith, back in fourth grade, there was a kid, frankie cullens, who was the coolest kid in the class. luscious lips, curly hair, style coming out his ass -- he had beatle boots.. anyway, he lived on the same street as my friend dave tarnowski. dave's dad was in the union, and dave wanted to be a doctor, so grades were very, very important to him, all through grade school, he was worried that if he didn't get straight A's he wouldn't get into med school. anyway Frankie didn't associate with me, or dave, during school anyway. i lived at one end of the school district and they lived at the extreme other end of it. i used to ride my bike, swamp rot, over to see dave sometimes, it usually took about two and a half hours...so his mom would have to drive me home. this annoyed her, and one time she pulled out of their driveway so fast that i didn't have my door closed, and the turn onto the street pulled the door back open, with me hanging on to it. my feet were in the car and my ass was hanging out over the speeding blacktop, my right hand clinging to the door handle. she reached over with one hand and grabbed my shirt and pulled me back in, bringing the door with me. swamp rot was in the trunk (it was like a 56 chevy and you could have had a party in the trunk.) Dave's older brother had an orange 442 jacked up with big slicks, so you can figure the date.

well, if you can't figure the date, here's another way to figure it. it's the end of the year party in fourth grade, maybe fifth. i am a wallflower, i haven't yet had the epiphany on the school bus steps, and i am standing against the back wall (remember those pivoting closet doors?) drinking my kool-aid and eating my cupcake, white icing, yellow cake, baked in one of those foil cups? are you getting this down? i am minding my own business when..

first of all frankie cullens introduced us to Dave Deal's Deal's Wheels which were the coolest models ever concieved. don't argue with me. don't even think about it. I would gladly pay $75 for one new in a box tomorrow. He brought in the Zzzzzz-28 (almost as good as the 57 cHEVY) built with a fleck paint job, purple with black. That's how cool Frankie was.

.. so i am standing there with my kool-aid and my cupcake and it's the last day of school and then it happens. you never know when a defining moment is going to arrive in your life, you're never prepared for it, but when it comes, you know it. Frankie is talking to the girls around him and they are giggling and wiggling and he turns to me and he says, "so, matthew, what is your favorite band?"

now this isn't a simple question even today -- today because my favorite band at eight AM and my favorite band at six PM are totally different... usually. but back then, it was as though you had asked me, "so matthew, what's your favorite ribosome." i mean, I might have heard of ribosomes, i might even have known that there were different types, but picking my favorite would have been like reaching into a refrigerator with a burned out lightbulb that hasn't been plugged in or opened for ...oh say a month or two.

Did i say, "zappa, dude" or "the dead" or "country joe" or "zeppelin" or "the stones, or course" or even "the beatles"? I did not. did i say, "janis" or "the byrds" or "bob dylan"? I did not.

I said the truth, which was, "the Monkees".

Now at that moment time stopped, or at least it slowed down to a point of tangency with stopping.. i saw frankies eyes begin to bulge, and the girls necks all turn slowly in their sweaters to look at me, and my buddy dave take a slow step away from me.

I realized i might have just as well have said, "the Banana Bunch"

Frankie began to laugh so hard the snot flew out of his nose into his kool-aid, splashing purple on Candice Coon's developing sweater. the girls all covered their mouths to laugh, looking at each other with big round eyes like, "i can't believe he said that."

So I asked Frankie, "ok, who's YOUR favorite band?"

he looked at me with disdain. "Chicago, of course." and he turned away to laugh with the girls.

so who was your favorite Monkee? mine was Mickey.

Posted by matthew at 09:23 PM | Comments (6)

October 05, 2005

soda jerk

I saw Sam again in the line at the cafeteria this afternoon, we were both filling our soda cups at the same time. Sam likes diet coke, I like mountain dew. We stood there together while our cups filled up... neither of us takes much ice, we both like the soda more than the ice.

I looked over at him and I said, "You know, Sam, I've been thinking about what you said, about estrangement."

He said, "Yeah, and?"

I said, "It's a one-way street, estrangement. If there's a space between you and somebody else, the place to look for the reason is within yourself, not between the two of you.. it's in you, not in the relationship."

He looked at me, thinking. "That's not an easy thing to hear," he said.

"It's a fuck of a bitch to say, Sam, a fuck of a bitch."

Our sodas were full, simultaneously.

"I'm gonna have to think about that, man."

"yeah," I said, "me too."

Posted by matthew at 11:41 PM | Comments (1)

October 04, 2005

query

...looks like the wingman stayed over last night. the locks on the doors don't work -- I don't even have the keys.. there was a note on the coffee table this morning...

she said she's back but she ain't back

she's in another time zone
she's on another planet
there's a tornado chasin' her sweet ass
stirrin up trouble
stirrin up stirrin

she said she's back
but if she was
i could squeeze her
i could feel the heat in her
stirrin up trouble
stirrin up stirrin

she ain't back
i can't reach her
my arms ain't spaghetti
six hundred and ninety five miles long
she ain't

there was a note clipped to the wingman's crypticism, it said, "Wingman, we love your name but not your poetry. Best to you, Bibi Rebozo.

the wingman had written underneath the signature, Bibi Rebozo??? that's a name??

ps My plane got shot up pretty bad yesterday, I'll be away for a while.

there's music on, but it's the new moon and you can't really hear it right now, sound travels better through water, it seems. It's drowning, but a different kind of drowning, I think, this music.

---

who do you call when there's no one to call?

Posted by matthew at 09:18 PM

October 03, 2005

Tuna fish

Sam Whitebread was sitting at a table alone at lunch today, he was eating a tuna fish sub and looking out the window, although his eyes didn't seem to be focused on anything in particular. I took my tray over to him and said, "Hey Sam, you mind if I sit with you?" He smiled, chewing, and gestured to the chair across from him. I sat down and got out the ketchup and mayo packs to squeeze on my veggie burger. I like to get the veggie burgers in the cafeteria, they have some kind of zesty peppers in them or something..they have a tang to them. I get them with Swiss cheese and bacon.

now some people think it's weird to order a veggie burger that way, as though you only order a veggie burger as some kind of political or ethical or even spiritural statement, as though you can't order a veggie burger just for the flavor of it, just because you like the way it tastes... feh -- people order hamburgers with lettuce and tomatoes on them and nobody looks cross-eyed at them do they?

So I sat down and put the sauce on the bun and I was watching Sam out of the corner of my eye the whole time. He was methodically working his way through the sub, taking a bite of the gray stuff and slowly chewing it, all the while his eyes were locked in the middle distance somewhere, focused on something that wasn't there, now and then shaking his head. "What's on your mind, Sam?" I asked him, taking a bite of my lunch. The bacon crunched in the soft veggie patty between my teeth.

He turned his head slowly and looked at me. "Actually, I don't know how to put it," he said, "I'm not sure I know the right words."

"Try using the ones you do know," I said, "man this ice tea is delicious."

"Estrangement is what's on my mind," he said to me, "contagious estrangement. expanding estrangement. Emotional, spiritual, physical, even political estrangement... it's like there's no stopping it. It's like once it starts it never seems to stop. Like there are two snowflakes that fall on the top of a mountain," he says, looking back into that middle distance, "and they lie there next to each other for a season, they know each other's contours, they are continuously discovering new facets of each other." He was holding half of his tuna fish sub in the air in front of him. "And then, one day, something happens and one snowflake rolls down one side of the mountain and the other goes down the other side. And there's just nothing they can do."

I just sat there looking at him, waiting.

"I haven't spoken to my father in eight years," he said to me, "did you know that? And he hasn't spoken to me. It just doesn't come up. We're just not in each other's lives." He shook his head. "I don't even know how it happened -- it wasn't a fight, it wasn't a disagreement.." his voice trailed off and he took another bite of tuna. "For all I know he might be dead...and for all he knows..."

He shook his head. "And politically it's the same thing. I keep hearing about free and open debate, what a joke, there's no debate. First of all, to me a debate presumes that the arguments are intended to be persuasive. It seems to me like everyone has their minds made up these days, they play on the blue team or the red team. They're all -- ok, almost all -- adherents," he practically spit the word out, "And we're not really talking to each other about anything... When was the last time you were at a party where there were people from more than one side of any given issue -- who would admit it? We don't talk to each other anymore, we.. turn our backs and walk away. And that hurts all of us." He gestured around the room with the remains of his sandwich. "And sometimes it seems to me like we're those snowflakes, rolled up inside giant snowballs in separate valleys, with a gigantic mountain between us, and no way to get back together, to really reach each other."

"Sam," I said, "believe me, you know the right words." I finished my burger.

We sat there quietly for a couple minutes, Sam chewing his tuna fish in it's soft doughy roll.

"Call me a fool, Sam, but I think that there's a summer coming and the snow is going to melt. And then it will run down in streams, and the streams are going to run together into rivers... and then all the rivers will run down to the sea. All together one day."

I gathered up the stuff from my lunch and put it on my tray and Sam did the same. We stood up. "Good talking to you," he said, "I'm glad you came over to talk."

"Anytime, Sam, any time at all."

Posted by matthew at 08:25 PM | Comments (0)

October 02, 2005

ok, I give

i've been around since mosiac 1.0, but this is just too much.

 

Posted by matthew at 10:47 PM | Comments (0)

September 19, 2005

wingmanagain

The wingman must've spent the night again, he left some notes on the ottoman, scratched on a piece of paper.

Chitown lingo

get chilly = relax
shout out = say hello
holla = hello
shiznit = the shit
jumpers = shoes
jet (or bounce) = leavin or steppin
i'm outie = I'm leavin
scandilicious = nutz
mack'n it = hittin it
mack = good with the ladies
off the chain = v. cool
got ya faded = I've got your back
krunk = crazy
sweatin it = feelin the groove
suga = xo
kitty = (unintelligible)
peace out = goodbye

we'll have to wait till he get's back to find out what's up with this krunk.

Posted by matthew at 05:26 PM | Comments (3)

September 10, 2005

Rx

Stephen was bleeding so bad last night he asked us to take him to the emergency room. The doctor offered to give him a transplant, or put in an artificial heart, he said that was a popular way to treat the problem. The blood was pouring out of Stephen's chest in spurts, and Stephen could barely speak. He shook his head no.

"Cut fifty seven more holes in it. Do it quick." And he passed out on the gurney. After twenty five, the doctor started to get tired, so we all took turns driving the blade through.

Doctor said it'll be a couple weeks while the slots heal, but after that it should be no problem.

Posted by matthew at 07:47 AM | Comments (1)

September 09, 2005

stephen

There's a kid up here, Stephen, he's got a hole in his heart, he's had it since he was born. Weird thing is, it isn't physical, it doesn't show up on the sonograms or the cat scans... the only way you know he has it is the times when he has to confront a truth that he doesn't like. The truth goes through him like a sword and always seems to find the opening there. You can tell when it happens, his eyes cloud over and he can't speak for a minute or two... then he turns away for a time, breathing hard to keep the blood in, to keep the blood from spilling out. Once or twice he's had to go to the emergency room when he was asleep and the sharp dagger came to him in a dream. blood soaked the sheets, it was all over the sheets -- the wetness of it was what woke him up before it was too late.

He's the best friend you could ask for, he would do anything for you. He's got one kidney left, his sister has the other one.

I asked him if there was anything he could do to get better, to heal.

"Man, this is just something I gotta live with," he told me, "If I try to seal it off the truth will never get in. What would you do?"

good question, Stephen, good question, man.

Posted by matthew at 12:59 PM | Comments (1)

August 18, 2005

clockwork

full moon, and like clockwork, the infrastructure up here collapses into splinters, piles of wasted rubble line the streets, and the weather report is thunder and lightning for the foreseeable. the doctors are all on vacation, and the price of self-esteem is through the roof, if you have to ask how much, you can't afford it.

full moon, and like clockwork, the shadows swell up and loom. full moon and like clockwork, the bottom drops out of the market and the sales figures for vodka explode. it's a tough economy up here, cyclical to be sure, but the devastation can be a hundred and fifty percent, and one bad month and you'll be paying for it for centuries.

full moon up here, and like clockwork, the clocks slow down to a crawl, each minute, each second, burrows through my brain like a woodworm, chewing the pith and shitting out the pulp, leaving wet sawdust in a narrow hole behind it.

full moon up here, you want to know what that's like? a ray of starlight, travelling away from it's home, alone, through the blackness of space for a billion years, a trillion years with no companion but the cold black emptiness of the void, and the void is continually straining against it, sifting it, separating it from it's memory, drinking it away by half and then by half again, and again by half, thinning when no thinning can be done.

full moon up here, everything is broken. it's bad weather when the moon is full, full bad weather, no mistake. i see my friends from a distance, standing. they know this moon will pass. it always does.

full moon up here. full moon makes crazy talk allowed, full moon that's the license.

I wrote that last night, in the aftermath of the second worst attack of depression and anxiety of my life. Today, the moon is still full, but there's reason inside my head again, some anyway.

I have a disorder called bi-polar. It is often described as a condition in which your moods swing uncontrollably. Sometimes the cycles can be months long, other times hours. Sometimes they are mild, barely noticable, like waves at low tide. Other times they are violent and intense, blotting out the sun, blotting out love, blotting out everything.

When I am up, at my 'best', I feel powerful, intelligent, talented, supportive, sure of a wonderful future. resilient.

When I am down I feel utterly worthless, without purpose or meaning, without ability, without insight or intelligence, without the capacity to love, or to give. unworthy of pleasure. brittle. When I am down I can't concentrate, can't focus on any single thing, and can't stop the tape that plays in my head that says, "you're worthless, pathetic, everything you do is pointless, and a failure... spiraling down into nothing."

These seem like trite words, the words you've heard before, words easily dismissed as false, demented... but when it is your own voice, and the continuous flow of thought inside your head is screaming them, biting them, snarling them, taunting you with them, knifing them into your tenderest vulnerabilities -- the soft places that you know so well -- and the stream is tireless, relentless, it waits in the night to come and murmer and shriek and stab. Hope becomes a stranger, Love a memory, and Joy a cynical trick and a lie.

It's an illness of the mind, or of the heart, or of the spirit.. or of all three for all I know. If not an illness, then a defect.

I believe that the cycles of my depressions and manias coincide with the cycles of the moon. The moon up on the banner is there to let me check in when I am feeling low, or feeling high -- either extreme. nine times out of ten the moon is either new or full when I do that. not to say that every full moon will necessarily bring a peak or a valley, but the peaks and the valleys, when they come, come at the extremes of the lunar phase.

I went to see a new doctor today. I left my family in February and stopped taking my medicines -- Lithium and Welbuterin -- because I thought I was pretty stable, and I wanted to get back to the old way I was, the "real me" ...I thought I could learn to contend with the problem in my own strength, train myself to learn to live with it, to supercede the tempest with my willpower and stout-hearted earnest fortitude. It took six months to bring me to my knees, when it did, it didn't stop with my knees, it brought my shoulders down as well. put me flat on my face.

I haven't slept more than four hours a night in a month, and I hadn't slept in two days -- not sleeping regularly or enough makes you significantly more prone to losing control of your emotional state. what does that mean? Imagine you are driving your car down the driveway and you see a squirrel sitting in the road, it looks up and sees you and high tails it for the woods. Nothing there of any significance, right? it's just a thing that happens. Last time that happend to me when I was in the pit, i wept for fifteen minutes, the acid pang of the senslessness of existence, the arbitraryness of life, the power of fear... they overwhelmed me.

It's clear that none of that has anyting to do with the squirrel, and I know that. It's also clear that it doesn't have anything to do with what's outside my head; it's all inside there, trying to get out, trying to find a trigger that will make it blossom. these things are unrealities and they assert primacy over reality. And they teach me to distrust my emotions, even as I swirl in the whirlpool of their power. And they give me a little piece of candy every now and then -- the good times -- as a way of keeping me in line, as a way of ensuring that they have a loyal customer. a lonely customer, a tortured customer, a source of blood.

The doctor listened to me, he talked about other things, other people's experiences, told me about the difference between anxiety and depression, and how alcohol is a tricky bastard because it relieves the anxiety while it's in your system, quickly and effectively, but it contributes to making the depression worse by depleting the effectiveness of the neurotransmitters in your brain. in your heart. He told me a story about his brother who had spent seven years building a 30,000 square foot house (my house is about 1200 square feet (4% as large)) a very successful guy, except his kidneys have failed from overwork, stress and neglect. He gave me some medicine, Lamictal to reduce the extremes of the low moods, Lithium to help with that as well as to lower the extremes of the highs. And something called Clonozapam for anxiety. And I promised to eliminate the alcohol from my diet, other than an occasional glass of wine with dinner.

And we're going to meet again in a couple weeks and see what's doing, check out the bloodwork, check out the progress, see if there are any tweaks that are advisable. and again a week later. I'm looking foreward to it, looking ahead to some healthy days, some refreshing sleeps, and maybe, mabye a vacation to somewhere far away.

My old blog, second person, singular, was my attempt to write for the reader, for one reader in particular (you of course), to write engagingly and thoughtfully. Letters from the Moon is an attempt to write for myself, to write about what make me laugh, or cry, or sing, or squeeze my eyes closed. or open them as wide as they go.

It's never been easy for me to ask for help, to portray myself as weak or inadequate for anything. I have pride that is made from titanium and diamonds, strong and unyielding, unsubmissive, stiff and inflexible. To understand bipolar, you would have to understand that the the strength of my pride was nothing -- nothing in the face of the tempest that swept through me. It was like trying to stop an aircraft carrier with a sheet of newspaper.

If you think you have this, or know somebody who does, and they're tempted to discard all their medicines and wing it on their own... watch them, they'll need somebody to help put the pieces back together when they fall.

full moon up here. like clockwork.

Posted by matthew at 06:31 PM | Comments (5)

August 15, 2005

re-obfuscated

consider the following:

I. exactly two of these statements are true.

II. two of these statements are false.

III. only one of these statements is true.

i used to think that there were the following possibilties:

none of them are true, or

I. is true, or
II. is true, or
III. is true, or

I. & II. are true, or
I. & III. are true, or
II & III. are true, or

all of them are true.

--

if none of them are true, then II. must be true.

if only I. is true, then I. is false.
if only II. is true, then III. is true and II. must be false.
if only III. is true, then II. is true and III. is false.

I. and II. can't both be true, they contradict each other.
if I. and III. are true, then III. is false,
if II and III. are true, then III. is false.

if all of them are true, then all of them are false.

are you still reading? seriously?

Posted by matthew at 09:23 PM | Comments (3)

August 07, 2005

the Library

"shhhh..." Sparky's eyes were hard, his forehead creased, and he scowled at me. "Hush in here."

We were about to go into the anteroom of the main library of Imbrium University, a place with a tradition that stretches back for centuries. "They have an amazing collection here, but they expect some respect. So shush yourself." He threw his cigar into the bushes and gestured with his head for me to get the door for him.

We went in. The foyer is large, and our footsteps echoed distantly from the ceilings. We signed in at the desk and the guard showed us to aisle 4271, the Collection of Unknown Writings.

"You won't believe what they have here," Sparky said, his eyes were twinkling. We walked down past rows and rows of shelves, some with drawers, some lined with notebooks, ancient and modern. Finally stopping at a shelf in the Ka-Ko aisle, he pulled out a drawer and rummaged in the loose papers within. "Look at this," he said, "It's a laundry ticket from Stephen King." He held out the crumpled pink paper. Sure enough, there it was, from the Village Cleaners, signed by the man himself:

   12 shirts
   1 suit
   3 pairs pants

and scrawled in his own handwriting it said, "please remove stains from pants, 2 shirts need undecipherable buttons sewn on. Light starch."

"This is seriously written by Stephen King?" I asked Sparky.

"No shit," he grinned, "com'ere, check this out." We walked a short distance, and he pulled a tattered leather notebook from the shelf.

"Ernest Hemmingway." He was beaming. "The complete shopping lists -- Look at this one." He pointed to a torn piece of notebook paper. it said:

   milk.
   eggs.
   bread.

"..and this one! Just look at it"

   milk.
   eggs.
   bread.

he turned to the last page in the book "Look at this." he said.

   milk.
   eggs.
   bread.
   bullets.

"Too much!" he said, his eyes wide.

"Is there anything from Shakespeare in here?" I asked him.

"Sure, boring stuff, to-do lists, stuff like that... We can look at it later -- Here! look at this, Edgar Allen Poe: the complete credit card receipts of Edgar Allen Poe." Sure enough, there it was in black and white. Receipts from the pharmacy for opium, from the ABC store for bourbon, rum, and whiskey, and from the PetSmart for birdseed. "The son of a bitch sure bought a lot of birdseed." Sparky shook his head. He looked up at me.

"Did you know Emily Dickenson had a blog?" he asked me.

"No WAY." I said. "NO way!"

"Seriously, she did. A little kinky, it was. Anonymous of course." Sparky reached to activate a terminal sitting on the desk nearby. "It's all here, all archived. Beautiful stuff; you'll like it."

Something had caught my eye. "Hang on a sec." I said. I had found another collection of grocery lists. Alice B. Toklas, I flipped it open. And there it was:

   a rose.
   a rose.
   a rose.

... and scrawled across the bottom of the page in a different handwriting it said

   a dozen AA batteries, and don't forget!

Posted by matthew at 01:40 AM | Comments (6)

August 03, 2005

fibonacci sez...

I've been away at Leonardo Pisano's lab, evaluating his latest data. Sparky is interested in setting up a manufacturing plant to make wire coat hangers here, so I asked the lab to help us with some figures on supply and demand. Leonardo set up a prototype of our manufacturing facilty and the indications are good. Two weeks of testing and I think Sparky is really on to something, I'm glad -- he's been pretty down since the big rupture, when the pressure got too high in the tanks of his imagination refinery... we had a devil of a time cleaning that up, you can imagine. Anyway, Sparky suggested we try something a little more practical...

Let me describe the manufacturing process. We make a chamber, about two feet deep, six feet wide, and eight feet high, with a door on one side and single light on the ceiling. down the center of the chamber, about five and a half feet off the floor we suspend a single wooden dowel, about an inch and a half in diameter, horizontally lengthwise across from wall to wall.

Then, to seed the process we place a single wire hanger on the rod, somewhere in the middle, turn off the light and close the door. Each day we open the door to check on the progress, recorded and depicted in the following chart. (each '|' '\' or '/' represents one coat hanger)

mon:   |
tue:   |
wed:   ||
thu:   |||
fri:   ||\\|
sat:  ||||\\\|
sun:  ||||\\\| |||//
mon: ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\|
tue: ||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\|
wed: ||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|
thu: ||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|
fri: ||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\| ||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|
sat:||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\| ||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|
sun:||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\| ||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\| ||||\|||||||\||||\\\| |||//\\| |||//||||\\\||\\\| |||//\\| |||//| ||||\\\| |||//||||\\\||||\\\|
[experiment terminated for safety reasons]

The people at the lab say that using this technique, we can make over three hundred thousand coat hangers a month. Sparky will be so glad.

Posted by matthew at 04:41 PM | Comments (6)

July 31, 2005

Faux-Pho

I had lunch yesterday with Algernon, we went down to the Faux-Pho place on the corner. In the back they have a quiet room where you can enjoy some Sim Dim-Sum. The room has a tall celing and there are mirrors up high all around. They have lacquered black furniture, and on the walls here are square caligraphed panels the color of burgendy with daffodil-yellow brush strokes and too much air conditioning.

They play (((XM))) radio in there, hit music, song after song. The Twisted Pears were playing when we sat down.

The soup is fabulous, they shred the cabbage so fine it floats about a foot off the bowl. It was Algernon's first time for pho. He seemed to like it well enough, but every now and then, he'd stop eating and pause with a faraway look on his face.

"Something wrong with your soup?" I asked him the third time it happened.

"Nope. It's delicious." He took another spoonful, slurping, avoiding my eyes.

Alana Davis came on and he put his spoon down, shaking his head.

"What is it man?" I asked him.

"Nothing. But if they play the Red House Painters I think I am going to puke."

"I thought you liked them."

"Most of their stuff I love."

"So what's wrong?"

"It's hard to explain, man," he said, picking up his spoon.

"Suppose you try. You're acting weird."

"Just leave it."

Little Red Light came on, bouncing off the walls. I love that song, but it's so much better in the car when you're burning up I95. I was drumming the table with my chopsticks and Algernon was just looking up at the reflection of the ceiling in the mirror.

"Dude. This ain't like you, you love all this stuff -- what the fuck?" I said.

"Ok, man I'll tell you. I will tell you what the fuck. I hate the bastards at XM."

"Why? All the music you love, no commercials? What's wrong with it? They haven't played a bad song yet."

John Legend came on, singing Live It Up with the girls.

"That's just it man. It's killing me. All my life I have been listening to music, staying in front of the curve, checking out the trends, it takes time."

"Yeah, so?"

"Trying to get a groove, sampling everything that comes out, staying down with the whole scene... You know."

Tori Amos came on and he looked at me hard.

"Algernon, dude. Everybody comes to you to get the lowdown, when we're looking for some quality, something new... you're the man. So?"

Something came on from a Dave Matthews Live recording, a college show.

"So --" he gestured at the speakers.

"Algernon, you GAVE me that CD, what about it?"

"Don't you get it dude? All that work and it turns out I am nothing but a demographic. a thin slice of pizza in the market." He drew a bullseye on his chest, "No matter how hard I try I can't get in front of fucking XM. Watch," he said, "they'll play Matchbox Twenty next. Bet you lunch."

We waited until Dave was finished, then Real World came on. He smiled a crooked smile at me and passed the check over to me.

I paid it as All Mixed Up came on over the speakers.

Posted by matthew at 05:41 PM | Comments (6)

July 26, 2005

moonhenge

As requested by my correspondant, I snapped this photo on the way to my mini-golf lesson at lunch.

Posted by matthew at 02:14 PM | Comments (8)

gravity and comic books

This weekend I finally sat down and opened the welcome packet that the the Guild of Lunar Realtors gives to every lunar emigré upon arrival. It has the usual information for new homeowners -- the covenants and governance bullshit -- and it lists the legal holidays; the members of the local chamber of commerce; it has one of those cartoon maps, you know the kind, it shows the crater where you live in really big and full of detail, with the florist, the bicycle store, and the Starbucks and the other Starbucks, and then, getting progressively smaller, Mare Imbrium, the rest of the Moon, then the Earth, Mars, the Solar System, the Andromeda Galaxy, and then away off in the distance, the thin little sliver of California. In the packet there were also some coupons from Dunkin Donuts and a personal greeting from the local representative of EdwardJones offering to help you make sense of investing. They say anything is possible on the moon.

An excerpt from Welcome to the Moon an illustrated color pamphlet © & ® Guild of Lunators

...the force of gravity on the moon is about a sixth of the gravity on the earth. This is because the mass of the moon is smaller and so the force of attraction is proportionally reduced. Scientific fact. We're sure you will enjoy the invigorating effects of the reduced gravity, you'll find you can lift large objects and throw them great distances, you can run faster and jump higher...

the moon is better than a new pair of PF Flyers, no question... It is a fact, Jack, that on the moon you can easily lift boulders the size of a minivan. You can hit a golf ball about a mile and a quarter, or two kilometers depending on if you speak imperial or celsius.

Because of this, the comic books on the moon can be hard to get used to. I'm accustomed to the superheros that can fly, or run really fast, or smash steel doors to splinters with their bare hands. But on the moon, that's all ho-hum stuff, stuff that pretty much everybody here can do before breakfast and not need to call home about it. So the comic book people have had to reinvent the superhero genre, and find new characters that really transcend the normal boundaries into the impossible. I stopped at the bus station this morning on the way to the office and picked up a few titles... Some of them are just unbelievable, if you want, I'll send them to you when I'm done with them...

Johnny Empath #7

after I read this one I just knew I had to get the first six issues. Johnny Empath stops and thinks... and then he feels... what his friends are going through. And then -- get this -- when it happens, he acts on it! Like it was no big deal. He's this little guy with glasses and a t-shirt that says, "I get it...mostly." He developed this strange power when he was bitten by a radioactive chameleon. Issue seven ends on a cliffhanger in which we're going to find out if Johnny can be empathetic OVER THE PHONE!

Conan the Rotarian Super Special #5

this one you just have to see to believe. Rated MT for Mature Teens, and with good reason.

Honest Relationships #414

Frankly, I thought this was just way over the top, it made me wistful for the golden age of comics when the superhero was someone you could relate to as a person, somebody you could believe in... somebody who could become invisible, or fly and turn into fire, or travel in time, or even practice law honestly.

Senator Sam Sincere #34

Senator Sincere is a gag comic book about a guy who gets appointed to the Senate to finish out the last two years of the term of Senator Shadow, who's been sent to prison (by mistake) for embezzlement and bribery. (He's totally guilty of course, it was just a mistake that he was actually sent to prison for it.) Anyway, Senator Sam is an earnest little man who thinks that when a Senator speaks, that they actually mean what they say. Can you imagine? This one's hilarious.

...my favorite of the ones I found on the rack in the bus station this morning was

Considerate Drivers -- All Story! Collection #127

this might be too far fetched for some people, but I really enjoyed it. The editor's note on page one says that every story in the book is true. This issue had four stories, including a really good one about a BMW driver who used his turn signal. It sounds lurid I know, but hey, it's only a comic book.

Posted by matthew at 02:06 AM | Comments (3)

July 18, 2005

mona lisa's sister

a note from the wingman

i drove past the park where i kissed the mona lisa's sister tonight. i heard they say she still doesn't smile, but they just don't know, man. they just don't know. the bench is sitll there, the trees are a little bigger now -- not that you can tell. the flowers smell the same, and Bob Marley hasn't changed his tune. i know you wouldn't want him to, redemption songs are always welcome around here.

she was so wet that night, it was raining you might say, she was soaked down to her sandals and the heat was rising off her like she was blacktop in august, shimmering, wet heat. the corners of her mouth turned up that night, they had the habit, they had the inclination. tonight, though, tonight i couldn't tell you. she might be in california, she might be on mars for all i know.

i was following a taxi tonight, followed it past the park, followed those red lights to the stop sign and he turned left and i kept going, down to the water, i had a full tank of gas and an hour to kill and i parked next to the wharf and smoked until the pack was empty. the smoke just disappeared into the atmosphere like an old love affair, sweet in your mouth and then gone. i'll never forget the way she rolled her lips together after she put her lipstick on the next morning, clicking the lipstick thing closed and looking in the mirror, studying.

that chick knows what a smile is, there is no dark corner in her smile, nothing held back, she smiles like the roots of an oak tree smile. it's permanent.

... but tonight the bench in the park was as empty as my pockets, and when you get the blues on the moon, you go with them, cause brother, you aint gonna win a fight with that animal. call me if you need me, i'm just around the corner.

wing

I got his number, just in case.

Posted by matthew at 02:08 AM | Comments (2)

July 16, 2005

riding

Yesterday we were taking Sparky to his cardiologist appointment. Sam Whitebread was driving his father's Lincoln, I was in the passenger's seat, Sparky was in the back. We passed a movie theater, one of those black and white checkerboard ones with red neon on all the edges, and it reminded me of something. I turned to Sparky and asked him, "Do you ever dream in black and white?"

"All the time," he said, "on the moon, everyone dreams in black and white. Didn't you know that? Why do you ask?"

"Nobody told me that," I said, "I had a weird dream last night -- it woke me up and I couldn't get back to sleep. But it was all in black and white -- in fact, everyone was wearing old clothes, it was like a dream out of the nineteen-forties."

"Yeah, that happens too," Sam said, "you'll get used to it. I kind of like it, I like the cars from those days a lot. I always wanted a Hudson Hornet, you know, like an upside-down bathtub. Sweet." He started humming a Tom Waits song.

Sparky leaned forward, "What was your dream?"

I told him

In my dream it was right after the War, the allies were emptying out the prison camps, liberating the POWs. In this one camp there was a woman, a small, very thin woman, who turned up as they were about finished. Everyone had thought she had escaped from the camp years before, she had disappeared. But she hadn't escaped, she had burrowed under the foundations of the building, made a crawlspace for herself down in the darkness under the floors. In my dream she had survived by eating money, dollar bills, she was stuffed with them and she needed an operation to have them removed from her insides. She didn't speak at all, she just led us to the place where she had been hiding... in the dream the camera zoomed in on the wall, on a small ditch scratched out in the dirt next to it, and a tiny slot about the width of my thumb between the dirt and the concrete footing, she had squeezed her way down through there. They asked me if I wanted to go down and see the crevices where she had lived, and the thought of that spooked me so much that I woke up, shaking.

and I said that lying there awake looking at the shadows on the ceiling, I wondered how it could be that she could escaped their control but be no less a prisoner.

"That is a twisted freaking dream." Sam said, merging onto the highway. He leaned forward and turned on the radio.

There was piece on about Justice Rehnquist who had issued a statement from inside his life support chamber that he intended to "remain on the job as long as my health permits, for the foreseeable future."

In the back seat Sparky started laughing. "Well, there's a guy who is a prisoner -- the question is, is he a prisoner of the law or is he a prisoner of his dreams? ...which do you think is stronger, Sam, your dreams or the law?"

Sam didn't say anything. He looked at me sideways again and gunned the big car.

"Well," said Sparky, "we can dream about changing the laws, but ain't nobody can make a law that can change our dreams. Watch your speed, Sam," Sparky said, settling back into the cushions chuckling, "you wouldn't want to go and break the law almighty now, would you?"

Sam put a cigar between his teeth and lit it. "I can dream," he said, the needle on the odometer tilting past seventy.

Posted by matthew at 12:26 PM | Comments (0)

July 13, 2005

Old Sparky

Jack --

I know I said I would write sooner, but the trip took longer than I expected and my headspace has been real small and so cramped lately. It's like I am living in a furniture showroom.

I'm finally pretty much settled in up here, although most of the machinery is out of adjustment and I broke my favorite sledgehammer last night trying to fix Sparky's horoscopulator... when NASA blew up that comet it put him behind schedule by at least nine months, although we won't know for sure until we get the belts resurfaced.

When he first told me about the horoscopulator, I was dubious and I ran some calculations -- you know how it comforts me to see the numbers. I figured if your character and destiny are influenced by the position of the stars and planets when you are born, it must be the gravitational effect, that must be what does it; the gravity just imprints you when you're fresh, like handprints in wet cement.

Well, it turns out that since the force of gravity is inversely proportional to the square of the distance between two bodies, the 120 lb. nurse in the delivery room exerts a stronger gravitational pull on a baby than venus and mars put together, even when they're in the seventh house. So I asked Sparky about it. He said I was being naive, neglecting the power of the karmic continuum, which is directly proportional to the cube of the distance between the bodies in question.

Sparky says that the reason things have been going to hell in a handbasket is all the satellites in earth orbit these days -- they're completely screwing up our horoscopes -- while everyone is worried about a little hole in the ozone layer, our planetary karma has been degrading at the rate of, like 5% a day. You know that's a very serious number, you listen to NPR.

Anyway, before the regulators get their teeth into it, he's planning on launching a series of satellites that will exactly counteract the effect of the bad ones, and put some balance in the equilibrium. Sparky says it's gonna be tricky, and the calculations are pretty complicated, but it's something that has to be done. Like I said, I'm dubious, but I've been wrong before ...and Sparky says we'll make a killing in the stock market when we get it right. Because if we get it right, we'll be able to offer horoscope upgrades. It's pure science, horoscope deformation, you know? I'm definitely looking forward to making the calls, I mean, who could say no? especially when you get an appreciation for the alternative, you know what I'm saying here?

Sparky says you can always make more ozone, you know, but when you're out of karma, you're out of -- well, you're just fucked.

And that is just SO inconvenience, you know.

Posted by matthew at 09:50 PM | Comments (0)