Fri - December 5, 2008

Psychic Detective

In the Bay Area you can find anything, and probably in your immediate neighborhood. There are special advertising newspapers for people who offer unusual services, most of them some aspect of the psychic arts, whether in its healing aspect, martial aspect, or erotic aspect. Porter considered all "tell me more about me" arts as erotic, because they involved a messy emotional entanglement and lurid lies.

Posted at 02:13 PM     Read More  

Thu - December 4, 2008

Erotic Dancer

(This week I've been looking through the writing I discarded when I did the second draft of Indian Shadow, and putting some of them back up on Shuffle Play.)

Father Roland found a mysterious symbol of the Fool Who Denied God in his Heart on a playing card dealt to him by Bergamo, after he'd agreed to have his fortune told. "What does it mean?" Roland asked, but Bergamo said it probably means something different to whoever's looking at it. That didn't satisfy Father Roland, and he became obsessed with this particular manifestation of the Fool.

Posted at 03:29 PM     Read More  

Wed - December 3, 2008

Blue Motel

It's no use asking where somebody comes from in Ash Fork, because their history works backward from the present and then circles them like predatory birds. These circles unfold like a flower opening, so that for every choice made there is a branching outward of event fields. What once looked like a track for a linear logic explodes into a kaleidoscope of simultaneous occurrence woven together by an active intent.

Posted at 02:42 PM     Read More  

Wed - November 26, 2008

The Ascension of Father Roland

Ash Fork was an energy field whose personification was an 1880s gunfighter. The manifestation of the gunfighter included archetypal detail, such as the gold pocket watch on a gold chain, relentlessly ticking toward high noon, and the calm assurance of the hands closing the inscribed cover over the face. The inscription was a circle with a jagged line, like a lightning bolt, originating in the center and piercing the perimeter. The gunfighter dropped the watch back into its pocket.

Posted at 01:10 PM     Read More  

Tue - November 11, 2008

Friedman's Ghost

I was listening to the radio yesterday and there was a discussion of how the policies of Milton Friedman shaped the economic system which is now collapsing, through a belief that financial institutions have a built in moral guidance system, so that government regulations are an unnecessary burden on them. I was remembering some satire I published in the Ash Fork Series, around Milton Friedman, about four years ago. It now looks prophetic. The gigantic financial bodies created behind Friedman's economic guidance have become destructive giants out of our control.

Posted at 11:51 AM     Read More  

Mon - April 21, 2008

Ghost of McCain Past

It was May 17, 2004, and the grip of the neo-conservatives was still solid, as George W. Bush demonstrated once more the unfortunate circumstance of having a rigid man in charge during a time of rapid evolution. The future the President and those around him projected, of knocking the top of Iraq and just replacing it with a colonial governor, was in fact the past. The best critique I heard of the Iraq War was by Zbigniew Brzenski, who said it is a war outside it's relationship to history. It is a a colonial war. The following blog is what I wrote on that day, when I still thought McCain was a straight up guy. His moving toward Bush, and the ultra right, changed that.

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Fri - February 29, 2008

Don Juan & Carlos

I'm stoned again. This American kid comes by here all the time, looking for help because he's sitting in the cockpit of a space ship he doesn't understand and he can't control, and he thinks I can show him how to fly it. I told him that, in pretty much those words, and I thought he'd go away and leave me alone, but he kept coming back. "Hello Don Juan," like I'm his Dutch Uncle. He seemed really nervous and so I rolled a joint, figuring maybe he was trying to find a source for some drugs, but he got paranoid and kind of obsessive. Not a good combination.

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Wed - December 26, 2007

Invisible Highways

Anybody who asks Mary where she comes from, she just smiles and smiles. "I come from where there's space for me to be, baby," she says. Everybody likes her, even though nobody knows how she can just show up when the piano plays, and still be there when it's not playing, like she walked in through the door.

Posted at 03:19 PM     Read More  

Sun - September 30, 2007

Ray's Blues

Back in 2000 I wrote my first song in a rush of inspiration. I couldn't play the guitar, and I couldn't sing, but I could tap out a rhythm and make up the lyrics. That's what I did. This is a rough draft of the song Clay and I did. Sometime we'll produce it professionally, with drums, piano, guitars, etc. Of course I'd love to get it picked up by a country blues band! Hey, we've got lots of songs for sale ...

Posted at 08:10 PM     Read More  

Thu - September 13, 2007

Spook Show

Mary stood in front of the oval mirror, before which she dressed and arranged herself as a person before the world each day. This was a meditation for Mary, and just as one woman will feel a reflected sensual delight when she takes her clothes off with calculated effect, and another will feel the assurance of virtue when she covers herself with a thoughtful modesty, Mary navigated easily among possible worlds.

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Sat - September 8, 2007


The first thing that hit Bergamo when he walked through the door of the Mission was how time had changed. In Ash Fork he hadn't noticed he was on computer time because there was nothing to compare it to, but now there was. There was a sky full of rolling, gray bellied clouds and an afternoon shower was tapering off toward the East. There was the dark, musty perfume of damp Janet. There were holes in the clouds and no matter where they broke, one of her seven suns would be trying to get a look at her in wet clothes. "They always see me through the atmosphere," she said.

Posted at 10:53 PM     Read More  

Tue - September 4, 2007

Blue Midget 1

A Bomb's lips moved carefully as he sounded out the dedication one more time, "Dedicated to the troll in me," and then one more time he turned to the back flyleaf to look at the picture of Paris standing beside a fire hydrant, painted white in the middle but with a bright red top and trim. She was fashionably dressed and wearing a pill box hat. The fire hydrant was naked except for a bowler hat and aviator sunglasses. No matter how many times A Bomb looked at the picture,he couldn't see any resemblance to a troll in her. Then he got the joke.

Posted at 09:01 AM     Read More  

Sun - September 2, 2007

Blue Midget 2

A Bomb, the Indian Shadow, was waiting. The book was open to the second chapter, and a slight breeze rustled a yellow curtain. Whether it was yellow or blue I don't know for sure, the book began, because memory isn't a security camera, it's a production with writer, director, cast and crew, and the first draft has disappeared beneath the process of remembering. Behind that curtain, the priest was making love to my mother. I didn't suspect. I didn't believe priests did such things.

Posted at 02:12 PM     Read More  

Fri - August 31, 2007

From Chicago

Gene Tweaks had not planned to pull the trigger. He was part of a Special Security team, an expert in urban guerilla warfare, with seminar training in explosives and damage control. The main subject of damage control wasn't about developing a soft footprint. It was mostly media relations. Gene was pulling down over a hundred grand a year because he was the perfect combat soldier except for the voices.

Posted at 03:24 PM     Read More  

Mon - August 27, 2007

Wing Gypsies

He came from a long line of fighters. He had eyes in the back of his head, not like the ones in front, which were really conscious and registering a high resolution image. The other was like a security camera which connected to emotion, reading the surroundings, and if there was danger, focusing in and taking a look. With this faculty he could slip beyond the range of his ordinary senses. "I don't know how it works," he admitted, "but it does."

Posted at 07:30 PM     Read More  

Sat - August 25, 2007

Spider Bite

A tiny little bite, hardly noticeable. Uncle Sam felt it as a slight sting with no known origin. He brushed his right hand across his neck but encountered nothing. The spider was gone before he knew he was bitten. It rappelled down a thread of gossamer and moved unnoticed along the ground, toward its mistress. Spider grandmother watched through unblinking eyes, sad and still as if she had to die today. "Sit down," she said, and at the moment she said it he had the sensation of being very high above the ground, looking down an impossible distance toward his shoes.

Posted at 10:36 PM     Read More  

Fri - August 24, 2007

Shock and Awe

At first it was just a speck. It was first noticed on one of the deep space scopes, which began a computer profile of it's behavior. It wasn't a comet or an asteroid. The analysis showed it consisted of a three interlocking wave pattern and was not an object per se, but the forward effect of an unknown phenomenon. "Forward effect of an unknown phenomenon," the President repeated through a frozen smile. "Can we hit it with a nuke?"

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Thu - August 23, 2007

Dream of Love

The collective trance was one cooperative system, a brain composed of interactive personal stories, and the process was both as simple and as complicated as for a bird flying in formation with the flock. "We have been gifted," Normal Nuts said. "We have been gifted with the ability to replicate ourselves in Space, and we have learned that our creator came not in the light, but in the darkness." He paused and felt the trance deepen. "How could we have prepared ourselves for Sophia?" he asked. A murmur of undefined sentiment moved through those in formation.

Posted at 04:06 PM     Read More  

Wed - August 8, 2007

Not Doing It

I woke up on this train. She was waiting for me in the dining car, wearing a blue dress with white dots. But they weren't evenly spaced white dots, just a pattern sprayed across a night sky. I slipped into the chair across from her. I was sure I had made the decision to leave her but I was not certain I had shared it with her yet. I looked for a neutral subject. "Interesting pattern on your dress."
"It's a pattern from the sawed off shotgun that killed Vincent Vega."
There was an uncomfortable silence.

Posted at 11:35 AM     Read More  

Tue - August 7, 2007

Meditation on a Horse

I'm drunk out of habit, and inside the amber glow there is a fatalism based on the probability that no matter where I start, I'll be led around to the same place. What's coming up is what's coming up, and what's slipping back into darkness is already in blackface. Everything orbits around what's moving from dark to light, and from light to dark, like a shifting sea below a lighthouse where I am standing and looking out into a black fog, cut by a half million candlepower double bladed axe of light.

Posted at 12:50 PM     Read More