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Preview: the EREBUS + TERROR


Updated: 2018-03-05T10:15:12.424-07:00




Lucy wears a crisp clean perfume called M#2 Black March. Twigs and new leaves on a path through a birch forest, cold windy weather, the sound of someone friendly in a white clapboard house and dark trees rising beyond a deep green hillside. She gets these bottled aromatic dioramas from a little boutique off Whyte Ave, one of those shops with deep-set creamy doorways ribbed with crown moulding



I have a new blog. Very simple.



Is for chumps who think they can use Adobe Dreamweaver CS3 to get ahead in life—or at least come up with a not-the-worst blog.More, later.

Sequel To The Prequel—Or Vice Versa


This is the new look for this blog—sweet Jesu save me—until I can figure things out. Proper code in proper places. Grafting in the new template still saved the archives—though comments are killed—which is important-ish to me. Although, let's face it, archives are for personal reference, something the writer can point to and say, "See, I said that!"See, I just said that.Expect fairly constant



It'll Rain A Sunny Day, I Know, Shining Down Like Water


The man is saying that he does not believe in God, that he believes in the usual omelette of evolution theory and The Big Bang, and he says, therefore, that he believes in other galaxies, forms of sentience, an infinite evolution of universes. "Infinite universes?" I say. Exactly. "Don't be foolish," I say. "If the universe is infinite, does it hold infinite possibilities? Are there possible

I Might Be Killed By A Criminal, Or By An Idiot, At Any Time


That thick mincing pony of a woman returned to her table in the corner of the bistro, twisting the coarse strands of her rusty mane around her fingers as she trotted back. Her nails were painted a gleaming bright blue—Nicole OPI "Blue Lace"—and when her phone buzzed on the glass table, she had trouble picking it up, her blunt nails chattering against the slick plastic flip. She swore and dropped

Leave It To Pnin


You are calling my phone again, but you never call twice, and I miss your call. I always seem to miss your call, and when you do not call me, I miss you calling me. The cellphone is flashing again, on the corner of the pale ceramic counter which floats in the shadows on either side of the sink, and I reach for the phone, but I have missed your call again. Call me again. I am standing in line with

It's Alright, Andy! It's Just Bolognese!


(a) Three hundred years of books and the English language has produced only two perfect novels—Wuthering Heights, yes, and The Good Soldier. I'd like to read something a little more modern, plz.(b) Baseball was put on television so that people would have a reason to get off the couch and go to work and never complain about anything ever again. Ever.(c) Nicholas Angel is the best dressed

They Were Careless People


My girlfriend has been making three of my four room-mates uncomfortable. On her lunch hour, twice a week, tops, she comes over to The House when she knows I am not at home and flips through the channels or pets my cat. The three room-mates all have the same complaint—"I'm sitting here, she comes over, starts watching Family Channel." They don't want her in the house when I'm not there. A valid

Lessons From Things


Some things are not other things. Red, for instance, is not white. Red, however, is definitely pink. Bicycles are not wheels, money is not evil, sin is a joke, but for me its divine, which is a lyric from a song about Crime And Punishment, which is a book, which is a means of travelling, which is bicycles. Although some things are not other things, everything is everything. Which is a song by

Shay As In Stadium And Bon As In Bon Jovi


Loving the wind and weather of it, the stubborn death-by-a-thousand-cuts of it, the (why not?) cock-sure nickel-plated refusal of the damn beast. No, I am not loving it. Spring will not leave. Winter and the wolf at the door? Never mind, we have a harlequin spring shuddering on the front steps, hot air and cold air blowing from the same bent-toothed smile every week, I swear. Stop it, spring.

Does Vector Prime Say, "My Way"?


This little kitten makes three! No, not that, please. No baby kittens. I have a little kitten, she is eight months old, white stripes around her eyes, Church-Yard is her name. I love the little beast. What a purr! Disturbingly, about a week before the appointment at the vet, she made serious eye-contact with me, burst into a luscious cackle and purr, and raised her ass as high as it would go. The

Thank You, Joseph O’Callaghan


Slowbear The Great + "Banquet" What a beautiful song. The sincere and somewhat-desperate heart, stripped-down word after stripped-down word, has been cleanly filleted from the larger beast. The original gills and silky-sided stutter are gone. That song was diamond, but this song is also diamond. Merely more like your mother's tear-dropleted bracelet from grey-castled Glesca, than like those

Quotes Won't Make Headlines Forever


New Year business still going on—which means that there are three more examples of unexpectedness yet to provide, aren't there? Based, of course, on the tenous image—not metaphor—I used last year, that there would be towers of unknowing in 2006, places (hopefully) of unpredictability. By which I mean not only unpredictable, but unpredictably unpredictable, a Rumsfeldian not-known unknown. The bit

The Cloud Of Unknowing


Happy New Year, internet. What did you get for Christmas? Nice. What? Oh, a bookshelf, you know, IKEA. Arrested Development and A CAMERA! One of those small silver Elphs, I love it so much. And mince-meat tarts, and so much more, most of it, the best of it, making me smile even now. Now, last year, I wrote that this year would have better things to report. Now, 2005 was all autumn to me, or a

Gloria In Excelsis Deo


To the readers who didn't stop checking back, thank-you. Specially to that large block from the Indonesia-ish area, and all les habitants from New England. Anonymous to anonymous, thank-you. It has been a long hiatus here in internet-land, but, as you know, or perhaps don't, I have no regular access to a computer. Not for foolishness like a blog, at least. Well, that situation should be fixed

Father, May I Play With Danger?


My star-pound-number-sign Galaxie 500 died about an hour's drive from home last night, and therefore I did not update the previous post within the time limit I had promised I would. I love that car, but she has caused me nothing but grief this autumn, and, basically, anyone who offers me a foolish enough amount of money can have her. And by foolish, I mean something approaching ten thousand. Not

My Lucky Number Is Four Billion


You know what makes me the same as everyone else? I think I'm special. What, you do, too? Well, I'm not, I know I'm not, but, regardless, I keep on believing that I'm exceptional, and that belief makes me normal, regular, pedestrian, banal, evil. Well, maybe not evil—sorry, I guess that was just the Hannah Arendt leaking out of me. Or do I mean the pretentious?Also, am I the ONLY chump out there

The Smallest Things Are Crushing Me Now


All my room-mates—but especially the flaxen-haired Viking—are in love with the new addition to the household. That would be Church, as in Church-Yard, as in Elegy Written In A Country Church-Yard, the kitten on the right. Gorgeous. She's got all our hearts, and the crush crush crush is so comforting, now. Who doesn't love a kitten? Yeah, Satan, sure, but that particular entity is a Tin Man, oh my

"It Is The Forgéd Feature Finds Me"


Light is like a wedding ring right now. Gold and harmony, and Henry Purcell ("Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me"). My brother was in the city—class at university—and we went for a walk around the block, coffee cups in hand. T-shirt weather, don't you know? Trees standing about like brassy backlit giants, black arms shining in the bright light. People talk about seizing the day, but

"Frank-hearted Maids Of Rocky Cumberland"


If, for reasons parlous or unknown, you've been wondering whether your favourite black-and-white page (the one with the often-nonsense headlines and randomly posted pix) would EVER be updated or not, wonder no longer. Well, but it has been forever, I know. My visitor count is way down, even among the new faces, other minds. I can only assume that most people expect poison from standing water. My

81 Rebmetpes: Latsyrc, Yadhtrib Yppah


Scritti Politti + "After Six" The Scritti Politti track which Fluxblog posted today is too good not to share. And, despite the fact that Matthew Perpetua gets 3000+ visitors a day and I average 150, and despite the nameless numberless scribblers who have also shared la musique de SP, I feel compelled to share this exact song—and for the following reasons. 1) Gold is useless, you know ("A piece of

"S-S-S-Sit." And The Dog Says, "What?"


There's your picture. She's shy and doesn't play. Afraid of hurting her paws, likely. Hisses at strangers. Accepting applications for new best friend ever since I left town. Whatever. What's that? No, not much. My time has been pretty evenly divided between Morinville, St. Albert and Edmonton. Not by choice, though. Listen, the mechanic called me up! Yes. Of COURSE about the car. No, this morning

School Starts Tomorrow, So NPTW*


*No post this week.