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Today, while walking to work, the darnedest thing happened.

A shifty-eyed man with a sparse mustache approaches me, carrying a large package. He’s dressed like a UPS man, but his uniform is generic. No badge. No hat. Are those Chucks peeking out from below his pants?

“Hi miss…” he stutters, spit collecting in the corners of his mouth. “You, uh, you heading to the mills?”

“Yeah… I work there… can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, yeah you can,” he replies, handing me the package, his arms shaking, still not looking at me. His fingernails are torn. Two have caked blood around their edges.
“Can you take this to…” He pretends to check the label, though it’s clear from his trembling hands that he knows exactly where this box is going. “Can you take this to Gloria Blacke?”

“Uhm, sure I guess…” I respond, not from any desire to help the man, but because this guy with his white spittle and earthquake eyes is beginning to creep me out. That, and because I want to make sure that, whatever this is, the Ironbauchs has it.

The man nods, thanks me and quickly disappears around the corner. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, bewildered, and then start on my way. I haven’t taken more than five steps before, I swear, the box starts to move. A ball inside perhaps? Rolling around? Throwing the box off balance? No, no it’s not a ball, because now the box is making noise. Wailing. Crying. What the hell is inside this thing? An animal? A dog?

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Jesus Christ,” I think to myself. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I set the package on the ground and use my ring to slice through the tape. Suddenly, something is gripping my fingers… a hand! Holy shit, a tiny fucking hand!

“It’s a goddamn baby…” I whisper, but, there is something off about this baby-hand. It is strong, slightly gnarled. It isn’t soft, like a baby’s hand should be. No, good god dammit, this isn’t a baby. I rip my hand free and back away from the box just as whatever’s inside hoists itself out.

“Please.” It speaks. Tiny plaid pants. Tiny glasses. Its voice high and strained. “Please,” It says again. Standing before me is a tiny, tiny man. His body is perfectly proportioned, but he can’t be more than two feet tall. Oh my god; he is a primordial dwarf.

“Holy Shit!” I say aloud. I want to say: “I saw a special on you guys on TV once! Man! You guys are freaking adorable!” But, I don’t say that. I just stand and stare at this little man. I picture him dancing a gig. Okay, I’m fucked up.

“Please, read this.” He squeaks, handing me a folded piece of paper. “Please, don’t take me there!”

I take the paper from him, and began to read.

“Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Heat butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Fry chops on each side until browned, about 3 minutes per side…”

“I don’t understand…” I said to the little man, though the pit iof my stomach is beginning to churn.

“Turn it over,” he tells me quietly. I’m impressed with his patience. I flip the page.

INGREDIENTS:

• 1 tablespoon butter or margarine
• 1/4 cup brown sugar
• 4 cuts dwarf tenderloin
• 1 cup hot water

I actually laugh. I don’t know what else to do. I laugh! And then I look at the little man with his earnest eyes and trembling hands. I throw up on myself and on the recipe and on the torn cardboard box that my new friend is now standing behind.

“I wont take you there,” I tell him. But my head is already spinning. My hands shake- just like the man in the brown suit. Shit goes down when the Blacke One doesn’t get what she wants. Did anyone see me take that package? Does anyone know I’ve seen this little man? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Come on,” I say, taking his tiny hand. “Get back in that box. I’ll keep you safe…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Good Afternoon,” the Blacke One grins at me, like a fox. She’s carrying a steaming plate from the kitchen. It smells delicious, buttery and sweet, golden chops glazed in brown sugar.

“I want to thank you for delivering my package today,” she says to me, her dark eyes locked on mine. She hands me the plate. “Here,” she says softly, “I made up a snack for you.”

Let me start by saying that this grouping is little more than a list of some of my favorite books. It in no way purports to be comprehensive in any sense, nor are the books presented in any particular order.

Many are distinctly Modern (I’m looking at you, Dave Eggers, Nicole Krauss and Lauren Slater). Others employ a favorite story-telling technique, Magical Realism, that I personally, can’t get enough of (thanks Toni Morrison, Salman Rushdie and Gabriel Garcia Marquez). Still others are included because they’re beautifully told, utterly unique or just plain cool.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (Dave Eggers)
Eggers’ first novel is part memoir, part fiction and all modern. This book is bigger than itself. Eggers’ wildly experimental prose, self-conscious narrative and sheer humanity make this one of my all time favorites. The story details his family’s struggle to adjust to the death of both their father and mother in the span of just 32 days- yet much of the book is sheer fantasy and Eggers takes creative liberties in calling this story a “memoir.” (See “Lying: Lauren Slater, below) I would highly recommend this book to aspiring writers.

100 Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
A legend in and of itself, this book traces the lineage of a family in a small, supposedly South American town “on the edge of nowhere.” Employing some stunning examples of Magical Realism, a literary technique that has one character literally being drawn into the sky never to return, Marquez’ style is resonant of a fairy-tale so that the impossible is readily, even eagerly accepted. The opening line alone speaks volumes about the way this book hooks you: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”

Song of Solomon (Toni Morrison)
Morrison needs little introduction on my part, and I had a difficult time choosing just one of her novels to highlight. However, Song of Solomon, to me, is perhaps her most experimental yet down-to-earth story to date. The story is a part coming-of-age, part alamentation of the lasting effects of slavery and part an examination of love, in all its strange and often distorted manifestations. Oh, and you’ll find some gorgeous instances of magical realism thrown in there for good measure as well.

Midnight’s Children (Salman Rushdie)
Hilarious, beautifully written, and impeccably structured, Rushdie constantly teases and tests his readers. The story, which traces a young man, Saleem, and his family as he grows up during India’s independence movement has been called a metaphor for the growth, and coming of age, of the country. Rushdie is truly a unique voice and Midnight’s Children is unabashedly accessible.

The History of Love (Nicole Krauss) 2005
A beautifully understated story with distinctly modernist leanings, The History of Love braids together the lives of three characters inextricably, yet distantly tied to each other: Leo, an old man who fears he is disappearing; Alma, a young girl on a quest to find happiness for her withdrawn mother; and Litvinoff, a mysterious and brooding Chilean man from another time. The History of Love truly stuns with some of it’s passages, one in particular stays with me:

“The first language humans had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about this language that flowed from people’s hands, nothing we say now that could not be said in the endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complex and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that has since been lost completely…”

The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera)
Perhaps a bit pretentious, this work of modern/post-modern fiction examines the insignificance of each and every one of us through a couple and their various infidelities. Uplifting, no? While it’s fair to say that not much actually *happens* in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, so much is said. Kundera believes this “lightness” (our insignificance) to be somewhat wrenching. I myself find it a bit liberating. Whether or not you enjoy the story, Kundera’s structure and prose make this piece worth reading, and the points it raises might send you on a philosophical quest of your own.

The Ear, the Eye and the Arm (Nancy Farmer)
I’m biased because this was a childhood favorite. Set in Zimbabwe in the year 2194, this story follows three royal youths through the various underbellies, subcultures and cults they encounter after they’ve been kidnapped. Three detectives with genetic deformities (super sensitive ears; excessively perceptive eyes and the third with a sense of empathy that often causes him to break down in tears) are assigned to find the children. Yes, it’s science fiction. Yes, it’s a children’s book. Yes, it’s worth reading. Take it to the beach!

The Darling (Russell Banks)
Russell Banks is a beautiful storyteller with the unique ability to put himself in the shoes, and heart, of almost anyone. The Darling is the story of Dawn/Hannah, a middle-aged woman whose rebellious past led her into the depths of Liberia where she experienced all manner of horror and beauty. A striking story told with the fresh rawness of a new wound, passages from the Darling will haunt you for years after you put it down.

Ulysses (James Joyce)
Read this book just to say you did it. Ulysses is an epic novel, yet spans just one day in the life of its protagonist, Leopold Bloom. Some say the book is pure genius. Others denigrate it as over-hyped fluff. Personally, I’d need to read it about five more times to make a fair assessment… But one thing is certain: Joyce went places with Ulysses (which was banned in the United States for obscenity in 1933) that few writers had gone before, and few have gone since. From his topical choices to his stylistic ones, Joyce has a voice and character all his own.

Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir (Lauren Slater)
This book will change the way you think of the term “memoir.” Slater challenges the concepts of truth, its contexts and even its very existence at the core of the human experience. Beautifully written and constructed with a modern twist, Lying has been called “metaphorical memoir,” (though she begs throughout to be understood as non-fiction.) This book continues to frustrate and enchant me, yet Slater’s beautiful prose and (here it is again) modernist tendencies keep me coming back for second, third and fourth readings.

Honorable Mention:
The Angel on the Roof (a collection of short stories by Russell Banks), How We are Hungry (a collection of short stories by Dave Eggers), What is the What (a creative non-fiction account of the life of one of Sudan’s Lost Boys, as told to and expanded upon by none other than Dave Eggers)

Note: If my liberal use of terms like “modernism” and “magical realism” annoyed or offended you, please see my upcoming post detailing these literary techniques and my interpretation of them. Until then, click the links, fool! Modernism - Magical Realism

I love the internet.
This is so gross, not for the faint of heart.
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The bathroom was a terrible place to be. All the stall doors were slightly ajar and the terrible placement of the typical office fluorescent lighting gave the shadows life that they certainly wouldn’t have possessed on their own. I kept turning back in terror from what I assumed was a malevolent face in the handicapped stall. The wall by the sink provided me something to look at to occupy my mind, but this too became a source of vile fascination. Whether the talk was all in my mind or if there was someone there I do not know. Kindly and reassuring it spoke to me of demons, and angels, and paths to power sometimes being fraught with dangerous-looking things. There was no need to worry though of course, not if you were prepared.
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Gentle readers, I must profess to you at this time my ignorance. A while back I posted a video by a band called Scatterbrain for their song Don’t Call Me Dude.

A portion of that song references a classic Three Stooges bit of which I knew nothing! I didn’t grow up in a household that really appreciated The Three Stooges, and so was never really exposed to some of the comedic gems they were responsible for creating.

Here, for your enjoyment, is a short bit of theirs which is titled (on the YouTube page where I found it) “Slowly I Turned”. Or perhaps more appropriately… Niagra Falls!

Enjoy!

So I remember just enough of my dreams to merit writing them down. The reason I remember is because I was awakened by a combination of the cat scratching loudly at the door for breakfast, and the very last bit of the dream (which I’ll get to momentarily).

Going in list form because I don’t necessarily remember big details.

• Several people were standing outside the mill building where I work, and I didn’t really recognize most of them.
• I seemed to be viewing this through the eyes of a girl who was on the ground, but was also the “camera’s” focus at times.
• People were throwing small objects on the ground with video game-esque results. Items like cherry tomatoes tossed to the ground to be mixed with something I think they called bitter acid. Where it then turned into 3 or 4 seperate items (one of which included a whole smaller tomato and a somewhat squished smaller tomato).
• Girl-on-the-ground seemed to be our alchemist here. She also seemed to be captive by a large, angry, rather unattractive man.
• It appeared she was voluntarily mute. She defied him by not giving him the right results of the tomato alchemy, or handing him something that wasn’t what he wanted.
• Somewhere in here, she apparently felt as though she could make an escape, so she did. However, it appeared that at least one of her legs didn’t work so she was dragging herself as fast as she could by walking forward with her hands and dragging her body behind. (Which she was good at.)
• Little moments betray that her legs do work, at least some of the time. It’s never understood why she doesn’t walk or run.
• She flees across the bridge and over into the other part of the mill building, which seems to be part mill building and part fancy house… thing.
• He is following inexorably behind, taking a kind of Pepe LaPew approach, quick but not so fast that she doesn’t have an opportunity to feel like she mgiht actually be able to hide somewhere.
• A door looking like an understair (no stairs there, though) cabinet has a knob low enough for her to reach without getting up. She looks around for her pursuer, and not seeing him or hearing him close enough to tell for sure where she went, she drags herself quickly into the nook and shuts the door.
• Despite a lack of lights it’s not totally dark in the cubby. She drags herself to the far corner, behind where the door opens into the space (even though I think she opened it outward) and gasps raggedly, trying to catch her breath and be silent at the same time.
• Moments later the door opens inward, and his face slides in, turning immediately to face her in her corner.
• A little fuzzy here but no force seemed to be used to extract her from the space.
• Trying smaller doors within the cabinet revealed someone’s pantry to her.
• Vauge confusing images of urban exploration type areas go here.
• There was some kind of gathering to which both Ugly Guy and Crawling Girl were to attend.
• There was a decent-sized audience, in a hotel conference room sort of setup, with fancy dinner chairs. I think it might have been a dress-up film affair.
• People start smoking in the back of the room. This causes a wave of coughing to ensue and complaints to be issued.
• At some point in all this, A HORRIBLE CLOWN MONSTER APPEARS! (FIGHT, ITEM, MAGIC, RUN)
• People seemed to scatter. There was much mayhem. Some Beetlejuice-esque antics, with items turning traitor and scaring people witless.
• Fuzziness here.

And of course, the last thing I remember before I woke up. The girl who had been dragging herself by her arms was bying taunted by this horrible clown beast. (Who was visible, invisible, in other forms, and generally everywhere at once, I might add.) He was trying very hard to make her afraid, weak and helpless. Part of what prevented him from attacking her outright was it seemed she needed to make a wish first. Once that wish was fulfilled, he would have his horrible, monstery way with her. Slowly, slowly she stood up on her own, trying to be steady and collect her thoughts.

Friends who had been run off the scene because the buggy thing they were in ran amok with them in it, finally came back on the scene after regaining some measure of control.

They arrived just in time to see the following:
The girl stammered “I wish… I wish… I wish…. I wish I’d stop saying I wish.”
Her eyes widened with horror, and frantically she searched about for help.
“NO! That wasn’t me who said that! He made me say it! He was moving my mouth!”
As she says this, the horrible (total Stephen King’s mini-series Tim Curry style IT) clown beast is revealed to indeed be holding her jaw, as he’s practically wrapped around her like a cloak.
These friends look on in horror, as the horrible clown monster pulls back his lips to reveal jagged, shark-like teeth, which he then sinks into the back of our heroine’s neck greedily.

(I seem to recall at some point there was a mention of it being more of a “mana” stealing, rather than a devouring, so this was more of a vampire type bite, chomping in to get the best blood flow going.)

Then I woke up and the cat was beating the crap out of my bedroom door. Then end.

I think I’ve been listening to too much Röyksopp lately. For context, I’ve found myself highly enamored of a certain track off their album The Understanding called “What Else Is There?“. It features vocals provided by Karin Dreijer Andersson from an electronica duo called The Knife (whose album Silent Shout has also been on repeat a lot for me) and I have fallen in love with her unique and expressive voice.

That being said, on the with the description. I was in this housing area, all cheap houses, run down and small. Looking on from a short distance, I saw a huge explosion rip through 3 or 4 of the buildings, seemingly at random. I looked to my companions (who defy description right now, just some people, I can’t remember) and ran towards the damage. I’ve dreamt almost this same thing before, I know it. Sudden fire in run down houses, or an explosion followed by fire. It was chewing up the old, dry buildings.

Then it all reset. Same place, no explosion, none of that. I rode in the mind of someone sneaking through these projects, tiptoeing by back doors and noticing as they all swung open by themselves. Screen doors, all, and cats of different kinds peering out from kitchens or living rooms. Sometimes there were people within, all walking away, not noticing that the door was open. The creeping person was a thief and although no entry was made into any of these houses, the big black bag s/he carried filled up. A small rip showed a blue and white striped piece of terry cloth sticking out. Perhaps the dishes wrapped in the towel to prevent noise? Who knows?

Finally coming to an unremarkable house near the end of the rows, the thief enters and discovers an old man and a fluffy white cat. There’s a moment of mutual surprise, then the cat makes a mad dash for the open door, and the thief follows, trying to track it down through these houses while still remaining silent and unseen, still carrying the full bag. The cat dashes under buildings built off the ground, and finally the thief is able to cut it off at an awkward turn near a wall and snatches the beast up, dragging it back to its master.

There’s a short conversation after that, and the old man says he’s not going to rat out the thief. The thief cautions that there may be some dangerous activity.

Cut to a group of about five or six people. Storm clouds are high, thready, and getting darker, turning the sky to a psilocybin vision of broadly patterned marble. The people are holding onto what appears to be the female end of extention cords, which are all tangled together and tied to a central location, looking to be pipes coming out of one of the houses. They stretch the cords into the road, fanning out in an uneven manner over about a 180° area. A stroke of lightning comes down slowly, almost like a weighted streamer: straight down, but wavering in the air. It is viewed from the eyes of one of the group before it hits them. The power goes through the cords and infuses the others. One by one they begin shouting, calling down the lightning on themselves, despite the presence of others on the scene insisting they stop (but too afraid to act).

There was only one left, hesitant, stupid, afraid of the lightning. The others had disappeared, disintegrated or wandered off or something. The one left walked away. It may have come back to the explosion at that point but I don’t recall.

Other points which are unclear to me now:

• Pulling a large revolver on someone who wanted to come into a house where I lived. It was large and dull and akward.
• Yelling and throwing things at a group of young, grinning hooligans who heaped things in the middle of the yard and doused it in gasoline, intending to set fire to the whole property
• Counciling a very angry young man, sharing tales with him. We were both in Civil War era dress. I slowly went from persuading him to stay, to comforting, to seducing. Anything to distract him from this blind fury.
• A master/husband type figure appearing during the “seduction” phase, unperturbed by the scenario.

Also, for your convenience here are the lyrics to “What Else Is There?”

It was me on that road
But you couldn’t see me
Too many lights out, but nowhere near here

It was me on that road
Still you couldn’t see me
And then flashlights and explosions

Roads end getting nearer
We cover distance but not together

I am the storm I an the wonder
And the flashlights nightmares
And sudden explosions

I don’t know what more to ask for
I was given just one wish

It’s about you and the sun
A morning run
The story of my maker
What I have and what I ache for

I’ve got a golden ear
I cut and I spear
And what else is there

Roads and getting nearer
We cover distance still not together

If I am the storm if I am the wonder
Will I have a flashlights nightmares
And sudden explosions

There’s no room where I can go and
You?ve got secrets too

I don’t know what more to ask for
I was given just one wish

Note: These are just what I found online, I know there is a verse or two missing and maybe a few lines wrong. Care to help me flesh that out?

A clear and flagrant disrespect for all things was extruded from the two young men chatting back and forth on the mostly empty train car and left the air palpably unclean. Crisp suits, slick and greasy hair, shifty bright eyes, and utter animal stupidity were readily apparent upon a quick glance. Typical upper-class white boys with no sense of purpose beyond where their dicks will be by the end of the night or who they can roll under the bus to get the next raise. No love except the long-since-abandoned love for mother, and a lust for money and the status associated with it that they assume is love.
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Wound and Infection Treatment Stories #1

Tales written for discerning young ladies with a keen admiration of the manliness of the male half of the species, this volume deals with heart-pounding tales of men performing stunning feats of self-surgery and suffering such injuries as would surely destroy men of lesser manliness. Yet never fear! For these manly men always get the better of every trial and tribulation that comes their way! Read on for more exciting stories of the manliness of men!

Mark was a willowy, handsome young lad, with shoulder length flaxen hair which he brushed into his pale, rosy-cheeked face often to cover his sparkling, glassy blue eyes in impish defiance of social mores.

One fine summer’s day he sat on his back porch, clad in his favorite jean shorts. This in and of itself was nothing significant. Yet the story behind his reason for sitting thus when there was action, adventure and, yes, even danger to be had out in the wide world is indeed a stirring tale.

Being as clever and crafty as he was, Mark had made these shorts himself when his favorite pants finally ripped so significantly that his girlfriend at the time had insisted with the venom only a lifelong student of modern fashions could that he do away with them. Yet young Mark would not be denied pants so well-worn that they had become something akin to a companion. Indeed, many was the week which had passed without him parting with them long enough even to wash them. He simply couldn’t bear to part with these pants! No, this was a man of deep concerns in his life who simply would not give up the familiar comforts of the threadbare pockets, nor the subtle sophistication which came with the various inked designs which turned the faded denim into a black and blue patina which echoed his triumphant past’s loves, hopes, and outstanding feats of stunning bravery. It was as grave a sin as asking an honored crusader to part with the finely wrought chain mail which had saved him from savage and ignominious death through countless battles with fierce and pitiless Moors and Turks!

So passionate had our young Mark been when confronted with the possibility of losing this treasure, he had snatched up a sizable blade from the kitchen counter in heated desire for swift yet just resolution to this disgraceful feud between aesthetic schools of thought, and with such fervor did he hack away at the offending lower portion of his beloved jeans that it caused him several injuries. Indeed, he was not mindful of such lacerations! An impassioned and bold man such as this could have no room for outward manifestations of pain when there was a battle of wit and craft at hand.

So deep was his anguish at the mutilation of this jewel of his possessions that he hurled the remnants of the pants - along with the now crimson-stained blade - as far as his slim, tight-muscled arms could manage with a pained howl escaping his chest. Regrettably his then-girlfriend hadn’t the presence of mind to clear herself from the path of the flying objects, and suffered a nasty shock as sharpened metal pierced the drywall beside her head.

What woman can understand the true nature of such manly displays, when the depth of feeling must manifest itself in a true man’s course of action? Few can, and alas this was the last he ever saw of or heard from that young lady. Indeed, though he had won a victory over an intractable situation, she simply couldn’t understand the depth of his sincere heartbreak, nor his truer, sentimental nature. In his woeful mourning over losing both his love interest and a significant portion of his most treasured pants, he neglected to care for himself and the injuries he sustained during the confrontation.

As a result, he found himself sitting on the back porch of his home in a grim and pensive state. He had moments before prepared himself for the task which lay before him in that golden afternoon. The slanting sunlight pierced the smoky air around him and cast a beam better than a surgeon’s lamp on the site of his concern. One of the the wounds he had sustained during his heart wrenching episode of confrontational tailoring had taken a turn for the worse. Such a strong believer in independence was he that Mark was not employed and could not provide the sum necessary to visit a trained medical professional. Nor did he believe in such ridiculousness. As a true student of manliness he felt strongly that anything which could be accomplished by his own hand should be! Oft was he praised for such, and oft chided by those who did not understand. Nevertheless he was prepared for the task ahead of him. His anesthetic of choice was taking hold, calming him adequately for the work ahead.

The wound in question was a clean slice whose depth had allowed all manner of dirt in, and despite having been liberally (albeit indirectly and not deliberately) splashed with cleansing alcohol during the last two weeks it was now a very angry shade of red. The protective layer of dried blood was flecked with dirt and a clear fluid leaked from beneath it with only the slightest pressure. If it was painful to look at, it was surely more painful to actually have and feel, yet young Mark showed no pain or fear. With a trusty pocket knife in hand, he paused only once to take a deep breath and hold it in before exhaling in a great rush. A sagely expression came over him, making his heavy-lidded eyes seem cloudy and distant. With a dazzling quickness he sliced open the hardened surface of his grave injury and Oh! what happened then! A rush of milky fluid rushed forth, gleaming wetly under the light of the afternoon sun. Unfazed by such Mark quickly wiped it away and proceeded to squeeze with the all the somber detachment of a true warrior. Once the rupture in his smooth skin was running with the pure crimson of a clean cut, he wiped his hands off on the comforting cloth of his shortened jeans and simply sat. Clearly this quiet contemplation was his way of cleansing his spirit as well as the site of his bodily harm.

His phone rang and with all the unhurried grace of a seasoned general, Mark reached in his pocket, saw that the name on the phone simply said “Cunty Whore That Dumped Me” and thumbed the silencer with unperturbed ease.

This concludes our first installment of Heart-Pounding Tales of The Manliness of Men Vol. 1: Wound and Infection Treatment Stories! Won’t you join us next time for more thrilling, fascinating and stirring tales of manly men and their aplomb in the face of mortal wounding and dire infections?