The switch that was eventually implanted just above the double fold of fat at the base of Shambal's neckline had been planned for ages. It was his own design, in fact, for he had foreseen his future condition. He was never pleased with what he foresaw, but, always the pragmatist, he took steps to perpetuate his *soul*. Shambal's concept of *soul* was shaky, sure, but basically, he meant the sphere of personality that engorged itself slowly (and sometimes even quickly) since the dawn of consciousness. A com...
One must remember that Shambal Brambel was born both deaf and sessile. I was only when the first tenebrous tentacle plunged from the night sky and uprooted him that he began to become a renowned gigolo, vagrant, gourmet and visionary. Centuries have passed and the apex of his life journey is long behind him. He has enjoyed the ease of descent for ages and like the multicellular forms who shed their complexity and become paramecia once again, Shambal has regressed. His bed is his sessile base now. As descri...
Shambal was well known for his obsession with religion not only in his own land but in empires abroad both fallen and in the throes of power. He was brought up by a despotic mother stewing eternally (well, eternally until her demise) in catholic ideology. To finally flee his childhood oppression and its monkey clawing like his later cocaine demon at the back of his neck for decades and then for centures, he decided to reform the old ways and scribed the following: ### The Ten Goat Commandments - Thou shal...
Long ago, when the wind still whipped the edges off of sharp stones, Rabbit was a great trapper. He lived with his grandmother on the fringe of the Pellucid Desert. She was an ancient and emaciated creature, as well as the only other of his kind he could recall. Perhaps she was his great-grandmother, or even great-great-grandmother. Time was funny in the borderlands. In any case, all the rest of his kind had disappeared. His grandmother was very weak, but at times still spoke. She never looked directly at ...
I am always frightened when I am invited to go to a *authentic* concert of some *ethnic* music. Let's take *flamenco*, for example. Besides the fact that is pretty much howling mierda, the vomit of cultural emotions, why strain to enjoy a virtuoso guitarist through that haze? **Through that filter**? #### What is the point? Learning to divine presentiments from some arcana doesn't make you interesting, you cunt! Why do people flock to see *authentic* music? What are they hearing? Are they there for some s...
I sit in a bar in Bilbao. The barman wears a beard and casually goes about his duty. This is in contrast to the previous bar, very close to the bus station, filled with backpacked women with demands for pintxos. Their drooling eyes almost matched the saliva that pooled on their thighs as they sat on metal barstools. They only wanted to get to the aeroport. It is a pity they are dead now. But, anyway, I wrote these things to Christián, of which I shall elaborate on in turn: > I appreçiate that the Spanish ...
I wrote to Marisa just now: > Dentro del autobus, hay Ingleses delante de mi y Alemanes atrás! Ha. locos! But they are not the strangers. I am. Jayson once told me, and actually told everyone around us, aligned with us, groovin' with us and otherwise accompanying us on the dotted life trek through the universe: > You're lost and you like it. They are not the strangers. I am. They giggle like misfits, but laughter among the superficially inane is glue. Camaraderie is a disease that ultimately benefits al...
A *facebook* friend named Ron Greenough died a few days ago. I don't know the causes of his demise, but I spent a minute on his timeline and found he posted something (I forget what now) on the 21st. Ron and I never met. Actually, during the last few years, we never exchanged any personal quips. I believe I *got to know him* in 2009, soon after my mandatory exile from the Czech Republic. He was some relation of Justin or other. I'm not sure which. I never bothered to find out since it was utterly unimporta...
That capsule of condensed filth that calls itself Christián and I were discussing mild philosophy a few minutes ago. He claimed that two things he ponders on consistently are: - Whatever you are doing now is the meaning of your life. - Wherever you go, there you are. I'm a fan of both views of life. In fact, they are intimately entwined, and, as Shambal claims, *Intimacy is the flower that blooms from cruelty*. Taken from a modern viewpoint, both of these views cruelly elide ideas risen on pedestals by ou...
Like every day lately, earlier in the afternoon, I took my twelve day old bicycle out for spin. I shambled up the incline of a mini-mountain to a disheveled vineyard. The trunks and stalks of barren grape bushes twisted and groped towards me, towards the sky and towards each other. Apparently, it's not grape season. My ride today was brief and I believe the reason was lethargy. Still, it's always thrilling to be out in the air, alone in a capsule as I merge with the elements. My awareness is always heighten...
Shambal grunted and turned onto his side from a torpid, supine night. He reached over to nastily clutch his she-goat's porous flesh, but grasped only the rough, tangled blankets. The she-goat wasn't there. Had he dreamed her all along? But the morning spring in his brain began to wind and he remembered the night before. His niggard had assured him that the she-goat'd be taken to Dunkirk for repairs. Damn biological failings! he screeched silently to himself. First thing in the morning, usually, the she-go...
