Vlasta called me. How she had my number is anyone's guess. She called me and I was in Prague. Why I was in Prague is anyone's guess. _Come pick me up at the bus station._ That's what she said. Or it wasn't _exactly_ what she said, but it was close. How close is anyone's guess. So I arrived to whichever place she had declared and I picked her up. What did I pick her up in? I picked her up in my arms with an embrace. After all, it had been 18 years since we'd seen each other. She had aged, but not as much a...
On the drive up to Lubbock from Seminole today for my father's surgery, I was suddenly gripped by the memory of lying on my back on the floor of Jenn DuBois's apartment in Galveston. Dave was also present, and later that same evening he appropriated my truck. And luckily, my SHOVEL, which incidentally was one of my brilliant gifts for the beginning of the 23rd year of my life, was in the "toolbox" that stretched from side to side in the bed of the truck. More about that later. I was lying on my back in Je...
My name is Shambal Brambel and I enjoy spiking peoples' urine samples with drops of vodka. You may ask why I would do such a seemingly cruel thing. Well, personally, I don't find it cruel at all. I consider it one of the most benevolent acts I've ever participated in. _Participate_ may be the wrong word to use since I carry out the whole shebang myself, but I shan't edit the previous sentence because I can also consider the _job_ (spiking peoples' urine samples with vodka is no longer simply a _thing_ or an...
We extracted cases and cases of jars from the _dispensa_ and from the two storage units on the other side of the _finca_. Some had been placed there nearly two decades ago. They were cherries and figs and myriad other comestibles preserved for an unknown future in this realm by a person who no longer lingers in said realm. She was a product of another time, of a generation and a mentality that never accustomed itself to an abundance now taken for granted. We forced each jar open with tines of forks and no...
I listen to Arve Henriksen as I sit in the _Sala de Estar_ in Frezzie. The house and its surroundings are brimming with various in-laws. There must be over a thousand here. I'm not sure what the food and / or water is laced with that allows them to breed in such a fashion. Now that I think of it, it may not be the food and / or water at all, but the over-exposure to radiation which is present in the Mediterranean environs. Whatever it is, in-laws sprout from every crevice. They don't even have to pipe each ...
So, Mirka was driving. I don't know the make and / or model of the vehicle because (one) I am oblivious to the automobile world and (two) everything else happening may have been a bit distracting. In the passenger's seat was an abomination. What sort of abomination was it? It could have been a very kind abomination for all I know. I am unsure. Whatever personality traits it had, it was still an abomination, and I'm not only stating that in regard to its appearance. There was a particular smell. It wasn't ex...
The following is from the book I'm currently reading: > Alice, as previously formulated, resided more in my memory than in the depleted original container. I'm making note of this, or, rather, beginning a blog entry this evening so I can gunny it out on the morrow morn. Most likely, I'll have finished the book, as I am close to the close and shall begin reading forthwith. Many fascinating ideas lie within, though I'll most likely just touch on this one. So who is this Alice, anyway? In Lethem's _As She C...
After much speculation over quite a bit of time, I've come to the conclusion that the "standards" of production concerning sonic "normality" are tricks. They apply to a very small percentage of the music making population. They have been refined over decades to appeal to the lowest common denominator. And refined even more now to appeal to those who consume music through streaming services. Like most who are in the habit of composing and recording our own music, I have fallen for this trick time and again...
I failed the universe's tenuous strands that hold its gauze together two days ago when I did not write about the dream I had which featured not Lucía herself, but a physical search for where she might be. I used to have tangible address books and there were essential to me. They were sacred. Tangible address books! Ones one could actually touch! Imagine that! And one of these tangible address books still exists and it is in a box in the closet in my bedroom in Seminole. When I was last there in March, I did...
In the dream, a scroll stretched between the two cottages. It was a stereotypically antiquated scroll - one you'd perhaps expect to see in a film about warlocks or fifteenth century reformists in the Kingdom of Bohemia. I specify _fifteenth century reformists in the Kingdom of Bohemia_ because I spent one of my so-called former lives as a paramecium in the Kingdom of Bohemia and I clearly remember the Hussites using this sort of scroll as a symbol of additional "rebellion" against the Roman Empire's obsessi...
I dumped a thought into my "Twtxt feed" (which needs a new name, as the original idea's association with _Twitter_ dissolved long ago) this morning concerning the drug problem in España. I don't normally concern myself with such issues, but I'd had a conversation with Marisa, who is a partaker of Benzodiazepine, about the fact that Spain is shoulders and torso above all other countries on this ball of steel and greenery in the consumption of said chemical. My comment addressed social pressure, and specifi...
