The Temple of the Forbidden Beat

Project Silverlock: Rough Draft One

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 20:28:00 +0000

Coffee and Cocaine

There was an anticlimax to the download. The air crackled in expectation but then somehow, the muted boop of my computer failed to impart the gravity of the situation. It was a pleasing tone like any other and I could not know what it meant to me.

VLC opened the file up and the first strains of Goodwill Of The Scar came floating out of my headphones. For 27 minutes I sat in the sofa of a coffee shop staring straight ahead and barely breathing. A few early risers walked past me with iced mochas in hand, giving me the slightly wary look and extra foot of room my glazed eyes demanded.

The Generic Brown Dog that boiled around the clients there was braver, stopping to lick my bare kneecap in an apparent gesture of friendship. I will have to remember that, the next time I meet someone new. Lick the kneecap, continue drooling. Even my freshly moistened knee could not drag me back into reality. The sounds coming into my ears had turned off my conscious mind and kept me staring at the menu in front of me.

No matter, I thought; this has happened before. It's just a really good record and it'll take you some time to get a feel for it. I continued on about my day and forgot all about the trance state of a Saturday morning coffee shop. Sunday afternoon I went after the album again. Here now is our brave reviewer walking down to the riverfront in Sellwood to get in the proper frame of mind. I needed water, lots of it, to put myself in the right place to listen to this album. iPod in hand I made my way down to the beach and put my feet in the river. 27 minutes later I am staring out at boaters passing by with no words, not one step closer to a proper review.

At this point I had become frustrated. Two days and no words. Was it writer's block? I shook my head at the possibility; I've long considered that to be the myth of writers who put too much stock in their first draft. What was it then? What quality of this record was making it so difficult to put into words?

I tackled the problem head on. Over the next week I found myself listening to it in as many different ways as possible. It was listened to on five different stereos, six pairs of headphones and once through a discarded tuba. I reversed the stereo channels, passed it through a guitar amp and listened to it in the bathroom. Each time I was emotionally overcome by this album; and utterly without words to describe the experience.

My world was being threatened. I am a writer, if I cannot find words to describe things I need to find a new way to occupy my time. Fear creeps in the background, a subtle terror at the prospect of the unreviewable album. I ran through my list of standard techniques. I shuffled the Oblique Strategies like a tarot deck, my hands guiding them into ley lines. Inspiration is a discipline. I repeat my mantra. Inspiration is a discipline.

The night passed slowly, every second ticking off my wrist and onto a floor littered with crumpled paper labeled simply; Tartufi: Goodwill Of The Scar. A thousand other works clicked into place around it as I hammered on my brain for words to match this record. A plot line falls out here, two poems get a polish and paint job they've needed for weeks, sketches for new stories pile up in notebooks all around me and I feel good. Until I pick up another blank piece of paper with the word Tartufi on it.

I leaped into the past, clutching Dirty Three's Ocean Songs to my chest and rocking in the morning sunlight after a cocaine night. My own words were scrawled across my wrists from some time in that dark night.

"Home is not a place. Home has never meant that to me. It is an idea, a fraction of myself told in bedsheets and cookware. So when the time came to leave it all behind and journey across the waters to a new life, I jumped at the chance.

The ship was tiny, cowering in the bay next to the gods and giants moored near her resting place. No matter. I wasn't looking for a luxury berth, I wanted to know the ocean like my ancestors did. I wanted, above all else, to feel the ocean in my bones and etch her songs upon my heart.It is a young man's game, I suppose, to throw oneself against the elements: to test your will against the cliff faces of reality.

A cry on board cracked across my reverie and I stowed my gear near the storehouses in the stern. For the next three months this cramped and fetid hole in the bottom of a cargo ship would be my home. Nested deep within the pile of clothes and notebooks was my most cherished possession, the icon of this journey. A violin. I had never been a rich man and this fragile piece of wood had cost me nearly every penny I had. If you want to know the core of yourself, it is best to strip off everything you drag around.

I lived and breathed salt air for endless days, hauling lines until my hands bled and eating the stale iron rations stacked high in the cargo holds next to barrels of tobacco and cotton. Each night I would secret away to my corner of the hold and coax my hands warm until I could feel my fingers playing upon the strings of my violin. It was the entire reason I found myself a thousand miles from the land of my fathers, blasted by cold waters, wracked by fevers and so tired that I could hardly sleep at night.

I sang with Poseidon, played symphonies of delight with the Sirens and conducted the winds to the call of cat gut and rosin. This was home, this was the sliver of myself that could never be found in cities or distilled from pastures overgrown with arrogance and the tyrannies of petty men. At last my home, sweet Atlantis.

I found myself at the end of my journey too soon. So that no one may forget this communion of wind and water I have recorded every note, every nuance, every endless storm of my life. May it stand as a sign post on your journey home."

Home. Is that the answer? I had not left my home for four days straight, subsumed under the weight of The Butterless Man, The Butterless Man, The Butterless Man, The Butterless Man Oh Gods Why The Butterless Man? I knew this could not go on for ever. I needed help.

# # #

J. Sheridan Osborn

J. Sheridan Osborn was not a nice person. I did not have him on speed dial and every time I called him I ended up regretting it. He did not play golf with me on the weekends, I did not know his wife, we did not chuckle about getting older over beers. He was not a man to invite over for a barbecue unless someone at your barbecue was possessed by demons and it's ruining the vibe. He was the only person I knew who looked at that kind of shit and simply said "huh" like it happened all the time. I never asked him why that was so and I will never get the chance.

His taxi arrived at my house thirty minutes late as usual and started honking the horn ceaselessly until I stumbled out of the front door half dressed and bleary eyed, clutching my iPod and coffee. The rear passenger window on the Radio Cab rolled down and I could smell the cheap cologne curl out of the seat.

"I can't believe you'd call me for something like this. There is nothing weird going on here. You're just fucking terrible at what you do. You're lucky I have need of you. " I stared at The Bastard and shook his hand.
"Fuck You John." I could feel the camaraderie brewing.

I plopped down in the cab he laid out his plan. We were on the way to the heliport in downtown where an air taxi would take us out to the Pacific. From there we landing on a cutter that he had chartered for this exact purpose. "What purpose?" I asked. He just rolled his eyes at me and continued on.

"We're stopping off near Seattle to meet some more people and pick up provisions. Hopefully we'll be ready to roll within two days. Call your people or your agent or whatever and tell them you're on vacation for a few weeks. Call your mom, your attorney, your drug dealer or whatever and let them know you'll be out of touch. Here, use this phone."

The heliport was on top of the World Trade Center in downtown and the building had that remarkable style of New American Boring that every interior designer for the last 20 years has stuck in their heads. I could have been inside a shopping mall for fucks sake. Every single one of these places looks the same. I've always considered it a crime against aesthetics.

On the roof a sleek white helicopter and a bored looking pilot were waiting and moments later I was airborne and heading through downtown Portland with headphones clamped onto my headache and an asshole riding shotgun. He spent the hour flight regaling me with a long and complex narrative about his early helicopter experiences, his fathers obsession with neo-Kantian aesthetic philosophies and his family dog. I nodded in my coffee and enjoyed my headache all the way over the mountains to the ocean.

It was a typical Oregon day so I didn't see the boat until we were damn near landed. To even call it a boat seems wrong. At what size does a boat become a ship? I think right around the size of the Alexa. From the look of it I would have said that she was a luxury yacht but once we landed I began to notice differences. For one, there was no luxury.

As the rotors slowed down I was ushered off of the helicopter by a couple bored looking attendants off of the helideck and past a vast array of antennae and wiring being assembled on the top of the ship. I look to Osborn and pointed at the equipment. "What the hell Osborn, looking for ghosts?"

He levelled his gaze at me and cocked up his eyebrow, his hair remaining freakishly still in the stiff Pacific breeze. "Come on down below and I'll tell you what it is. We've got some booze down there and I need a drink."

The utter lack of luxury was even more apparent in the cabin. A pervasive smell of grease and burned solder was wafting through the air and all of the wall cladding was stripped off. The only seating to be had was on crates lining the walls and Osborn pointed towards one as he dug around in a cooler. Two beers appeared in his hand and one proffered to me. I looked at the bottle; Full Sail IPA. "Oh, you're fucking hilarious John. So what's the deal with the gear up top? What is all that crap?"

"That my good man, is an experimental stealth system on loan from some friends at DARPA. Essentially what it does it capture incoming radar signals, analyze them faster than realtime and spit back inverted waves to cancel out the signal. Fancy shit my friend, all very nütechi and officially non existent. It'll make sure we likewise won't exist according to government wonks and keep nosy ships off our back whilst we go about our business."

"Wait, did you say faster than real time?"

"Sure, the fast Fourier transforms needed to invert incoming radar waves require processing time. This has been the biggest stumbling block in creating an active stealth system for large objects. It's complex math and you can't do these kinds of equations fast enough to create an effective countermeasure. So, this particular system bypasses that problem. It simply does the math in a pocket of temporal dislocation. We send the problem back in time so the solution appears before we need it."

I pulled hard on my beer and looked over at John. "Are you fucking kidding me? How does that even work? Wait, never mind. Every time you try to explain to me how this weird shit works my brain threatens to go on strike. How about; What are we doing?"

"We're going to test out a new piece of shiny some friends of mine have cooked up. You just happened to present me with the perfect scenario. I'll let them explain it when we pick them up in Seattle. For now, you just kick back and enjoy this fine Pacific weather while I go get us under way. Oh, your gear is in this crate."

He pulled out a crate labelled "Nelson" from the stack on the wall of the cabin. A plain wooden shipping crate with Chinese stamps all over it slid to a stop a few feet from me.

"Open it up, familiarize yourself with everything inside. If you have any questions: too fucking bad." He laughed sharply and hoisted himself up the stairs to start yelling at his underlings.

I got familiar with the crate.

Inside I found three identical sets of navy TDUs, high visibility rain and floatation gear, a radio and a few other odds and ends for a long sea voyage. The bottom of the crate had something else entirely. A case containing a Chinese AR-15 clone, several thousand rounds of 5.56 NATO rounds and tactical body armor with helmet. Now, I am no stranger to firearms but there is a very big difference between a handgun and a selective fire machine gun. Especially when paired with combat armor. I stared at this for a while, just shaking my head and wondering why in the fuck I had called Osborn.

I was just about to go topside to spend some quality time yelling at him when his face popped into the cabin. "You found the toys huh? Yeah we're really hoping we don't need those but it's always better to be safe than sorry. Did you look underneath it?"

I pulled the gun case out of the crate and looked underneath. A waxed cotton sack looked back at me. Curious, I pulled the bag out and peered inside. Pants, shirt, hat, shoes all greeted me from inside the bag. It smelled like it had been stuck at the bottom of the ocean under a rotting kraken for a few millennia but everything seemed to be in good, if worn condition. Something was off here. I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Gods Osborn, why does this smell like it's been fucked by dead fish? And what the hell do I need body armor for?"
"Body armor? To stop bullets you fucking moron. As for the fishing gear; authenticity. You'll need to look just like a whaler where we're going and the smell is a big part of the scene. I'll let you know when you'll need that. For now, let's grab another beer and head upstairs. There's some folks I want you to meet."

Leaving that crate full of unknowable fuckery behind me I headed back up to the deck of the Alexa and was shocked to see the sunlight. It's mostly a myth to Portlanders. We don't believe in the sun. Alright, I was similarly shocked to find a full length dining table had been erected on the top of the deck replete with linen, silver and china place settings. I shot John a quizzical eyebrow. "Hey, I'm a classy dude. What can I say?"

# # #

Ladies and Gentlemen...

There was a considerable crowd of people assembled at the vast table. After we all found seating at the table Osborn stood up and cleared his throat. Once the din of voices died down he addressed the assembly.

"Good afternoon everyone, I am J. Sheridan Osborn. Some of you have worked for me before, some of you are new. All of you have been selected for this job for various reasons. First an foremost is your ability to keep your face shut. I don't think I need to remind anyone here of how seriously I take non-disclosure but I will."

"The last person to speak to the authorities about who I am and what I do has had their mind stripped of everything but the most basic rudiments of language and is currently enjoying a very long retreat at a mental hospital while they attempt to recover their pathetic personality. This may seem like an extreme measure. I don't really care what you think, you're all being rewarded quite handsomely for your silence so that should be the end of it."

I raised my hand slightly. "I uhhh..." He looked down quickly and whispered "Later man, I'll fill you in."

"As I was saying, you people are going to keep your mouths shut because I'm making you stupidly rich and I'll burn out your fucking neural structures if I even suspect that you'll double cross me. So now that we're all clear, let's introduce ourselves and our specialties."

People raised slightly from their seats an introduced themselves. A historian, sailor, surgeon, pilot, metallurgist, and so many scientists and engineers it made my head spin. One man stood out. Sitting opposite me at the table and dressed in a simple black suit he stood completely to his seven feet and slowly turned his head to survey the whole table. A bass rumble issued forth from him.

"Greetings everyone, my name is Master Ion Dragulin and I am a thaumaturge. Given the highly rationalist character of this gathering I expect some skepticism of my practice and prejudice towards my presence here. I will not tolerate this and my gracious benefactor Mr. Osborn has assured me I will have to suffer no ill will from any of you fine persons. If there is any among you who take issue with me and my arts let us hear it now."

A rumble of murmurs rippled through the assembled diners and one Dr. Dominic Graston rose to voice his opposition. The table quieted down a notch and he began:

"You are to do what exactly? Detect disturbances in the void? Cast spells of warding as we do the real work? I'll call it; you and your lot are a sham and a load of horse shit and I'm tired of your types showing up and making a scene every time we start to push the boundaries of physical reality. This is science you asshole. None of your theatrics or stage tricks will convince me otherwise. I have been to enough of these parties to know your type. You're just defrauding people. You disgust me and I won't be part of this mockery."

Dragulin looked down towards the table. "Is that how you truly feel?"

"Yes, you lying fucking prick. You aren't here to do anything except line your pockets "

Dragulin looked towards where John was sitting. John nodded towards the giant.

He sighed. He moved his hand towards Graston and spoke a word that I couldn't quite hear. My mind just turned the corner when I tried to understand it. For a moment nothing happened.

Dr. Graston laughed slightly, turning towards the rest of the table. "You see, what bu." At once he turned inside out. I don't know how else to describe it. It was like someone reached up through his asshole and pulled his head down through his body. The fountain of blood covered half the table and was soon matched in volume by myself and most everyone else at the table vomiting.

"Gagh, for fucks sake Ion you could have done something less messy." Osborn was wiping blood and viscera off of his glasses nonchalantly while I continued to dry heave into my hands. Ion looked calmly over the scene.

"My apologies Mr. Osborn it won't happen again. I trust that their is little doubt as to the effectiveness of my arts. As to my purpose, I am here to protect you from whatever comes through that gate you want so badly to open. Please pardon my mess.."

At that he sat down and looked around patiently as if anticipating the next person to speak. Not even a breeze disrupted the silence.

Osborn stood and replaced his glasses. "I think that's enough for now folks, we're all old friends now. We should be arriving in Seattle shortly to pick up the rest of our crew." He motioned for the deckhands to mop up the remains of Dr. Graston with a sweep of his hands. As the crew at the table broke off into small groups I moved over to the railing and started fumbling around in my pockets.

Fuck. I had quit smoking. There was no pack in any pockets and hadn't been for months. Double fuck.

Out of the corner of my eye a large hand holding a silver slim case of cigarettes appeared. "Mr. Nelson, may I offer you a cigarette? I do apologize for this unpleasantness. Please, take one." Ion Dragulin was towering over me looking exceptionally unruffled and wearing an inappropriately warm smile.

"There's uhh, nothing weird in these right? No fucking opium or powdered tiger dicks or any shit like that?"

He nodded, I caved. It tasted like shit. I coughed for a second but revelled in the pain. It was better than my recent memories. Dragulin lit up one of his own and took a long slow drag, exhaling through his nose into the sea spray.

"Mr. Osborn an ourselves have something in common Mr. Nelson. Unlike the rest of these people, we are in the habit of believing six impossible things before breakfast. I think we may work very well together, the three of us. These scientists have no imagination, no faith. They bore me."

I took another foul and delicious drag. "What makes you think I'm any different? I don't snap my fingers and turn people into hamburger for kicks. I'm just an underemployed writer who drinks too fucking much. I try and stay away from all this weirdness that John gets into."

"Ah, but you have the capacity my friend. Rationalists are always looking for strings, you and I are looking for the puppet masters. Trust me Mr. Nelson, I know what I speak of. In any case, we will soon be in Seattle and you will meet some of my associates."

I snubbed the cigarette out on the railing. "In Seattle with a pack of fucking necromancers. What. The. Fuck."

"I am not a necromancer sir, I am a thaumaturge. Although, there are plenty of them about. Would you like an introduction? I believe the county coroner in Clackamas dabbles in the evenings and I have her phone number.."

"No, that's alright. I don't want to know these things. Why the fuck do I ever call John?"

"Because I'm the life of the party Nelson. That's why you called me." I turned to see Osborn leaning on the railing and looking smug and wearing a fresh button down black shirt. "The three of us are going for a helicopter ride. We'll meet up with the boat in the morning. Good gods Nelson look at your clothing!" I looked at the vomit and Dr. Graston decoration.

"What about it?"

# # #

Call me Ishmael

"It was designed by Masons you know. A bunch of amateurs playing at sacred geometry. No wonder you can't get anything done there, the energies are all wrong, too controlled and tame. Now if you want to get some real Work done, try New Orleans. That is a town that runs on Magick my friend."

Osborn was gestuculating wildly, bits of oyster flying off his cocktail fork and towards the surrounding tables. He had been stuffing his face with the ocean for at least an hour and he showed no signs of slowing. Everything fell victim; a plate of crabs, two whole lobsters, three bowls of clam chowder and now deep fried oysters had been sacrificed. Poseidon weeps.

Dragulin was similarly unstoppable. His face was perpetually hunched over the plates of crab he was consuming and apparently hadn't bothered to breath in some time. I had been mulling over my single bowl of stew the whole time. I have no idea how these assholes were capable of putting down that much food after watching, and in Ion's case causing, a man to unwillingly invert. I couldn't get it out of my head.

The newcomers to the table were a friendly and generally boring looking couple. They had been introduced as Amanda and Terence Cuthbert. Terence had a weak handshake, timid eyes and a retiring presence. he was nearly invisible. His wife was built like a fortress. She could withstand an assault by the British Armada and harbor the rebelling Americans in her bosom. Breasts like that have satellites. Her personality matched.

"We've never had any problems getting things done in the District dear Osborn. Perhaps you should leave the Magick to the mages and stick to writing obscure philosophy books? How do you think things get done in the federal capital? We have clients all over Capitol Hill. You'd be surprised how many heart attacks we are contracted for."

Osborn looked incredulous. "See, that's what I'm saying. A heart attack? That's not a Working, it's just lazy. I can do that with some potassium chloride and a little luck. Now the second Bush term? That was a work of fucking art."

"Well thank you kindly John. Mr. Rove paid us quite handsomely didn't he dear? Oh yes, a very good client. Although it was distressing having to use that many virgins to keep Cheney from succumbing to his condition."

I looked up from my soup. "What condition?" My dinner mates looked at me blankly.
Ion looked over from his crab graveyard. "He's a lich Eriq. He hasn't been truly living since the 18th century. How could you not tell?"

I shut the fuck up and ate my soup.

Osborn knocked back another beer and pointed his fork at Terence. "Now as much as I appreciate the pleasantries, you and I have business to conduct Terence."

Terence smiled and nodded. "Of course Mr. Osborn, I have the manuscript here with me." He reached under the table for his briefcase and pulled out a small rectangular package wrapped in black cloth. "First edition. There's just a hint of Mellville's DNA here on the outside cover. Looks like a bit of blood and some skin cells are still hanging around. I've brought him around twice using this and some other personal affects from an estate sale. Do you need any of them? I have a good seller in New York."

Osborn had wiped the savaged remains of his dinner off, slipped on white glove and was thumbing through the book entranced. "No Terry, this is perfect. Thank you so much, this will make the whole process much simpler. I'll have your payment arranged this evening."

I peered over at the book. Great Khalis Cunt I thought. That's a first edition Moby Dick. I started drooling in my soup. "Hey John, can I see that?"

He snarled and glared at me. "Fuck off, this is costing me more than you're worth. Yes, it's authentic. No, you can't touch."

What an ass.

As Terry began to thank John his wife blasted through his sentiment. "OH, you will pay us Osborn. I don't care how long we've known each other. That book is worth it's weight in Philosopher's Stone and we're due a nice long vacation after the last couple years."

"Yes, you'll get your money you shameless mercenary. It's a shame I can't bribe you both to come with us. I'm sure Ion would like the company."

Ion nodded. "It'll be a great ride Terry. Are you certain you can't be bought? Why not take your time off with us?"

"I'm sorry Ion. I promised Amanda that we'd take a vacation in this dimension this time. We're going to Scotland."

Dinner veered off in a thousand strange directions, conversation steered around me as if I was a navigation buoy. I excused myself early and left the table to head upstairs. Osborn may be a terrible prick but he's no cheapskate. The Boka restaurant is attached to a modern luxury hotel gem called Hotel 1000. It was good to travel with these paranormal Brahmin, they seem to have access to unusual amounts of currency. The room was lathered in Babylonian excess and I was set to indulge as much of it as possible. I spoke the concierge at the desk and had a bottle of ancient bourbon, a case of beer and a selection of cigars sent up. Excess is an art and I am an artist.

Morning cracked over Seattle in a pale silver wash. I pulled myself out of bed and into the shower just in time. Osborn started banging on the door as I stood surveying the results of the night in my towel. At some point last night a drug dealer had arrived bearing a considerable quantity of cocaine. It appeared to have been attacked by werewolves. Bloody werewolves ruin everything...

As I let him in Osborn shoved his way past me into the room and yelling. "Get your clothes on now, we're taking off in ten minutes. Don't ask questions."
"Wow, yeah. Good morning John. Nice to see you sir."

I yanked on my pants and shirt, snatching up my bag and stuffing my shoes on while cursing my endless headache. Osborn was vibrating nervously. "Hurry up fucknuts. It is time to GO."
"Fucking hell John, I'm not firing on all cylinders right now. I need coffee. What is so urgent?"

I looked up from tying my shoes. At this point I notice the blood dripping onto the carpet and the 9mm in John's hand. “FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUU...”
"Let's go NOW!"

A blast from behind me threw me towards the door. A dust and blood covered Dragulin had been blown bodily through the adjoining suite and rolled to a stop in the middle of mine still smoking from the green fireball that had propelled him. Osborn grabbed my arm and shoved me through the open door and began firing into the hole in the wall. Ion had rolled up and was making for the door when the hole in the wall belched another green fireball.

Ion reached up his hands and speaking softly, rolled the fireball around him and through the window to his right. I had never seen Tai Chi used against green fireballs but I had little time to be impressed. The shattering of the hotel window filled my ears a split second before Osborn screamed into my face.

"RUN YOU IDIOT!"

We ran as hard as we could towards the elevator and I heard John roll off another clip behind us as we skidded to a halt at the end of the hallway. I turned quickly, looking behind me to see what he was firing at. Ion was knocked onto the floor again, blood oozing from his face and over him stood 12 feet of Nasty Fucking Critter. It was made of fangs. I don't think there was any flesh there at all. It was a dentists joke, a dental elemental. Just a twelve foot tall mouth with green flames licking out over the edge of its lips.

Well, I was wrong. It had eyes. It had just seen me and it let out a shit inducing scream as it started towards us. I ran. Fast.

The stairs blurred past us as we ran down them, John desperately trying to reload his 9mm and me only focused on getting as far away from the Whatever The Fuck That Was. I could hear it rattling around the stairwell as we burst into the lobby and past the front desk. I tried to look away from the front desk as it was covered from one end to the other in a fine red paste that used to be employee. Everything that wasn't shredded was on fire.

I threw the doors of the lobby open and ran out onto the sidewalk of a 10 AM Seattle just coming to grips with what was happening in the hotel. Evidently the green fireball had caused a stir. I could hear sirens bouncing around the concrete canyon as the Fire Department rushed to deal with the scene. John pointed me towards a waiting open car door and told me to get inside. I blew through the gawking bystanders and shoved my way to the car.

I collapsed into the back seat of the car as Osborn landed nearly on top of me and the car sped off. After we rearranged ourselves I lost my shit on Osborn wholly. I screamed at him until was hoarse and had run out of terrible things to say about his lineage, the nature of his sexual preferences (cattle if I remember correctly) and every other aspect of his being.

When I curse a man, I summon all of my strength. His indomitable hair bent under my assault, his glasses melted around the frame just a little bit. I could feel myself getting up to full steam. Finally his hand threw up a white flag and I relented.

"Alright, things got out of hand."
"Out of hand? No, my drinking last night got 'out of hand'. That fucking demon almost ate my hand."
"Look, I'm sorry alright. I'll make it up to you."
"No!" I screamed loud enough to rattle the windows. "You will let me out of this car, I'm going home. You and your mages and your weird shit can all fuck right off. I'm going back to Portland and getting drunk. You are fucking crazy Osborn."
He glared at me and picked up his cellphone. "Just keep your cool. I'm calling in backup. Hey Wilson, be sure to mask our exit."

The man who was driving our car nodded and remained silent while Osborn painted mudras on his phone. The driver was weaving us through Seattle traffic and strange turns steadily moving towards Madison Park. There is this special kind of driving that rests between fast enough to warrant attention and too slow to feel like escaping. The driver of this vehicle had managed to impress this delicate balance on his passengers. I was impressed. I was in the hands of a vehicular artist. I have often wondered if there is a special school for teaching this fine art. Some kind of Zendo dedicated to the Balanced Drive.

"So who's backup? The National Guard? Godzilla?"
"Orkin. You'd be surprised what kind of pest control they offer to the right clients."
"Why am I not surprised? Have you heard from Terry or Amanda?"
Osborn looked ill for a moment. “They’ll be fine on their own.”
I looked him dead in the face. "I'm out. I can't do this Osborn. It's too much."
He smiled slowly and leaned back in his seat.
"I guess that means you don't want to meet Ahab then. Fine."
"Wait, meet Ahab?"
The wheels crunched gravel into a stop in front of the docks. He opened the door, looked over at me and smiled.

"Call me Ishmael."

# # #

Project Silverlock

Evidently the Seattle Police don't take kindly to green fireballs erupting out hotel windows, hard to explain dead body pastes and the pervasive fug of Weird Shit hanging over a high end luxury hotel. There were choppers circling the downtown blocks with snipers hanging out of the doors. News copters followed them on every pass, shooting the 11 o'clock footage and making asinine comments. I wondered how this would play out in the media.

Osborn was standing on the foredeck as we made our way into the line for the locks and laughing hysterically while playing with his phone. I walked up beside him and looked down. Twitter.

“We have got to go right now. It would seem that someone caught our little escapade on video and put it up on Youtube. Not cool, we’re leaving now.”

The constant drone of the circling helicopters was ramping up every moment that we stood there and I finally looked around to see why. The same white, anonymous helicopter that I had arrived on was landing on the other end of the boat. Inside was a piece of shredded beef that was formerly Ion Dragulin, Thaumaturge. People were piling towards the copter as the blades spun down and I joined Osborn in the crush.

He slouched out of the passenger seat and walked straight to Osborn. He slapped a bloody black cloth box into his hands. He wheezed “Your book sir.” and proceeded towards the deck at an alarming rate. Two young medics from the group rushed over and the crowd starting breaking apart as the vessel, set sail.

I looked at Osborn, who was staring at the book intently. “OK you dick head, no one seems to be trying to eat my corpse at the moment. Let’s have it. Who is trying to kill me, why should I call you fucking Ishmael and WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?”

Osborn looked flatly at me. “Right, we’ll need some drinks.”

Sitting down in the hold once more, Osborn passed me the bottle of vodka he had liberated from the galley.

“It’s time for a little story. We’ll be on the boat for a long time now. We’re heading for Panama, then on to Nantucket Island for a final check before we launch. You have been drafted into Project Silverlock. In fact, you very much are Project Silverlock.”

I slugged hard on the lowball vodka. “I’ll bite, what is Project Silverlock and why am I it?”

“Glad you asked. Project Silverlock is our attempt to access another reality, in this case a fictional one. You are important because you already have strong ties to that reality. We want to use your head as a conduit to enter Moby Dick.”

“But, fucking why?” I pleaded. “What good will that do?”

“None. This is a test. If it works well then we’ll keep ramping it up. We chose Moby Dick because it has strong ties to a real world location, it’s based in our version of reality on a true story and we happen to have that marvelous copy of the first edition available.”

I poked the bottle into his chest. “So what was that thing that tried to eat my face?”

He swilled hard and coughed. “Essexian Radicals. They’re a cult that surrounds Herman Melville and his relics. They have been after that copy for a long time before Terence got his hands on it. They were particularly pissed that Terence and Amanda were bringing Hermans ghost around to amuse cocktail parties in Georgetown. I guess they saw me as a weak link and picked this time to attack. Thank the eldritch horrors of the deep that Ion was around.”

“Yeah, that didn’t look like a classic literature nerd Osborn; it looked like a tooth fairy someone bred with a lawnmower.”

“Certainly you realize that some cults have honest to Shiva sorcerers in their ranks? One of their number must have called up some kind of critter from a child's nightmare, or a construct made from a dental office chair and some dead kittens. Ion will know. He’s conjured far nastier things and if I know him he probably called up something terrible to deal with their fireball launching breakfast ruining death machine.”

“Seriously man, I have no idea how you stay so cavalier about all this crazy shit. I’m starting to doubt my sanity over here and you talk about conjuring demons like it happens every day. What the fuck Osborn? What the fuck kind of life do you lead?”

He straightened up his back. “You really want to know? It’s simple. Think about electricity. Now you plug in a vacuum cleaner to the wall and it works. You expect it to, it’s part of your day to day reality. It is as invisible as the rest of the smoothly functioning techno organism we call society. This is not the truth of the thing.”

“The truth of electricity is that generating it, distributing it and keeping it from burning down whole cities is mind bogglingly complicated. It takes an enormous amount of people to force lightning to behave itself and power Playstations. There are engineers who spend their entire lives studying nothing but electricity and still know only a fraction of how it actually works. Shit, how much do you actually know about writing? From what I can tell you don’t know shit.”

I flicked him off and took the bottle from his hands.

“But see that’s my point. You still do it every day. We don’t know jack shit. None of us. Even people who appear to be completely in control of their knowledge are just skilled at hiding their ignorance. The only difference between you and I is that I stopped expecting reality to conform to my opinions of it a really long time ago and I gave up on knowing anything at all. I just look at it like electricity. Guys like Ion? They’re just master electricians. They don’t really understand how magick works, but they can damn sure direct it to turn you into a newt.”

I got up and walked across the hold, nursing the bottle against my chest and cursing.

“Alright you dick. Fine. So what’s in it for me? Why should I go along with this crazy shit just for a music review?”

Osborn laughed hard enough to rattle the cabin. “You mean this doesn’t excite you? We’re going to step into another universe and you’re worried about a fucking record review?”

“Hey, fuck off. You don’t have editors clawing at your nuts about deadlines and ‘buzz’. I need to get this done. It’s not just about the deadline, I can’t get it moving. It’s the first time in a decade that I can’t find the words to describe a record. I’m not thrilled about this.”

He smiled slyly. “I might have something to do with that.”

I was dumfounded. “What?”

“I had a friend place a psionic block in your head to make sure you couldn’t get the review written. I had to get you obsessed with Moby Dick. I needed a writer for my project. I told you, you are Project Silverlock.”

-To be continued, edited, revised, discarded, drug out of the trash and revised, beaten with reeds and possibly published.

Portland; briefly

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 23:35:00 +0000

Teetering on the brink of drunk I lean my bike into the collection at the rail. The cold rain keeps my stumbling fingers from gaining purchase on my lock, but the smell of fried food is enough to get me through it. Fourteen stumbles into a line of chattering lights and post bar crowd kids. We're drooling into our raincoats.

Thirty minutes later I can see the night air again. The whorl of people and noise breaks falls in a wash behind me as the industrial park turns into a colored wave of bricks and rusting metal. Emptiness, and the gentle night water lapping against houseboats fills my eyes.

The camps along the river flicker with lighters flame and sigh every breath of found wine and desperation. I am a single point of wobbling light rushing past and sweating hops and crepes. I climb up into the sleeping houses and settle myself against the back porch and watch the fir climb slowly to the clouds.

Haiku

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 23:20:00 +0000

Rain pours through my mind
The densest parts of my life
I awake to birds

Poetry: Invisible

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 18:09:00 +0000

I am strolling through the mall
looking at expensive shoes
   and laughing

No one can see me
when I wear the right shirt
smiling at the right times

Appreciate the sublime beauty
   of another sale
Praise the wise purchase
   of the next obsession

I am invisible
and nameless

I am the hunter
rubbing himself down with deer piss
at 3 in the morning

I look out at all the other white people
chattering into cell phones and shopping
wondering if there's an ugly truth
brewing below the waves
of shiny plastic wrapping
and gigantic cinnamon buns

every one of them is pretending
and they're all miserable
underneath the credit cards and televisions

I think they are
I think we are
  I think I am

I will

start a new religion
and take confessions in the public square

  worship no gods, no idols, no teachings
  nothing, no thing

   listen for the sound of a heart screaming out
   and while the tears roll down my chest

   let them know how each of us is dying inside
   and there is beauty in that:

When we share it with each other.

Short Story: A Dream I Had

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 06:03:00 +0000

I found myself looking down a long road, the trees on either side bent and ancient. The sun burned low and golden on the horizon as my feet made crunching sounds on the gravel below. The path arched out, snakelike in front of me and I could not see more than a stones throw in front of me at any time. I walked through this path, smelling the long slow summer wind and listening to the rustle of tree leaves dancing, the cicadas tremolo made a counterpoint to the endless swell of the trees.

Travelers met me, smiled and waved and went on about their way. They were dressed in poor cloth, most hunched over like pack mules carrying their wares to market. Their faces blurred in and out of reality as the day wandered with me into sunset. As the leaves drank up the last of the day I came at last to the end of the path.

A blank obsidian wall loomed up ahead of me. consuming every bit of my vision. I looked to my right and could see the wall, a thousand feet high stretching out into the horizon. To my left the wall went on forever. The path lead right up to the edge of the wall and abruptly stopped. I walked over to the end of the path and put my hands on the wall. It was warm and pulsing, as if it had been soaking up the sunlight all day long and drinking in the life of the forest around me.

I stood there, staring at the wall for half an hour when an old man and his cart came teetering up to the wall. I walked over to his ox and cart and asked him.

"Excuse me sir, how does one get around this wall?"

"You do not go around the Wall, you go through it."

"Through it? Tell me, how do you go through the Wall?"

"Well, you'll need a sword." He said, patting the blade strapped to his side.

At this, he ticked his reigns and drove his ox-cart right up to the wall. As he approached, a seam appeared in the middle of it where it met the road. The wall swung open and he drove his cart right through the middle of it.

I ran after him as fast as I could and smacked face first into the wall. I could not understand this, the doors had become a blank face of black stone once more, no trace of the doors remained. I scratched at the Wall, trying to find where it had opened, I screamed and cursed the Wall, kicked and punched at with all of my energy and I cried until I could move no more. At last, when all of my energy had been depleted, I fell into a deep sleep at the base.

When dawn crept over my cloak I found the Wall stretching up into the sky still. A thousand feet tall, a thousand feet thick and no end as far as my eyes could tell. I squinted up through the morning haze at the travelers approaching the wall. A young woman and her child were standing nearby, waiting for someone and peering down the road every few minutes. I dusted myself off and walked over.

"Tell me miss, where can I get a sword to cross through the Wall?"

"Oh, there is a smith about three miles back up in the forest. In the village off to your left."

"Thank you very much!"

I knew this was what I was waiting for and I leapt up the trail, bounding past the faceless traffic on the road. Around three hundred bends, across the open field and back into the forest I ran. The fork to the village was as she said, about three miles from the Wall and by the time I had run there I was thoroughly exhausted. Panting and soaked in sweat, I turned off of the main road and made my way to the village.

The village rose into view as I passed over a small hill, it's size obscured by the trees surrounding it. Most of the buildings were low, conical reed roofed buildings with small chimneys. In the center of the village was a large well and market. Only when I got closer to the village did I realize how large it truly was. People were overflowing all over the center of the market, a thousand fruits and vegetables lined up, small crafts and smoked meat, bolts of cloth, a hundred packs of children running through the mess of it all. I wandered closer and found the closest stall.

"Step right up sir, we've got all a weary traveler could need right here."

The man behind the stall was as blurry as every other person I had seen. His face a pale blur like he was shaking it too fast for my eyes to follow.

"Can you tell me where the blacksmith is? I have need of a sword to get past the Wall down the road."

"Oh, so you're trying to get past the Wall are you? Very well then, the blacksmith keeps his hut on the outskirts of town. Just keep going down the main road through the market, you'll see it."

"Could I buy some water and food from you sir? My night was spent at the base of the wall and I ran all the way here this morning."

"Well, no man trying to get past the Wall should do so hungry, let's see what we can do for you."

I ate the eels and bread he had to sell after I walked over to the well and drained it dry. The wild packs of children kept their distance from me and the people of the village smiled and nodded, but said nothing to me as I lay against the cool stone of the well and rested. After eating and cleaning up, I made my way once more down the road, towards the edge of town and presumably, the blacksmith.

As I left the market area, the houses of the village got less crowded and I could hear the forest life once again. I smiled at the serene beauty of it thinking, "A man could live and die happy here." My resolve continued though, as did my walk towards the edge of town. As the houses stretched out into pasture I could see a single column of black smoke curling up into the summer skies. Aha, the blacksmith.

I approached the hut slowly, unsure of what I would find. The acrid smell of sulfur and etching acid washed over me and i could feel the heat of the furnaces from the road. A steady clanging issued from the front entrance and as I made my way towards the front of the building I could see the blacksmith hunched over an anvil. He stood six feet tall, a slight man, bent over in his back and covered from head to toe in a worn out red robe. The hood of his robe covered his face completely and he made no sign of recognition as I made my way into the front of the shop.

At once, the hammer stopped falling and a dead quiet fell over the hut. The cloaked figure turned it's head slowly towards me and all I could see were the hint of two eyes in a endless sea of shadow. He placed the hammer down next to the blade he had been hammering on and started shuffling towards me.

"What do you want?" His voice creaked out of the hood like parchment unrolling in the basement of a temple.

"I have come to buy a sword from you smith. I want to cross through the black wall down the road."

He made no movement, no sound. The world came crashing to a halt and the only thing that moved was the heat waves dancing through the hut.

"I do not sell swords here. I do not sell swords anywhere. Go somewhere else."

I stared at the old man, unbelieving. "There is no other smith in this town, you must be selling swords. Practically every person here has a sword on their belt."

He said nothing, shuffling back to the anvil and resuming his work. I stood there in disbelief and eventually gave up. Noon had passed me by and despondent, I set back out for the village.

I had no where to go. The road leading away from the wall lead back to the past and I knew that no passage could be granted there. I was stuck here in this place between worlds with no idea why.

Years went by. I worked at the nearby farms until I had saved enough money to take over one of the smaller plots. I learned the sun and wind until I knew them by name. My hands grew gnarled and thick as bark. I could grasp a burning log and never feel a thing. My muscles grew corded and my skin bronzed until I looked like the trees surrounding the fields.

I married by the fading light of my 40th summer. The village had become my home, my entire life spent feeding the people who worked there. I would spend my evenings turning wood in my hands and carving figures to sell in the market. Two fine sons, blurs in my memory came from our happy home. We worked long summer days, sweated through the harvests and whittled through the long dark winters. The years went by in a blur and I found myself blessing my oldest boy as he started a family of his own.

Death found us in front of the fireplace. He slipped in silently in the night and took my wife away from me while we dozed away a long dark winter night. Not a week later he returned for me. A sudden fever, a balsting chill and visions of my son standing over me. In my minds eye I could still see that looming Wall. Cold and unfathomable it taunted me by its mystery. It had been years since it loomed in my dreams and here it was on the eve of my demise, silently judging me from afar. I lamented never seeing the other side, my heart and mind clouded with remorse. With my dying breath I cursed it.

I awoke sleeping in front of the Wall the day I arrived there. I staggered around, confused and scared. The same young woman was walking towards the Wall. I waited for her to near and asked her if she had seen me before. She backed away and shook her head, shuffling towards the Wall with her children and hurried through.

The morning mist wound around my ankles and I wondered at the sureness of my memories. I had felt Death's hand close around my heart. I had seen my sons grow and be married. I had wept for a week when my wife went to the gods. Still, I was here.

My feet turned and took me back along that road towards where memory told me the village would lay. Sure enough, it was exactly the way I remembered it. The town square still bustled with a faceless crowd of people, the air tinged with commerce and chaos.

"Excuse me young sir, but are you not the blacksmith's apprentice?"

The man in front of me was covered from head to toe in trinkets and junk. He clanked and whistled just standing there.

"Well, no actually."

"Oh, my mistake. I'm on my way to see him and I thought I could hire you to carry my cart. Seems my porter has gone a bit deep into his cups while I attended to my affairs. Why, even if you are not the apprentice, perhaps you could be convinced to assist me for a few coppers?"

"I suppose it couldn't hurt. A few coppers are always a good thing. Where are your goods?"

He pointed to the handcart across the street. I muscled the lopsided pile of junk up through the deep rutted streets and out into the open fields beyond. The junker was a man of merry mood and he whistled softly in time to the rattling of his clutter. The countryside peeled back and the smoke from the furnace filled my face once more.

The old man didn't acknowledge us as we approached and the junk trader stood there silently for a moment, turned to me and pressed two coppers into my hand. We sat in silence, listening to the constant clanging of the hammer on steel, the hiss of a red hot blade burning water away and the crows fighting over dinner until the sun started to set.

The hammer fell quiet as the sun dipped low behind the mountains. The old man put his tools down, wiped the sweat from his brow and spoke.

"Junkman. I see you have brought me what I asked for."

Clanking, he replied: "Of course I did old man. There is no need to thank me. I'll be taking my payment now."

The old man sighed and brushed back his hood.

"Let's get this done then."

The junk trader stood and walked over to where the old man was sitting. He reached back into his pack and brought out a small hand axe. The old man pulled up the sleeve on his faded old robe and placed his wrist on the anvil. I cried out: "What are you doing? You can't be serious!" I stood up and started casting around for a weapon.

"SILENCE!" The old man boomed. "You cannot interfere here. It is my price to pay."

The trader looked back at me and smiled. "You fetch a hefty price son."

The axe fell and blood poured out from the stump of the blacksmith's arm. He didn't make a sound, he simply reached for a blade resting in the red furnace and the air filled with cooking flesh as he cauterized the arm.

I stood motionless, uncomprehending and terrified. What did the trader mean, I fetch a hefty price?

The clanking pile of rags reached down and scooped up his prize and sealed it in the wax from a candle. I watched in growing terror as these two men completed their transaction. The hands of the trader shoved the hand deep into one of the bags hanging from his belt and he turned to me at last.

"Well, there you are son. I'm off to the next town past the Wall. Thanks for your troubles, enjoy the grumpy old man here."

"Wait, why did you take his hand? Who are you people, what madness have you brought upon me?"

The heap of dirt and rags just smiled and took up his cart. Only a merry whistling was the answer to this burning question. I turned back to the blacksmith, screaming for a reply. Only a wall of silence greeted me in the ever darkening air. I slumped against the wooden stool near the furnace dazed.

"Hmmph. What a terrible start to this. Alright apprentice, get to working those bellows while I figure out how to work this blade with only my left hand. Gods only know why I paid that much for you but such is the way of the world."

"I am not your apprentice, that man did not sell me. No one owns me, why would you say such a thing?"

"What wil you do then?" he spat in my face. "Go back to farming? Raise sons and grow old and fat in some stinking farmhouse? Tell me boy, how well did that work for you? Was that how you envisioned your life then?"

I reeled back and felt my blood drop into my toes. How could he know these things? Was it not a dream? I knew then that he spoke truth. I belonged here. I could feel my hand reaching out for the steel. It sang to me.

"Very well old man, I will learn your craft. You seem to know something of me. I have not the pleasure of your name sir."

"Nor shall you. You may call me Master. I will call you Boy. That is final. you will obey me in all things, is that understood?"

"Yes Master"

The days fled fast in that shack, I learned more in a week about the craft of forging than any man may learn in a lifetime. I knew that Master was truly more than the title of honor for this strange old man. It was the truth of him. Just as in the past, my weeks flew by me, seasons reeled through the heavens above and in the blur of time I lost my way.

I learned the sword with blood and bone. I poured my very soul into that forge day and night. We lived there in the forge, trading horseshoes and nails for food and cloth. I drew water every morning from the well in the village and carried it back up the road. It was a simple, unhurried life.

We would work on a sword for years on end, perfecting every fold in the metal, working it until it was as supple as grass in the wind with and edge harder than the anvil we worked upon. Once the edge was honed perfectly sharp, Master would wrap the blade in silk and carry it off to his customers. I never saw the customers or the money he received. We made everything we needed trading with the village and I never asked too many questions for fear of the old mans wrath. For years I trained under the Master and in time became known as Apprentice. By the time he stopped calling me Boy, I was 50 years old.

Master has died. This winter was too much for his ancient bones and he passed to the next world a tired and angry man. I am Master now, two young villagers apprenticed to me summer last have taken the role of Boy. I do not know their names, they call me only Master. We sweat each day in the fires of the forge and bend this earth to our wills. Every day I see the Wall looming in the horizon and every day I pine more and more to see the other side.

It is my turn to fade into the horizon now. I am too old for the world and no one has seen my work. 12 perfect blades I have turned out in my life. I can see them there on the wall behind my Apprentice as he damps the sweat off of my brow. I am dying and I have never gone through the Wall. I recall my previous life in that moment, the farm, the houses, my loving wife, my boys and their children. How could a man get another chance at living and find himself at the same place again? The Wall loomed heavily in my mind once more and I was wracked with suffering at having wasted not just one, but two lives in this foolish quest.

I awoke once more.

The mist, the Wall, the clacking of horses and the murmur of morning travel washed over me again. I could not believe I was here again. The woman and her child passed me by, the same look on her face, the same sunlight filtering through the trees.

I ran as fast as I could through the village, past the farmlands and to the blacksmiths shack. There was the tattered old red robed Master, clanging away at the anvil. I looked to his hands. Both appeared firm and whole.

"Master! You have your hands!"

He turned his face towards me scowling. "Of course I do. Why on earth would I not?"

"I thought..."

"You know nothing. Sit down Apprentice. Let me tell you a tale."

Long ago there was a young boy born of a simple family who sought to travel the world. Every day he would lie awake in bed and dream of the world far off in the horizon. While other children played in the rivers and forests, he would dream alone in the fields near his parents farm. His father indulged him for a time but when his majority came to him he sat him down at the hearth and spoke.

"The time for your dreams has passed my son. Now you must grow to be a man and take on more of the farm. This constant dreaming will do you no good in the days to come. You must keep your mind focused here, in the real world."

The boy was scared. He had no interest in farming or horses or the ruddy faced farmers daughters that surrounded the farm. His was to be a life of legend, full of adventure and the riches that it would bring him. Deep in the night he stole away from the farm, one foot falling in front of the other to bring him to his destiny.

By dawn he was further from the farm than he had ever been in his life and he chanced upon a travelling hermit at the spring near the crossroads. The hermit looked at the boy and smiled.

"Well, what have we here? A boy on his own? Are you lost young man?"

"No sir, I have set upon the path of adventure and this road has led me here. I am off to see the world."

"A noble cause to be sure! One I have undertaken myself these many moons. Are you prepared for the world? How will you defend yourself, what of food and shelter?"

"I have my knife here sir and a good stock of food. My camp tent is in my backpack and this fine walking stick."

The boy held aloft his hard wooden staff to the hermit.

"Fine it is indeed young sir, but what of the wolves that stir in the hills? What will you do when ill spirits rise against you in the night?"

The boy thought for a moment. "I don't know sir, I hadn't thought of that."

"What of the dragons lurking in the mountains?"

"I don't know!"

"And the terrible Guardians of the East? So foul that to describe them would cause the skies to darken and worms to boil from the ground?"

"Oh good sir, I do not know. Please tell me no more!"

"Such is the world you seek to see. I have seen all of these and more. It is a cold and unforgiving place full of demons beyond count. There is no rest, there is no respite. I bid you to return to your home and seek this world no more. It is nothing but a den of monsters and thieves."

The boy fell to the ground sobbing. His dreams shattered onto the crossroads in a thousand pieces. He reached down to scoop them back up and felt nothing but air. He scooped up what he could and pulled himself off the ground.

"I did not know. Thank you for telling me these things. I will return to my farm and see my parents."

"Good that you do son, good that you do."

As the boy turned back towards the valley the old hermit chuckled and sat down. He removed his hood and shook off his beard. There at the crossroads sat the boys father, laughing and drinking his wine.

The blacksmith unfolded his hands and looked me squarely in the face.

"Tell me then Apprentice. What is the moral of this story?"

I thought for a moment and replied: "One should know ones station in life and respect it."

He moved so fast I thought he never moved at all. His hand knocked me reeling onto the floor of the shack.

"WRONG you stupid child! The moral is simple. Do not believe in what you see. The world is more than simple stories, more than darkness and death, more than beauty and warmth. It is more than we will ever know and unless we push past our eyes, we will never know what lays beyond. This is the third time you have come to me in this place and still you have learned nothing. Why do I continue to speak? I gave you every secret of sword making I possess and for your whole life you sat here waiting on me hand and foot. What were you waiting for? Why did you not take a sword and leave?"

I stammered out "I thought it would be ungrateful of me..."

"You never asked. First you try to ply me with money, an insult to the concept of sword making. Next I decide to be kind and give up a hand for the chance to teach you. For fifty years I watched you yearn for the blades we forged and yet you remained silent. Why? Explain yourself."

I could not reply. I had no answer. I had never thought to simply ask.

"I do not know Master. Please forgive me."

I bowed low onto the dirt and felt his hand smack me across the top of my head again.

"Forgive you? Hmmph. Three lifetimes I have wasted here in this shack trying to show you the obviousness of the truth and you think it that simple?"

I said nothing. I kept my face on the ground and pulled back my tears. I had failed completely.

"Bagh, get up Boy. I wouldn't have done it if I didn't care. Besides, someone must fetch the water if we are to make you a sword."

I looked up at the face of the Master and smiled weakly.

"Thank you Master, I will not disappoint you this time."

"You'd better not or your next lifetime will be spent as a cockroach."

A selection from a forthcoming story

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 19:02:00 +0000

This is an excerpt from a as of yet untitled short story/novella/thing that I've been working on.

Enjoy!

The flavor set off a supernova in my head, like fire had been cooled, condensed into liquid and poured into this cup. I reveled in the heat of the coffee rolling around in my mouth, every nerve ending leaping up and down like a toddler in a toy store.

David stared at me.

"Umm, that's a bit hot don't you think? Be careful, you'll burn your mouth like that and ruin the flavor."

I thought for a moment. This was hot. Damn hot. So that's what hot is. Huh.

"So tell me what you can remember. Let's start with your name."

"My name is Adeline Rabinowitz. I'm 36 years old, I am a teacher at Mary Mumford Elementary School in Richmond, Virginia and I live in the Museum District."

I reeled a bit as the memories clicked into place. I didn't know how I could remember anything.

David cocked his head. "Well then, it appears you remember quite a bit ma'am."

"I suppose I do."

"So what's the last thing you remember before waking up on the street? I'm quite curious how you ended up in Cincinnati."

"I remember walking home from work. I had left late after grading papers and eating dinner at work and was walking through Carytown on my way home. It was, I think, a little past 11 that night."

"I decided to cut through the alleys behind some shops to try and make it home a little faster. I was about three blocks north of Carytown when I heard screaming. About a half block down I saw this guy trying to force a woman into his car, she was screaming at the top of her lungs and trying to fight him off. I started running over and drawing my taser out of my purse. The guy stopped, turned towards me and I saw a bright flash."

My hands started shaking, coffee spilling over the rim of the cup.

"Oh god. He shot me. I was trying to stop him from hurting that woman and he shot me."

David leaned over the table and placed his hand over mine.

"Are you certain that he shot you? You appear to be in perfect health, well, aside from being a bit chilly and nerve wracked."

"No, I'm certain of it, he fired three shots at me. One of them hit me."

David drew a long, shuddering breath.

"Well, that's a hell of a tale miss. It still doesn't explain how you ended up shivering here in Cincinnati."

"No, I suppose it doesn't. I can't really remember much beyond that, there's this hole in my memories that I just can't explain. Listen, David, I know this may be a little weird for you but I'd like to ask a favor."

"I'm all ears."

"I'd like you to help me figure out what's going on here. I can't remember anything in order, I'm trying to remember someone's phone number. Someone I know..... I know they can help but I just can't seem to recall their face or number or anything."

I felt the tears well up in my eyes again, the coffee shop closing in around me. Why the hell am I here? What the fuck is going on? The questions rolled around in my head as it started spinning out of control.

David sighed. "Alright then, I can help you out. The greatest joy of being retired is having no plans in particular. I think the first thing we should do is get you some new clothes, some solid food and then we'll go speak with the police and see if there's a missing person report filed on you."

I nodded and smiled. We sat in amicable silence for another fifteen minutes or so, sipping the coffee in front of us and listening to the patter of the winter rain on the street, the clanking and whooshing behind the espresso bar and the murmur of the patrons talking in quiet tones. I felt warmth returning to my bones and seeping into my heart. As strange as all this was, I knew that in this place none would cause me harm.

David walked over to the bar and paid our tab while I gathered myself up and headed to the door. The wind and rain was a cold as it looked, I felt my skin tense as we stepped out onto the street.

"There's a thrift store about a block from here Adeline, let's get you something warmer to wear."

The door opened to a thousand relics of past lives, broken dreams and passing fancies. Porcelain statues, worn out baby strollers, lamps of an indeterminate age, mysterious kitchen utensils that made no sense rolled past my eyes as we made our way to the clothing racks. I pawed through the women's clothing until I had found some passable pants and shirts. There was even a rack of used underwear for me to look through. I had to wonder at this, who drops underwear off at a thrift store?

Soon enough I had warm clothing in hand and was heading with David to the counter when I felt a strange tug in my mind. David peered curiously at me as I wandered over to the electronics section. I stood there staring at the obsolete computers, piles of old beige mice and keyboards and ancient video games. Something was calling me here. Something from my past.

David stood next to me. "What is it? Do you recognize something?"

"I don't know, there's something here I need to see. Give me just a moment David."

"Take your time, I'm in no hurry."

I walked over to the shelves full of electronics and peered closely. There it was, tucked up behind a dusty old Sega Master System. A slender leather case was lurking in the shadows. I reached back and pulled its considerable weight out and opened the cover. Inside was a fairly new smartphone.

"Well that's not something you see every day!" David peered over my shoulder as I tried to turn it on.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, that particular phone hasn't been released yet. Finding anything made within the last five years is rare in a thrift store. Finding a prerelease model is akin to finding the Fountain of Youth in a Wal-mart bathroom."

The power button wouldn't work. I fiddled with the switch for a while until I realized the battery must be dead. I looked at the bottom of the phone for a power connector. Thankfully it charged via USB so there wouldn't be any problems getting it charged.

"David, I know this phone is mine. I don't know how I know it, but this is definitely mine. I hate to put you out, you've already done so much for me. Can you buy this for me? I don't have anyone else to turn to. I can pay you back as soon as I figure out where my money is."

David smiled and took my hand.

"Of course, that's why I'm here. To help you."

Curious turn of phrase, I thought.

David tried to pull a USB charger out of the squidlike horror of the cabling bin and cursed under his breath. I looked back down at the shiny screen of the phone. My past was in there somewhere, lurking in the binary memory of this innocuous looking device.

The clerk at the counter cocked her head at the cellphone.

"Wow, I wonder who dropped that off. Nice find lady!"

I nodded my head and smiled weakly. Who did drop this off here? Did I do this at some point? There are too many mysteries here. My stomach began to turn. David waved his credit stick over the reader and stuck his thumb on the scanner.

A few beeps later I found myself changing into the second hand clothing in the back of the store. As I pulled the shirt down over my head I noticed a tattoo on my left arm for the first time. Three solid parallel lines right below my armpit.

☰

Weird, I thought. What does that mean? How did it get there? I looked over the rest of my body for anything else I had missed. There was a light scar running down my right thigh, just above the knee. That's not that unusual I suppose, plenty of people have scars. Eventually I'll figure out where that came from.

I headed back to the front of the store where David was waiting for me.

"Better?" he asked.

"God yes. I'm actually warm. David, I found a tattoo while I was dressing. Three lines right under my left armpit. I have no idea what they mean."

"How curious! More mysteries from your past no doubt. I must be honest, this is by far the most interesting thing that has happened to me since I retired."

"I'm glad you're so intrigued." I scowled.

David looked aside and muttered an apology.

"No, no, it's alright David. I'm just really burned out, my head isn't working right and nothing makes any sense to me."

David turned and looked me in the eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for my dear. These are extraordinary circumstances and you are perfectly within your rights to be testy. Let's see if a good meal doesn't help you out. What's your pleasure?"

I thought for a moment. "Indian? Is there an Indian joint around here somewhere?"

"I believe so, let's see."

David pulled out his phone and started looking for a place to eat. He glided his fingers over the surface of his phone with practiced ease, painting mudras over the glowing screen. I watched his fingers dance with amazement. His face went calm and focused in that moment, his eyes clear and a faint smile on his face. It was like watching a dancer, if the dancer used only their fingers to paint a picture in your mind.

My reverie broke with his words. "Ah, there's a highly recommended Indian restaurant three blocks from here. Good Yelp reviews, decent price and... there we go, online booking. We've got a table."

I pulled my new overcoat tight around me and headed with David out into the street. The rain kept coming in waves as we walked through another series of dimly lit streets and old cars. We made it to the Indian place without getting too drenched, though my raincoat was starting to leak a little as we made it up to the door.

The smell of the Indian restaurant nearly knocked me out. Spices laced with sweat and meat trailed past my face in a stream of wonders. I had never smelled anything so tempting, so unspeakably delicious in all my life. My mouth began to water as I watched a plate heaped with curry pass on a waiters hands to a table. David looked over and smiled.

The maitre'd walked smoothly over to us and bowed slightly, his AR headset bobbling slightly.
"Dr. Halifax? A pleasure sir, your table is waiting for you right this way."

As we sat down at the table I peered over at David. "Doctor?"

"Well, yes actually. I have a Doctorate in Computer Science and Psychology. I spent most of my life as an AI researcher and programmer. It's been a strange time, no doubt. I've seen and done things I never dreamed possible."

"Oh..."

I reached down to plug in the USB charger and hooked in the cellphone I found in the thrift store. The LED blinked red, angry at its badly powered state. That'll take some time, I thought. The rain continued to pour outside, I gazed out the window and got a chance to let my mind wander for a while as David poured over the menu. This has got to be the strangest day I have ever had, I mused. The menu slid across the table with a hush and David recommended the yellow curry.

"Sure, that's fine."

The meal arrived silently, the waiter gliding across the carpet and sliding the dish of curry under my nose with practiced ease. I ate the entire dish without chewing, one swoop of the spoon. David stared at me silently, his jaw hanging slightly open.

"Uhhh, that's quite an appetite there miss...."

"I guess I was hungry. Sorry to be so impolite David. I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks."

"No, it's of no concern. I hope you don't mind if I eat at a slightly slower pace."

I blushed slightly, "No, of course not."

While David made his way through the curry I reached over for the cellphone and checked to see if I could power it on. The angry red LED was steady now and the power button was glowing. Great, now I can see what the deal is with this thing.

The screen flashed as I powered up the phone, hiccuping a few times and loading the boot screen. Android, good. At least it wasn't some locked down carrier written bullshit. The service light flared up and it got a steady data connection. There is one thing I need more than any other. The Dialer list showed the most called numbers and there at the top was the one I needed most.

I punched the record up and saw a face I couldn't quite place. John? John Wilton? The entry had his name and information, but I couldn't connect the picture with any memories. The last call to his cell went out just over three days ago so I dialed it again.

"Hi, you've reached John's phone. Leave a message or just send me a Wave and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Crap.

Next on the list was the schools office number.

Voicemail.

I went through the entire dialed list and got voicemail on every number. What the hell? How can everyone I apparently know be offline at the same time? I checked the wireless connection again to make sure I was connected. 65% signal strength, more than enough for VOIP. This makes no sense, I thought. If I was in a deadzone I couldn't dial out.

David set his glass down and leaned over the table.

"Can't reach anyone? Try my number, see if you can get through."

I dialed his number and without pause his phone started singing across the table and vibrating a waltz. Strauss?

"Nice ringtone David."

He smiled. "Thanks! Well now we know it's not your phone that's broken. Have you figured anything else out?"

"There's a ton of pictures in the memory card, mostly a cat. I imagine it's my cat but I can't understand why I need a hundred shots of it sleeping in the window."

"Ha! I imagine that most people would wonder that given your situation. I for one, would wonder why trees are so interesting if I lost my memory."

"So is your data connection working? Can you get on the web?"

"Yeah, looks fine to me."

"Look through your browser history and bookmarks and see if you can find anything relevant. I'd take a gander but that's far too personal."

I waved over to the browser and waited for the bookmarks to pop up.

"There's nothing special here so far. Amazon, craigslist, Boing Boing, a bunch of cat sites."

"Wait... what the hell is this? It's just an IP address."

2f01:03b8:85a3:ff00:0000:8a2e:0e7b:7334

David leaned over the table with his hand out. "May I?"

I shrugged and passed the phone over the table to David. He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a small grey box covered in ports. I must have looked baffled.

"It's a portable firewall I built. Damn useful when you don't know what you're getting into. The last thing we need is to brick your only source of information."

David fiddled with the phone and firewall for a while, then sighed.

"You'd think that setting up a proxy with this thing would be a little easier. Well, I didn't spend all my time in a lab for nothing."

He squinted though a pile of menus and eventually his head popped up.

"Right then, here we go. Cross your fingers, I hope this gives us some answers."

I pulled my chair along side his and watched the phones screen as it loaded the IP address. A simple frame popped up and a bar of outdated HTML loaded on the left hand side of the screen. Plain white background with blue text. It looked like something from before I was born.

1. About this page

2. Log in to Devnotes

3. Contact the Webmaster

4. External Hyperlinks

David looked like he was having a heart attack. His face dropped ten shades to pale and he slumped back in his chair, reaching for his water glass.

"Holy crap David, are you alright? What is it?"

"This is... this is mine."

"What?"

"This is my website. I mean, it's really old but I clearly remember this page. This is from my thesis project at Stanford."

I was stunned. "How the hell did that end up on my phone. David, what the hell is going on here? What are you not telling me? Do you know who I am?" I fumed at him and people started looking over at the table we shared.

"I don't know, I've never met you before in my life. I mean, you say you teach at an elementary school I have no idea why you would have this address. I don't even know why this is on the web, this was an intranet site when I was using it."

I grabbed the phone off the table and yanked out the cable leading to the firewall. I stuffed the phone and charger into my pockets and stood up.

"Fuck you man. I don't know who you are or why that's on my phone but I'm going to the police right now god dammit. Don't you dare try to follow me you freak." I flicked him off and stormed out of the restaurant. I could hear David saying "Wait!" faintly as I slammed the door and started running down the street. My phone started ringing immediately, David trying to stop me no doubt. I ignored the ringing and ran as fast as I could towards the end of the block.

Short Story: Bonnie Is Magick

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 21:51:00 +0000

People never really knew what to do with Bonnie.

When she was very young, most people treated her like there was something wrong with the way she acted. At three years old she drew a map of the entire world all over her grandmothers living room furniture. When she was six, she hypnotized a boy in her class and covered him with ink, drawing symbols all over him. When the teacher asked her what she was doing, she looked at her work and simply said, "I'm preparing him for the end of the world." Later that afternoon, the world ended. But the only person who noticed was Bonnie. Even the boy she covered in sacred symbols never saw the dragons crushing the planet under their wings, the demons howling up from the ocean and consuming the shore. The only person who saw it was Bonnie, the only person to thank the Warriors who beat them back and rebuilt reality was Bonnie.

At eight years old she helped a dying kingdom rebuild its crumbling walls. The king thanked her for all her help and a very confused gardener walked away from the farm, grateful for this strange magickal girl that lived there and knew where all the roots were.

From her view, everything seemed normal. Cars were terrible beasts, legends were born in every sentence and the fantastic never stopped when she woke up from the night. The reality that every other person tried to stuff her brain into was so flat and dull that her mind wouldn't accept it as true. She would lose herself in the afternoon sky and people always said, "Oh what an active imagination! She's so creative!". What they didn't see were the endless battles of the Sky Giants protecting their Ring Hordes from the Black Dawn. At age ten she brought a pumpkin to school for lunch and when the teacher asked her why, she said nothing.

Bonnie looked up from her desk at this gargoyle leering down at her and could not understand why the pumpkin would seem out of place to it. It's a gargoyle, she thought, why does it care if I have a pumpkin? As she held on to her pumpkin with all her might, she saw the faces of the other kids in her class, laughing and pointing, jeering or just looking away. Gargoyles were everywhere then, grasping and tearing at her skin and trying to wrestle this food away from her grip. She closed her eyes and wished them all away. All the laughing kids, all the gargoyles, even the pumpkin.

Bonnie was alone. The classroom was completely empty. No desks, no papers, no chalkboard. She stopped shaking and looked around, pleased at the quiet of it all. She could see glittering rivers of light flowing through the hallways and could smell the fresh green air from the open doors. She walked slowly out towards the doors of the school and peered outside. The world was silent, still. No hordes of children thronging in the playground, no cars. The roads in front of her school had disappeared and all she could see was green grass and clouds. She stood there, soaking it in and laughing.

The tear in the sky swallowed the sun. Dark clouds bore down where she stood and rain poured out of the sky. Bonnie shielded her eyes as much as she could and tried to make it back inside. The hallway was wet and her foot slipped up as she tried to make it back under cover through the open doorway. Her face hit the ground hard and she could feel something important give way as she fell. Blood oozed from underneath her chest and her head swam in clouds of confusion.

The teachers stood over Bonnie and glared down with disapproval. She lay face first in a pile of broken pumpkin in the hallway and was crying and moaning. She stood up and looked down at her chest in horror and desperately tried to stuff the shattered remains of the pumpkin into her shirt. When chunks would fall off, she would scream and try even harder. All she can remember is the horror of a crushed pumpkin. The jeers of the children, the dying of a sunny day in the grass.

When the school counselor asked Bonnie how she feels, all she did is sit and stare at her, shirt and hair covered in pumpkin. The conversation ignores her. Her mother is there. The words float above and beyond her. All she can think of is the loss of that sky, the end of a perfect day. Her tears flow like rain now, her cries reach out past the school and into the echoing hallways of the universe. Something wakes up. Something starts to fly.

The next morning as Bonnie feeds her invisible spider and gets ready for school, her mother comes to her room to meet her.

"Bonnie, it's time to go see the doctor honey. You're not going to school today."

Bonnie looked up at her mom and simply smiled. "OK mom. Can we go get breakfast afterwords?"

The car ride passes slowly and Bonnie is watching the horses try and keep up with the car. Laughing the whole way there, she pats the white one on the nose when they get out of the car and follows her mom up to the entrance to the building. Inside, all is cool and bright. The glare of the white light pushes into her brain and she starts getting nervous. Her mom tightens her grip slightly and leads her into the office of the doctor.

The doctor asks Bonnie a lot of questions. How many horses were there on the way here? How often do you see them? Does your invisible spider eat? The morning drags on and Bonnie starts to get bored with the doctors questions. How can he not know the answers already? What kind of doctor does not know about the Sky Giants?

As the car pulls away from the office she can see the horses start to gallop again. They follow her all the way to the diner and hang out right outside the window where Bonnie and her mom sit.

"Bonnie, I've got a pill I want you to take every morning. The doctor said that these will help you concentrate. They'll help you with schoolwork and keep you focused on important things."

Bonnie stared at the tiny white pill. It was so tiny. So blindingly brilliantly white. It must be good. Besides, she wanted to do good in school, it made her mom so happy. She popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed it with a big gulp of orange juice. Not too bad, she thought. Breakfast arrived and she devoured it whole.

As she followed her mom out to the car she started to panic. The horses were gone. Not even a trace remained. No hoof prints, no smell. She worried the whole way home. What could have happened to the horses? They had been running alongside the car ever since she could remember, they kept other cars away from her and her mom, kept them safe from the other beasts that roamed the streets. What would they do now that the horses weren't protecting them?

The hit never registered in her mind. All she remembered was waking up in the hospital with her mom crying and leaning over her. Her mind felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her head and everything she looked at was blurred out. She looked down at her feet and saw that the right side of her body was covered in a cast. "Mom? what happened?" Her mother sobbed more and held her hand tight. "We were in a bad car accident. You leg got hurt when the truck hit us and now you're in the hospital." Bonnie thought for a moment and looked at her mom. "You shouldn't have made the horses go away."

After three years of pills, Bonnie didn't see the Sky Giants any more. She didn't miss the horses and she had long ago gotten rid of the tank for her invisible spider. Her mind was sharp, focused and her grades in school were excellent. The kids in her class didn't call her Bonnie Bonkers any more. The past was the past.

The dreams were not so easily ignored. Every night she woke up sobbing in the dark, some unknown sadness gripping at her and not letting her go. She could never put a finger on it and the wear it put on her was starting to show. Her performance at school was starting to lag. The doctor and her mom took note of this and decided that it was time for her to start a new pill.

"Bonnie, these are anti-depressants. They will help you deal with your sadness and make your life easier to bear."

Bonnie was willing to do anything to push the shadows from her mind and she took the new blue pills with resignation. That night she swallowed the blue pill and drifted off to sleep. She woke in the morning with a start. She had dreamt nothing. For the first time in here life, she slept without a dream. This scared her more than the nightmares so she went and talked with her mom.

"Mom, I don't know if these blue pills are helping. I didn't dream anything last night, and I always dream."

"That's good sweetheart, you slept all the way through the night. How do you feel this morning? Are you sad?"

"No, I'm not sad. I'm not.... anything."

"That's great honey, that's great. I'm glad to know you're not sad anymore."

Bonnie stared out at the farm and saw nothing. Felt nothing. Was Nothing.

She went to school.

She came home.
She studied and she ate.

Something panicked and started flying faster.

The Nothing that had overtaken Bonnie started to have its own needs. It needed sensation. It needed fire. It called out at night and made its wishes known. Bonnie listened and found what nothing wanted most. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Money. Power. Armed with this knowledge she fed it everything it could ever dream of.

Nothing purred and curled up close against her heart. It kept the dreams at bay. It shielded her from pain and fear, Nothing can fill the void, Nothing can keep you content. Nothing led her down the road, across the country and deep into the dark forests of her mind. Bonnie and Nothing lived together for a long time, purring and petting each other. But what she did not see was that while Nothing grew fat and content, Bonnie was withering away.

Something arrived almost too late. Bonnie had become one tiny flame of what had been a bonfire when Something started its journey. It barely recognized her when it flew over the new bridges and concrete that grew over the fields. Something squinted at the tiny light below and rushed down towards the ground. The air screamed and the clouds ran away from the terror of Something. Nothing never saw it coming, it was too busy counting gold and enjoying another drink to pay any attention to the skies.

Something slammed into Bonnie at full speed, bowling her over a picnic table and spilling her beer all over the ground. Something grabbed Nothing in its teeth and wrestled it to the ground. Nothings gold went flying all around and Nothing threw Something off its back.

"Who are you to come barging in here like this? We're quite happy, Bonnie and I."

Something smiled and glared. "I am Something. I have come to kill you for draining all the magick from this girl."

Nothing sneered. "It was not I who drained the magick. It was not I who cast these shadows. Do you blame the mold that takes hold when bread sits out too long?"

Something thought deeply and started circling. "No, I do not blame the vine for choking the tree but I will chop you off at your root."

Something lunged for Nothings throat.

For three years they tore away at each other and Bonnie shook with earthquakes every day. A hundred kingdoms vanished under the might of their battle, a thousand seas went dark with the blood, ten thousand birds flew in terror. Bonnie could only look at the battle that raged and wonder what she could do. The people around her began to wonder at the change. Something had returned but it wasn't there all the time. Bonnie started to notice it too. She worried and fretted, she gnashed her teeth and drank another beer.

After three years of endless warfare, the hundred kingdoms were in tatters. Something and Nothing lay beaten and bleeding under the trees near the edge of the forest. For the first time they noticed Bonnie sitting near them, watching. Too tired to move, they stared at Bonnie with confusion.

Something spoke. "What are you doing here little girl? I have come to save you from Nothing. I will protect you and keep you safe."

Nothing coughed up blood and rasped. "You are a fool Something! She needs me here. She is here to send you away. Bonnie, don't you want to go have a drink with me?"

Bonnie didn't move. She sat there for a long time looking at the pile of fur and broken bones that Something and Nothing had made of each other. As the sun set behind her the Sky Giants peered down from their castles and waited. The birds returned to hear the words and the Demons looked out from their caves.

Finally as dusk set in, Bonnie spoke.

"I remember it now,
those years ago.
Before the anger
Before the pills
Before this warfare
Before the thrills.

Before Nothing and Something
bled the skies red
I had dreamt up a world for me
laying in bed
I see now the truth there is
In what's called psychosis
By demons of logic
Who speak like they know this:

I am Everything, I am my dreams
Everything is exactly just as it seems
I am the savior, I am the sin
Alpha and Omega I scrawl on my skin
To burn this moment into my head
The sight of you both here, verging on dead.

Thank you both for your lessons
I shall not forget
But if there's one thing
I've come to regret
It's believing a savior
could find me my rest.
Believing there's challenges
I need help to best.

I'll be walking away now
to leave this behind
To recognize Everything
and live free in mind."

Bonnie got up and left Something and Nothing behind, their death throes echoing off the mountain sides and their blood soaking the earth. She held Everything tight and it pawed at her hands, curling up against her chest. It was a tiny Everything but she knew it would grow. The Sky Giants were so tiny when they first came to be, but look at them now. No Black Dawn had ever touched their Ring Hordes in all those years she missed. Everything must grow in the fullness of time. As she climbed up the trails towards the home of the Sky Giants she saw the horses playing down on the field below for the first time in a decade and Everything knew she would make it.

She stayed with the Sky Giants until the night, when their vigil begins. She bade them all fare well and headed off to her apartment. Everything was curled up on the bed and begging for food. She sat down and fed it four chapters from a book, a few cigarettes and three beers. Everything was satisfied, Everything was alright.

Musical Etiquette: At The Grocery Store

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 12:00:00 +0000

Originally Posted at Crappy Indie Music.

Dear Musical Etiquette:
I was walking through the grocery store the other day and ran into XXXX from XXXX shopping! I was so nervous, but I walked up and said hi anyway. I told him I was his biggest fan ever and gave him my demo CD. Good thing I keep some on me! He didn't really talk to me, he just sort of stared at the CD, said thanks and kept on walking. Did I do something wrong here? Why would he ignore me? I'm his biggest fan, I've been to like every show!

Help! XXXXX

The answer is yes, you did do something wrong. See, the thing is, your local celebrity is a human being. I know it's sometimes hard to see, but this guy just probably just wanted to get his grocery shopping done and go home. At the risk of sounding rude, I must inform that you're being annoying. You see, the grocery store is one of those times where he just gets to be normal and boring and to someone who spends a great deal of time on stage and under the lights, it's a great relief. You just shattered his illusion that he is just a normal guy, buying food and deodorant.

It's a Job
You must realize that being in a band is a job. It's true. His role in the band is what he does for a living, even if it's not a full time job. So walking up to him in the grocery store and slobbering all over him is akin to someone walking up to you and demanding a spreadsheet of your time clock entries, or being told to make a sandwich. He's not "on the clock" right now. Don't expect him to jump up and down and thank you profusely for interrupting him while he's trying to select the right breakfast cereal. A few brief words introducing yourself, a handshake and an appreciative compliment is sufficient. Please, don't give out demos for your band or try and set up a show here in the cereal isle. If you're really interested and you think you've got a good chance to work together, feel free to give them your card and leave them in peace.

Quit slobbering
Frankly, this sort of worshipful fawning over someone at the grocery store is demeaning to you and can be very uncomfortable to the person you're worshiping. If you're really trying to impress this person with your music, act like a human being. Granted, there are people who enjopy this kind of attention and they are hollow, insecure shells and you probably belong together. If you are convinced that they will enjoy this kind of attention then don't do it halfway. Have a chorus of singers behind you, offer burned sacrifices, light candles and chant, waft incense over their body as you sing their praises. I mean really do it up. Offer them your first born child, show off that tattoo you got of their first album cover artwork, read them that tear stained poem in your back pocket you wrote in the darkest hour of your life for them. Worship them wholly and fight the police when they show up.

Be People
If you really are interested in this person that you worship so much, talk to them about food. Share a recipe, comment on the quality of their selections, amuse them with an anecdote about what they're buying. You'd be surprised by their reaction to it. A great deal of "famous" people lose the opportunity to have honest dialogue with random people and it's nice for them to not worry about being that guy on stage. When you approach someone, remember that they are a stranger. No matter how much you think you know about that person from their songs, you really don't know this person at all.

OK, Now You're Good
There are good times to drop a CD in someone's hand, or pay them more than a passing compliment on their work. A musician that just got off stage, is signing CDs or posters or is at an industry event is more than open to hearing about how much their art inspires you, makes you cry or fills your enpty life with meaning. This is the time they put aside to hear this kind of thing and interact with their fans. It's not wise to take up too much of their time still, remember you're a stranger and you don't have the right. So just play it cool, say what you want to and move on.

Please don't be offended if their is a luke warm reaction to your demo or contact information. Successful musicians deal with hundreds of people every day and if you meet them after a really long day they might not be in the best of moods. Don't be pushy, don't be rude. Just remember that they're people too and they have lives that don't involve music. Let the man shop.

Till next time!
Eriq Nelson

Send me your inquiries and horror stories at musicaletiquette@gmail.com

Album Review: Iron and Wine - Fall 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:11:00 +0000

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music

Essentially the demo versions of Shepherd's Dog, this feels like a personal concert playing in my bedroom. It is stripped completely naked, just Sam and a guitar and it's great to hear these songs like this. There's some serious differences here too. "Boy With A Coin" has an extended vocal section that I've only heard live. "Innocent Bones" has a slightly slower tempo and achieves even more intimacy than the album cut.

The entire thing is so intimate and warm it makes me feel like Sam Beam is hitting on me while I'm sitting in front of a fireplace. He reaches over in between songs and fills my wine glass again. I reconsider my commitment to the heterosexual lifestyle as he winks subtly at me and picks up his guitar.

This brings me straight back to The Creek Drank the Cradle and falling head over heels in love with this mans voice and guitar style. It's not nearly as scratchy as earlier works (let's hear it for the cash of success!) but it still feels like a bedroom album, raw and unapologetically simple. It's good songwriting technique, filling an entire track with voice and guitar and only lending support to the song with other instrumentation.

The collection closes with Resurrection Fern, my personal favorite track off of Shepherd's Dog and a lullaby of quiet beauty. Revisiting one of my favorite records from 2007 in it's raw state has been a great experience and I look forward to Around The Well, the upcoming collection of rare and unreleased Iron and Wine due on May 19th this year.

Available for free on Iron and Wine's website.
Released today: "The Trapeze Swinger" from the film "In Good Company"

Rant: Derivative Crap

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 15:08:00 +0000

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music.

There is no doubt that other forms of music are a huge influence on anyone creating music in the 21st century. With the huge collection of recorded music available to the modern artist and the speed at which this music comes to us, it becomes difficult to distinguish a bands influences from it's creativity. So what qualifies a band as being derivative? I believe it is the extent to which they are able to synthesize these influences and progress the art form. Derivative music can be traced back to a tiny handful or perhaps just one major influence. Truly good modern music can trace it's lineage to a thousand different influences and a progressive form that pushes the boundaries of how you define what you're hearing. It is said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery. That may be so, but I don't feel compelled to listen to it.

Any decent musician has spent a huge amount of time listening to music; absorbing, reacting, analyzing and deconstructing their favorite recordings. They will have spent innumerable hours listening to their own work and the performances of others and reflecting on what they like about it. Likewise, they have an opinion about what they don't like. Taste is everything in music production. There is little doubt that what you listen to has a deep rooted influence on what you play, they are both extensions of your musical tastes and come from the same place. This is an inescapable fact of music. It doesn't mean that you can't innovate.

Derivative music is music without risk. It is the safe road, the comfortable pair of shoes. It is familiar and does not challenge the ear. Papa Roach is a perfect example of derivative music. It's actual worth as music can be debated endlessly, such things are the realm of taste but even a most ardent fan of their work must admit that there is little innovation present. Their music is a culmination of modern rock radio habits. The song structure that they employ varies by no more than 10% per song. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, out. It is a method that has evolved significantly in the last 30 years and left this particular canker sore of pop music behind. There is nothing distinctive whatsoever about this band, they pass through my ears like every other craptacular band with a Digitech pedal rig and a few bad ideas about songwriting that radio calls "modern rock".

In another sense music that, while derived from a great number of influences, fails utterly to either properly synthesize these influences or innovate upon them is just as bad. Ne-Yo is little more than a place marker sitting on top of twenty years of dull eyed, radio friendly R&B music. It is the culmination of a generation of mediocrity in soul, artists unwilling to take a risk with their sound or truly flex their vocal abilities; choosing instead to play to the least common denominator and appease the lazy listening habits of a pre-defined market. It is a grand example of the major label music form, as bland and lifeless as a bowl of cold oatmeal. The fact is, there is a great deal of room for innovation even within the context of soul music and performers like Ne-Yo fail to even recognize it's existence. If you don't believe me, go listen to Cee-Lo.

In that light there is merit to traditional forms. Soul music is becoming a tradition slowly, and it is still very young. If you want to see the progression of a traditional form that has a longer lineage look no further than bluegrass. Abigail Washburn is a banjo player of considerable skill. This is not why she stands out. Bluegrass is chock full of extremely talented pickers and the dexterity with which they play amazes me constantly. Her talent is in the arrangement of her material, her fine sense of timing and her inclusion of Chinese folk forms in her music. There are deep parallels between Celtic root and Chinese root music but I won't bore you with the technical aspects of this. Instead, look to the beauty and uniqueness of her art. One can draw a direct line between her and her influences and still, we must stand in awe of her brilliant fusion. It is what distinguishes her from so many other bluegrass musicians and it shows a deep commitment to progressing the tradition instead of keeping it locked away in a glass box to be admired from afar.

Broken Social Scene stands in as my example of truly excellent modern music. I can dissect the influences that lead into it, I can analyze the structure and it would take me far too long. It is a finely woven mesh of music, pulling from so many areas of culture that it takes in a life of it's own. It is transcendent art, recognizing it's past while embracing the future. Broken Social Scene is becoming an influence on music moving forward, which is the mark of true innovation. You could debate the relative worth of their contribution to music but one cannot escape the fact that they have made a contribution, which is more than I can say for the vast array of trite, boring crap that occupies so much of popular culture. Even within their collected recordings and side projects there is a remarkable amount of diversity and creativity. They give me hope, they make me think that I'm not doomed to listen to the same music over and over again until I die.

High quality modern music is more than the sum of it's influences. It is a unique synthesis of other musical forms but achieves far more than acting as a single point at the end of an extensive lineage. It expresses the personalities of the musicians involved and ensures that their voices come through in the song. It challenges our preconceptions of what music is capable of and keeps the lifeblood of art flowing forward. It synthesizes and improves on music we thought we knew so much about and keeps people like me from getting burned out and cynical. On occasion an entirely new form of musical expression will come along. Many times it is simply not worth listening to, a great deal of modern music theory revolves around concepts so cerebral, so disconnected from reality that it has little resemblance to an enjoyable experience. I would not presume to know the future history of musical innovation (who in the 60's could predict the rise of hip-hop?) but I can tell you one thing. Influence is no bad thing, there is a considerable amount of synthesis that has yet to be explored and music will continue to evolve. I hope we will always have artists that refuse to be derivative and take big artistic risks for the chance to make me wake up and pay attention.

Short Story: Spacemonkeyz Vs. Gorillaz - Laika Come Home

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 12:00:00 +0000

I packed a suitcase with a few essential belongings and headed outside to the waiting cab. It was early that Saturday morning and I still had a hard time believing my good fortune. I'd been selected to pilot the first orbiting music studio in human history, a joint venture between Virgin Galactic and Apple Computers.

A few months before this, the head of the project contacted me through my website to let me know I'd made the short list to head the LEO (Low Earth Orbit) Remix division. It seems that my essays on astropolyrhythmics had made some waves with management. Soon I was confirmed for training and tendered my resignation to my then employer, Beat Science Ltd. I spent three months in a training facility in California, getting my body into shape for long term low gee and learning from the Duboligists at the newly founded Institute for Low Gravity Recomposition.

So the day had finally come and I stood there staring out into the horizon when the cab driver hit the horn and gave me a nasty look. I had spent my entire professional career studying astropolyrhythmics and the time had come to put it into practice. When we arrived at the guard shack in front of the launch site the entire facility was in a state of complete panic and disarray. I found the rest of my team near the crew prep area and was quickly filled in by Ian, my Chief Beat Engineer for the mission.

It seemed that the monkeys that were used to test our module had broken out of their holding pens about half an hour before then and were putting the ship into preflight checks. The monkeys had shut ground control out of the systems and the capsule was designed to be completely secure, guarded against industrial espionage. The rocket lifted off that morning packed full of a $150 million in experimental studio equipment and three stoned out test monkeys.

The world watched and listened in wonder as over the course of one year, the Spacemonkeyz released one of the greatest dub concepts ever given form track by track back to the planet on pirate radio. People ask me if I'm upset by this turn of events and in interviews I always say the same thing. Those monkeys have fulfilled my greatest dream, to remix an album in orbit and elevate the science of astropolyrhythmics to legitimacy.

They're still up their and last week I sent them new source material from Thievery Corporation, Scientist and King Tubby.

Good for: Traveling without moving. Founding a colony on Mars based entirely on slick beats and reverb.

Get into orbit on Amazon.

Short Story: Broken Social Scene - Bee Hives

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 15:00:00 +0000

The swirling dirt and dust around her feet seemed to guide Julie forward, waving in her direction from ground level. Hoping that the air could tell her what last night could not, she followed the tiny vortex down the quiet concrete of the abandoned main street. Two birds flew quietly overhead as she crossed to the other side, still following this jinn of cigarette ash and road dirt. Clouds gathered overhead, threatening to mask the rays of a wan and silvery sunlight that pervaded the atmosphere of Stuart Nebraska.

Julie Wainsworth was not a tall woman. This particular morning she reflected that it is at times an advantage to be short, the wind passed over her while the trees looked as though they might lie down for a nap after straining so long to stand up. She had been born to a mixed family, her mother's Omaha side lost somewhere in the history of family bibles and alcohol and her father's ancestry some uniquely American mix of French-Canadian, Irish and something else. Her mother had been a quiet woman and she inherited most of her features, broad face, good hips, short height and a quiet demeanor. The other people here had always treated her with a distanced respect and she preferred it that way.

All of this past seemed to fade into dream as she continued following the tiny tornado west out of town and into the endless fields of commercial farming and cattle. It always hit her like a punch in the gut, seeing the pesticide laden soil groan under the weight of profit and the endless ambition of American business. Trying to find an audience for her feelings had always been impossible in a town of a few hundred farmers and their kin. Julie spent her nights alone as a child, staring out at the stars from a tree and wishing there was some way out of here, laughing deeply as age and wisdom taught her that "out there" was no different for a thousand miles on either side of the town.

It was mid-morning now and the crowded farm buildings gave way to the open sky and endless fields of their pursuits. Her feet stopped short as the vortex halted suddenly next to an access road, about 20 feet in front of her. It moved very slowly down the access road and she stood there, wondering just what the hell she was doing. She was certain that the bank manager had been calling her mother's house for several hours at this point, she was at least three hours late for her shift. Why did it seem so far away? So unimportant? Fuck it, she thinks and walks down the access road, chasing this tiny spirit.

An hour and a half later, the jinn stopped again near a telephone pole and suddenly dropped it's payload in a poof of dust and ash. Julie coughed and wiped her eyes , red sparks playing against her eyelids and Nebraska trying to force it's way into her throat. As the faerie light of her eyes cleared into the glare of the afternoon, a pay phone resolved into focus sitting next to the pole. It looked as though it had been there for sixty years, wind worn and faded from a life in the wild. A wild pay phone? Is it tamed?

The musings of herds of wild pay phones broke into iron tinged fear as the phone began to ring, piercing the windy solitude of her portable temple. Three shrill rings and she stood there, petrified at the way her day had gone. Silence for a moment, a released breath escapes her lips. The phone rings again and her chest seizes up. It's still ringing. Her hand reaches for the receiver, shaking and terrified. As the earpiece hits her ear and she begins to say hello, her lips freeze mid speech as the tinny speaker springs to life.

A sound like bees swimming through an ocean of digital waves gives way to a guitar in the distance telling the tales of her life. She strains against the hot black plastic to hear each note as the story unfolds in her mind's eye. The ground gives way beneath her, an earthquake lifts the red brown dust into the sky and the farm folds back in on itself. Every emotion of her life is turned into a digital pulse, converted by the aged and worn out telephone system and output through this minuscule electromagnet. Her eyes roll back in her head as the sky stares down at this strange sight, birds chirping their questions at the trees and the trees retaining their knowing silence.

Julie Wainsworth is dead now. That's what everyone in Stuart knows to be true. The county coroner confirmed that heart failure led to her demise. If he only knew how true that was. Her heart had failed years ago, this tiny town had never spoken to her and it was sheer willpower that kept her limping along. I know the truth says the tree. She has gone home across the wires around my fingers. Her body lay at my feet that spring morning, but Julie was racing across the plains, waving her goodbyes to the land that gives us life. Julie was my friend, she lived among my branches as a young-ling and stared at the stars until her tears fed my roots. I know Julie Wainsworth, I know her fears, I know her wishes and I know she smiles now.

Julie Wainsworth is not dead.

Short Story: DJ Cheb i Sabbah: As Far As: A DJ Mix

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 14:00:00 +0000

The low red sun burned through the fog of the last few sleepless nights. I rolled out of the borrowed sleeping bag and onto the hard packed dirt floor of the tent. Camp coffee, cruel black gunk that burned like lava was all that we had left in the supplies so I launched a healthy dose down my throat and got dressed. The clothes I borrowed from Madin three days ago were stale and smelled like I'd borrowed them three years ago. We'd been waiting for almost a week to get into the Bhimbetka rock shelters to see the petroglyphs with our own eyes.

Moving to India in my early twenties was an impulse move. Tired of the relentless pace of Western life and the excesses it brings, I packed a bag and headed to the subcontinent with no real plan. How could I have predicted that that shit would follow me, even here. Now every corner of India is plastered with ads for American products, Internet cafes and cheap knockoffs from up north in China. Authenticity in the age of plastic is a fools dream, but I have always been a fool.

Thusly did I find myself staring at 10,000 year old human settlements squinting in the early morning with Madin, my friend and mentor. Well dosed on shitty coffee we parted the tarps covering the nearest cave and set up our mats just inside. I had been practicing my meditation techniques and learning from Madin since I'd arrived in India and I quickly stilled my mind and peered past the rock carvings and into the earth. I saw the hands of a thousand generations lain upon this stone, trying to see what the carvers had meant so many years ago.

As the glyphs settled into the back of my conscious mind the cave fell away and the scene opened up on the sea of green spread before me. The jungle went on as far as I could see and for the first time I saw the India I had come looking for. The land before even the times of Siddhartha Gautama. The rhythm of the land swept through my mind's eye and shook the last bit of disbelief from existence.

In a rush the world around me blurred as vision ans sensation fast forwarded. Time and space become concepts as I moved through Asia and into Arabia. Before I could catch my breath the mighty empires of the Middle East and North Africa rose and fell in front of me. Egypt ascendant, then nothing but wind blasted monuments to an era long past. The vision swept me north once more, to the high mountain reaches of Nepal. Past the endless expanses of the Tibetan highlands and into the Gobi. When I arrived here the journey stopped.

All of these visions came at once then, threatening to overwhelm me. Just when I thought I could take no more, I woke to the cool inside of these ancient caverns to find Madin smiling softly at me. I lay cold and shivering on my mat inside the cave and confused, my body stiff and sore from what felt like years of sitting.

There it was, in a moments flash. I realized then that this endless quest for the real was but one more illusion to strip from my awareness, one more bridge to cross in life. I bowed deeply to my friend, to the cave and to the thousand hands that came before me. Outside, the air had taken on a new lightness. I realized in that moment that it was I that had become lightness, laughed and put my feet upon the road once more.

Short Story: Portishead: Third

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 12:00:00 +0000

People don't understand why I do this work. It's certainly not the money and there's no real glamor in being a private investigator. Most folks just think I'm a flunked out cop, one of those guys who couldn't cut the mustard on the force so I settled for second best. I always let them think that, they underestimate me and it gives me an edge. I started out as an insurance investigator, hunting down fraud and trying to protect good people from bad things. That's what I thought anyway. Like most jobs the finish wore thin after a few years and I realized more and more that I was protecting the bottom line more than our customers. The underside of every job looks the same, it's covered in blood and gold.

My first freelance case came while I was still working for the company. A good friend of mine had been working in film for a while and something had come up that he needed help with. Why John thought of me, I'll never know. There were a thousand more qualified men out there, ex-spooks, military men. But the letter landed in my hand that afternoon, certified post from London with his name on the top. I read the letter immediately, curious why it would arrive like this. I couldn't remember the last time a paper letter crossed my hands. The letter was straight to the point.

Henry;
I know you've got some experience with these matters. I need your help. Some asshole is trying to blackmail me and I can't get from underneath it. Please, help me find out who this is and get them off of my back. I'm sorry I haven't called but I know they're listening in on my cell and reading my e-mails. I included some money to get you over here in a hurry. Meet me here in the lobby at 4 whenever you get in, I'll be looking for you.

Thanks buddy, I know you'll get me out of this

-John-

Inside I find a cashiers check for $7000 and a card for a hotel in London, Sanctuary House Hotel. What the hell John? Why would I drop everything to help you out? Right, why wouldn't I? This man had pulled me out of some nasty situations when we were younger and he even took a beating that was rightfully mine one night. Some quick arrangements with my boss pushed my vacation up a few weeks and some quickInternet wrangling got me my ticket to Heathrow. I ordered in some food and spent the night looking up things to do in London.

Airports are the same. I don't care what dress you put on them, they all do the same dance. Bored people looking thin and pasted over a fluorescing backdrop. I spent my flight time writing down everything I knew about John and his various "problems". As good of a friend as he was to me, he was kind of a dick. I could see how someone could get a handle on one of his skeletons and give him a good shaking. The shit he'd done, fighting a clown at his nephews birthday, sleeping with his brothers wife, drinking a 30 year old bottle of scotch that his roommate had been saving. You know, that last one doesn't seem that bad, except that it ended up on his roommate. You begin to see my point.

The plane skidded to a halt on a strangely sunny day in London. I checked my GPS to make sure I had landed in the right city. I guess the sun does shine here on occasion. After a half on hour of fighting baggage claim I made my way to the tube station to get to the hotel. I had about an hour and a half to kill before John would meet me in the lobby so I checked into my room and relaxed for a while, pondering the mystery of finding myself in London.

What weirdness. My cell beeped it's alarm and I made my way down to the lobby and waited, looking to the doorway. People came and went on their way, tourists, business types and staff. The time shift started to crawl up my spine and slipped into the aether land of international sleep deprivation. A tap on my shoulder snapped me back into the lobby.

"Mr. Withers? Henry Withers? My name is Rachel Warrington, we'd better have a talk. John has been killed."

Next time: Japan seems to bleed neon.

Short Story: Balkan Beat Box

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 23:00:00 +0000

Legends had been whispered at campfires for years in the valleys surrounding my home. A circus of Gypsies, but not the folk we'd known. The Gypsies I'd known growing up had been merchants, entertainers and hired help during harvests. Foreign certainly but nothing beyond the ken of a well versed man of the world. It was said that these others possessed magics untold, pathways to other worlds and strange devices that no wise man could fathom. They travelled far beyond our the world and brought back with them goods that defy description. Cloth that could not be torn, a flame held inside a bulb with no source of fuel or spark and a thousand fold other fanciful devices were at their command. Most educated persons regarded these whispers as nothing more than the idle talk of peasants and the fevered dreams of occultists and their kin. I pity them now for their inability to see beyond this grey world and into the next.

Talaitha had been around the camps of the Gypsy for as long as I could remember. She had the dark eyes of her folk and always seemed to be in a trance of sorts, peering this way and that at things unseen. Most of the villagers avoided her when the caravan pulled into town, fearing her witchcraft and Gypsy curses. I had always watched her from afar as a boy, hiding myself behind the skirts of my mother and ducking behind stalls as limb turned long and lean in the years to come. When the age came upon me my father passed his knowledge of metals onto me I began trading with the gypsies more and more often. Their metals were exceptional for this region and I could not go a season without bartering for at least some of their wares.

It was late in the harvest season and the caravan was soon upon it's way when I at last summoned forth the courage to speak with Talaitha. No sooner had I approached the camp when behind me leaf and dry grass stirred. Talaitha had been following me since I left my father's workshop. I was carrying to her the pinnacle of my apprenticeship, a trombone made of pure Gypsy brass and lacquered with English silver. She took me then lightly by the hand and bade me sit beside the fire. I sat, waiting with quivering anticipation for her next silken words. She asked me then what had brought me here. "To present you with this, my dear. A token of my undying affection." I spat out in a rush. It would appear that youthful mastery of language appears only in the privacy of ones room.

She smiled at me with that otherworldly glint in her eyes and told me thus. "A fine token it would make, you sweet young man. I could not decline such an offer but I know of a place where such a fine instrument would be better loved than upon my clumsy lips. Have you heard tell of the Balkan Beat Box." I replied that I had not. "Folk here may speak of them as Gypsy, a strange tribe even for our ways and versed in magics not known in these lands." A spark of early childhood campfires brought legend to life in my mind's eye and I nodded emphatically. "Come with me then, let us see if fate may bring us this joy."

She stood there, radiant in her tattered clothes and began casting about her person for some unknown reason. Upon her exclamation she pulled from a pocket a strange dark object. Putting the small blackened box to her face she began talking in a language I could not understand. No sooner had she replaced this thing back into her pocket than I blinked and found myself sitting far away from the familiar camps of her tribe. A queer array of light bled down from some source above my head and the air was stifled with the scent of tobacco, crowded with the din of people talking and hotter than any summer I'd known. The surrounding space was full of items beyond my knowing and people moving in such a rush that my head began to spin.

A cool hand lay upon my shoulder and soothing words swept into my senses, "Fear not, my sweet young man. Let me see that trumpet you labored over so fiercely and we shall see what the fates have in store for us. You must remain here, do not allow your eyes to wander overmuch. It is a forbidden thing, what I have done, and I fear what may pass if you are discovered." Seeing the intensity in Talaitha's eyes I believed her and passed the trombone into her hands. She walked across the floor to a dark skinned man who seemed pleased to see the instrument. A few tentative whispers upon the horn and then a note of such pure radiance that I may never hear anything quite so sweet as long as I live. The man smiled and nodded in my direction and I replied likewise, dazed at the strangeness of it all.

The rest of the people gathered near him and began playing music such as I have never experienced. So this is the legend, Balkan Beat Box, I thought to myself. They are no mere necromancers as legend would have you think, they are true magicians of the highest order spinning spells of drum and brass into enchantments that lasted well past the trailing note of that night. I had never heard such fire, such overwhelming passion played upon a stage and to this day I have never heard the like again. The time passed me by without knowing, each blast of the horn and beat upon the drum lining up with the next tune without pause. I danced with Talaitha upon that strange scene, sweat pouring out of my body as rivers into the ocean deep and I swooned at the joy of it all.

My body spent, my mind overtaken by the pulse of such a place I fell back into my seat and closed my eyes. The magicians had begun packing their constructs into dark casings and the crowd beyond was thinning. Talaitha took my hand once more and spoke, "You must return now, shall I retrieve your Masterpiece for you?". "I would not think of it, it has found it's place here in this magicians hands. It would be a sin to deprive him of my work and this night has left me with payment enough." The mystic smile crept back onto her face. "I thought as much. Come now, we must be off. Take my hand and do not open your eyes."

No sooner did I close my eyes than I felt air around me shift, a chill flowing up my legs and the scent of wood smoke in my nostrils. Alas, I felt no hand in mine and I finally cast my eyes about searching for the smile that had brought me here. It was no more, nor was there any sign of the caravan that had brought her into my life. I wept upon my knees and cried at the moon until I could stand no more. Slumber held me tight that night after I walked the lonely path back to my father's shop.

Morning next I sat in bed and pondered whether any sane man would hear my tale and do anything but laugh or refer me to Father Anders. I thought it might be wise to remain silent and have kept these words still in my breast until this day my son. Should you find yourself standing with a Gypsy girl deep in the night, armed with your intentions and the product of this family's craft, be careful what words you speak. They may lead you into dreams and madness, but a madness you will treasure all of your days.

Get into it on Amazon.com

Short Story: Jazz Lounge

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 00:53:00 +0000

*This is an old post of mine that I enjoyed enough to send up again, enjoy!*

The blue was almost overbearing. The sky and sea were cartoon clear, mid-June in the Ligurian Sea, just off the coast of Corsica. The sun drenched everything in sight, pulling the teak oil out of the wood of the rented speedboat and shooting it right up my nose full speed. It was competing for space in my senses with a myriad of other smells, sweating skin, the remnants of dockside lunch, blood and the jasmine bouquet of Angeline's shoulders. My god, she really is perfect, I reflected as we hit a wave full force and she launched off the deck ever so slightly, grabbing my arm and smiling. Her teeth were what caught me first. Odd to say, but a woman's teeth speak for her, in more ways than one.

Three days ago I had been lying in a hospital room looking at the mountains surrounding Castiglioncello and wondering just what in the hell had gone wrong. Bryan and I had come to the south of France for two weeks of relaxation, food and serious beach time. It's almost impossible to not have a good time in Marseilles. Especially when you're loaded from a fresh job and with a clean alibi trail leading all the way back three months. It's a shame those plans had to be put on hold. Bryan had clued me into the deal back in March and it sounded fucking perfect. One night's work, thirty years of pay. I had been squeaking by with small time hustles and part time work for a while. Nothing big ever panned out but it never stopped me from dreaming.

The deal was straight forward. Well, as straight forward as these things ever are. African diamonds going to Ukrainian black market dealers for some RPGs and a grab bag of AK47s, pistols and whatever else the Soviets left behind. The buyers were some little known radical faction from a tribal hot zone in the west of Africa. I'm almost certain they were the "Democratic Liberators of Something or Another". They always are. Anyway, the deal was being brokered by some of Bryan's old friends in Amsterdam and for a thirty percent cut, they would let us know where the exchange was and help us find a new buyer in the area. Lawyers. I hate fucking lawyers. But whatever I felt had to take a backseat to these particular lawyers, they were about to make me a very happy and wealthy man.

The one thing I'll give lawyers is that they're detail oriented. We had verified employment in Japan for one of their shell companies, alibis who would swear that we were at their hotel and the receipts to show for it. While our ghosts were working in Sendai (evidently we were contract IT) Bryan and I were mapping Amsterdam and setting up the job. Bryan had lived there in his early twenties so it really helped having him on this. That and his locals kept us in a steady supply of information and good hash. It made for a very pleasant stay. But we weren't here for the weed, not yet anyway. We had work to do.

The plan was simple. The buyers were coming in on a train from Paris and taking a taxi to the hotel a day before. The meet was the next afternoon with our boy so we had about a 12 hour window to relieve them of the diamonds. Hotel security was a joke and the police were far enough away that we could get clean before they arrived on scene.

We walked through the back door courtesy of a very disgruntled and now significantly wealthier cook and made our way to the emergency stairs. Changing into the masks and stripping off our street clothes on the landing, Bryan and I exchanged nervous looks. I hate to disappoint people, but it doesn't matter how long you've been doing this kind of shit, you're always nervous. Professionals just don't let it affect their cool. The door to the room was as promised, unlocked with the master key and opened with a slight click.

Two very surprised looking men were locked into that position permanently as the clack of two silenced pistol rounds opened their minds to the world. Such dirty business. We moved quickly then, scooping up the briefcase, grabbing the keys off both men and re locking the door. Back into the stairwell we headed, pulling back on the tourist outfits and filling our backpacks with the weapons and masks. Thankfully no one was awake and roaming the halls, I hate having to kill innocent people.

Out in the alleyway we met our waiting limo driver and headed off to the train station for passage to Marseilles. I never breath a sigh of relief until the job is done and we were only halfway there. Sitting underneath my feet was about $30 million in blood diamonds and some very bloody keys were jingling around in my pocket. The lawyers were sending their guy to meet us at a resort, Kalenda. A nights ride later we checked into our rooms at Kalenda and I started to sweat.

All that was left now was waiting for the agent to get in touch with us and collect our money. Bryan headed to the hotel bar and I stayed in the room with the briefcase, watching my cell with anxious twitching. I have always hated that part. Sitting, waiting, not knowing what's going on. I like the action. Put me in a firefight and I know what I'm doing. Make me sweat in a hotel room and we've got a problem.

The phone rang, Belgian country code, unknown number. I picked up and listened. "We meet in the restaurant at the docks, Une Table au Sud, 19:30. I will be wearing a white tie." "Alright." Well, there was about three hours to kill so grabbed my cargo and joined Bryan at the hotel bar for a while, clued him into our dinner plans and grabbed a glass of wine. Hotel bar crowds are the same every where, business types, tourists and the occasional local cruising for visitors. Time stood still for a while, chatting up a corporate raider from America about the growth of the Euro. Damn, I should have gotten our cash in Euros. Too late now, I bid farewell to my new friend and headed back to the room to change.

I slid the key into the door and heard the click of a gun one second too late. That's all I remember until the bright sunlight of the Italian morning and some serious fucking pain in my shoulder. Angeline was my nurse and over the next few days I managed to get in touch with Bryan through some contacts in Italy and convince Angeline to help me out. She helped me get out of the hospital without too many uncomfortable "gunshot, found on the beach" questions. Let no one ever underestimate the power of persuasion.

Persuasion, and about three grand in bribes. My pocket money was running low, my shoulder felt like someone had dropped it in lava and I had some double crossing bullshit to wade through. Bryan was in the clear, he had been shot three times in the leg and one to the chest, left for dead by these pricks. The only other person that knew where we were was that Belgian phone number.

A short shopping trip to pick up a new cell phone, call Bryan and give him the new number, find me a boat and we were on our way. Angeline and I were off to Corsica to meet up with him and find out exactly who I needed to punch holes through to get our payday. It was going to be a long summer.

Listen to samples at Amazon.com

Rant: I hate you Indie Genre Tag.

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 00:00:00 +0000

I listen to a lot of music. By a lot of music I mean I border on obsession. I listen to every kind there is, all the time I'm not playing it. Before you can say "Everything? Who does this guy think he is?" I will tell you this. My last few procurements are a collection of ancient Chinese folk songs, some Blur albums (Parklife is great by the way, very 80's in spots) and bunch of old ragtime records I found in a thrift store. So I'm into it, hardcore ya know?

A few years ago my CD collection had grown to an unmanageable size and I decided it was time to rip the whole thing into MP3. It took me about 2 years to get through it all but it was totally worth it. Now I had most of my music in a searchable index and I was pleased. Soon as my collection grew beyond it's original 60GB size it started getting harder and harder to search so I decided that it was time to start tagging all of my music. The only fields open to me were Artist, Album and Genre. I groaned, I wailed, I pulled on my hair and finally sat down and started creating genres for my music.

I hate genre. I hate it with a burning passion, I think it's a terrible way of describing music in any but the broadest of terms. So I stick with some pretty broad terms; Opera is easy to distinguish from Punk Rock, Hip-Hop sounds very different from Mexican Bolero etc. The real bitch of it comes in truly modern music. Where the hell do I put Devotchka? They're a Gypsy/Bolero rock band from Denver for fucks sake. Genre? They want nothing to do with it, just enjoy. What about Beck? Every album sounds like a new street drug I've never tried and any attempt to file it in my collection feels wrong.

Alas a gigantic music collection requires some organizing or I'll find myself back with my CDs, staring at a giant cluster fuck of boxes and buying the same album three times in one year because I don't think I own it. So I can either create a genre tag for every Balkan Beat Box that keeps scribbling outside of genre lines or I can try and group some of this crap together so I can find it. Recently a genre tag that I truly despise is creeping into my digital music.

Indie.

I hate you, Indie genre tag. You are a method for distributing music, not a damn genre. You describe nothing, but so much of what I'm all about these day keeps landing in this pile. Again, Devotchka? Where the hell do you go Devotchka? Beyond creating a specific genre for Ukranian/Mexican Rock I can find little else to place them in. Maybe rock, but it still doesn't fit quite right. I'm not rocking out while I listen to them, I rock out when I hear The Black Keys. Or to make things worse, where am I to file Beirut? Gypsy-folk? AAAARG!

I've tried replacing the Indie tag with a few others and I've managed to extract Indie Pop and Psychedelic into their own categories but honestly it's painful work and not something I'm interested in spending a lot of time laboring over. I want to enjoy my music, not spend a couple hundred hours organizing it. That is the exact reason I went to MP3s so long ago, it's supposedly very convenient. Prove it to me MP3s, be more convenient.

I want music playing software that allows me to write in my own fields and then populate them with data that matters to me. Like what kind of sex goes good with this particular Leonard Cohen collection, or what color fruit reminds me of this Animal Collective track. I want emotional tagging. I want to be able to ascribe a mood to every track and every album in my library so when I'm feeling pissy I can just scroll down through my Ani Difranco records and listen to all the tracks tagged as "Pissy". Where's my Magical iPod that can do all of this? Damn you Indie genre, damn you for being useful and annoying.

Fuck it, someone please just take a picture of me every time I play Gulag Orkestar and tell me where it should be filed.

Thanks for listening to me rant,
Eriq Nelson.

Neko Case: Middle Cyclone

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 17:00:00 +0000

It has been 3 years since Neko Case has graced the world with a studio album and this time she's back with a broadsword. If anything, this interim has delivered us a Neko even more polished, shinier and even more ready to cut your head in half with her vocal skills if not her considerable skills at carback sword fighting. "The Pharoahs" is a jewel of scintillating guitar riffs thrown up in the dust of what used to be your heart and is vocally strong enough to be a fortress in the storms that are running all over this record. Throughout her ventures in country music Neko case has challenged people's conception of what a country singer can tackle lyrically, stylistically and culturally. In spirit, if not in style, she is the inheritor of the storm front named Emmylou Harris that was pushing hard against the Nashville clone factory in the early 80's and winning. Middle Cyclone weaves a whirling path between stark beauty and lavish sonic storms, dipping through your hometown and up the highway towards the lights on the horizon.

A preview of this record is up on NPR.

The Whitest Boy Alive: Rules

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 17:00:00 +0000

The Whitest Boy Alive is the greatest elevator band you've ever heard. They are dancing quietly in a light disco limbo between Belle and Sebastian and The Postal Service, wagging their fingers to the beat. They write minimalist electro inspired pop compositions that have nothing to prove, they are breezy and light on their feet, smiling the whole time as they dance through your headphones. By the time "Intentions" is playing you've already introduced them to your mother and invited them to come stay the weekend. Just when you think that they can be written off as a light handed pop band from Berlin, "Timebomb" comes along and you realize there is something lurking under the covers of their hotel sheets. Something dangerous, something cool and unknown that you need more of. It's OK, they're not going anywhere yet and there's plenty more on this album that bears repeated listening.

Some previews are up on their Myspace page.

M. Ward: Hold Time

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 17:00:00 +0000

Hold Time is music from an alternate history where Chet Atkins started taking psychedelics with Tom Waits on a farm in the middle of the desert and cutting records. These are the radio broadcasts from a parallel universe where AM radio is king and vacuum tubes are driving the information revolution. It is hand crafted, natural and deeply poetic music. "One Hundred Million Years" is Ward in classic form, riding the steam train of Americana between the easy flow of the West Coast and the stomp of the Mississippi shores. This is one more in a series of fantastic albums from M. Ward and includes an appearance from Lucinda Williams on "Oh Lonesome Me", a Don Gibson Cover that showcases his ability to update a classic tune without missing the soul of a song. The album ends with an aching and heartbroken instrumental composition of starlight and lonely highway signs stretching out into the horizon, begging you to just start it all over again.

Samples available on Amazon.

Prose: An Introduction By Way Of A Lesson

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 03:41:00 +0000

Hello everybody, I'm Eriq Nelson

For seven years I worked at the Tower Records here in Richmond VA and I loved damn near every minute of it. It paid my bills (kind of) and it introduced me to some incredible people (very true!). More than anything, it broadened my mind to an unspeakable variety of music. For the area I grew up in, the decaying working class suburbs of Richmond, I had a pretty catholic taste in music. Ani Difranco, Rancid and Tool were my favorite bands coming out of high school and I knew jazz. I thought I knew jazz. I thought I had a broad taste in music. Wow, was I wrong.

Well, I wasn't totally wrong. For the time and place I had been, I was a pretty broad minded dude. The fact that I had a woman singer in my CD collection was pretty outlandish. The first weeks at Tower proved to me how narrow my tastes really were. I met people with knowledge and experience in music so far beyond my reckoning that they appeared near inhuman. I met customers and employees who blew my mind clean in half with the depth of their knowledge about jazz, classic rock, zydeco, African funk and a thousand other genres of music. I listened, I learned and I soaked it all in.

In time, I had been brewing in music long enough that I could start really helping our customers out. I could give them advice about new albums, recommend classics to people, find live albums and deep cuts they might not know about and generally keep them happy with what was in their CD decks. It wasn't always easy, there were plenty of rude people that didn't want anything to do with what was outside of their tastes. It bothered me sometimes, I love music more than almost anything else there is. Eventually I realized that there was nothing I could do for these people, and I let them on their way.

There was another disease running through the record store. It infects knowledgeable employees, it breeds on blogs, Facebook and it's spreading into your local vinyl resellers, one stops and bars. Its name is Indie Snobbery. No one wants to talk about it but the silence must be broken. Not to complain about it's existence, bitching about it's like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but you'll never get anywhere. No, No there's been enough bitching. Instead, I will give you A Lesson.

Meet Mark. Mark is a typical suburban white guy, works in an office, is 35 or 36 and has a pleasant wife. He shops at Tower about three times a month and comes in to buy a pretty demographically typical spread of pop/rock and light jazz records. No one pays him any mind, no one really talks to him. He is a ghost.

One afternoon I see a new hire giving our buddy Mark the "eyeball roll" as he asks for help. I hate the eyeball roll. I recognize the signs of a customer about to walk out so I stroll over to see if I can help. Turns out, Mark was looking for something like Chris Botti. Now for those who don't know, Chris Botti doesn't play the most despicable form of smooth jazz, but he flirts with it. Right, I'm not a fan at all.

I might not like Chris Botti, or even really want to deal with a guy who counts himself as a fan, but I helped Mark out. I turned him onto Stan Getz, who is a fantastic bossa nova and samba sax player and worked throughout his career with some of the biggest names in jazz. I didn't push him off on whatever top selling crap was there, I listened and I learned, I took the time to meet Mark.

In the three years that he was my customer, he blossomed. By the time I left Tower, he was listening to Herbie Hancock, Lonnie Smith, Michael Brecker and a host of other influential jazz players as well as getting him out to local shows from our jazz scene. I snuck some post-rock in there as well. A touch of Sigur Rós to whet the appetite. So the question here is this: Is it better to turn someone on to good music for the rest of their life or feel smugly superior for your incredible taste for a moment?

No. It is a far better thing that has a lasting effect on the world to open up to people, be patient and understanding and really talk to them about music. If we all really want to support independent musicians, local culture, and editorial independence then it must be a culture of inclusion. There is no way to support yourself as an artist without selling your work to people you might not like. The same is true of those who follow and enjoy these artists. Sometimes they suck, they're narrow minded, they don't know anything. I always remember my first day at Tower, wandering around lost in those huge stacks of music. I am those guys.

Thanks for reading,
Eriq Nelson.

And Assorted Ramblings here: The Temple Of The Forbidden Beat

Do Make Say Think: You, You're a History In Rust

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 00:20:00 +0000

Do Make Say Think have been charting a new course through music since the late 90's, peering around the corners of improvised rock, ambient drones and post-modern composition into a room of ancient instruments. This album from 2007 sends alternating chills up and down your spine as it walks over the entire range of human emotion, touching your head and reaching into your heart with every note. Instrumental music of this quality is rare, rare and special and you want this in your ears as soon as possible. It is the score to old farms, the soundtrack of decay and a symphony of rebirth painted with broad strokes of horns, guitars and drums across the canvas between your ears. It will break your heart and build you back up a thousand times in 60 minutes and you will thank them at the end.

Samples of this album are on Amazon.

Morrissey: Years of Refusal

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 17:00:00 +0000

Morrissey has traveled an interesting road throughout his career, dipping into literature and dropping out of music at times. He tends to walk around rock music loosely and freely without much regard for other people's opinions and it shows. He's got a big collection of organs, synths, drums and guitars and he's gonna use them all tonight. Years of Refusal is a backstage pass to Morrissey's mind. This album starts off strong with "Something Is Squeezing My Skull" bringing a smattering of pure rock to the album, grabbing your attention and letting you inside. Then the he beckons you into the back room for tracks that sound more like a progression of his solo work since his return to the music scene in '03 with You Are The Quarry. For those familiar with Morrissey, you'll notice that his lyrics have moved outwards in this record, painting pictures of the world through his eyes and letting you inside to watch. For those unfamiliar, you are about to meet a brilliant lyricist face to face and come away smiling.

Phosphorescent: To Willie

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 17:00:00 +0000

To Willie is an album long tribute from one very talented singer-songwriter (Matthew Houck) to another. These are the faded memories of honky tonk bars sung from the bottom of a lonely well, a near perfect selection of Willie Nelson tunes representing a broad spectrum of his career dancing on the fingers of a deft arranger and his reverb drenched production. Standing out among these gems is “Can I Sleep In Your Arms” which is treated with all of the warmness and intimacy Phosphorescent can offer. It is as delicate as a snowflake on your fingertip and as strong as the wind outside the windows. Willie did much the same for his hero Lefty Frizell in 1977 with To Lefty, From Willie and it is fitting that the man receive his tribute in turn. This is country music as it is meant to be; fresh, funny, heartbreaking and played with an undying love of the art.

Good for: Lamenting your bourbon soaked memories, or making some new ones.

Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavillion

noreply@blogger.com (Eriq Nelson) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 00:43:00 +0000

Animal Collective has released a full length album almost every year since 2000 and they have lost none of their tenacity or experimentation in the process. This album is a limo taking you through modern music, it shifts smoothly between the bright pop of “My Girls” into the off kilter and entrancing rhythms of “Also Frightened”, past the stomping and cheering “Summertime Clothes” and right into the dark reverb laden mysteries of "Daily Routine" for a drink. They ride the edges of experimental music like a breaking wave, sometimes dipping the front of the track over the edge but bringing you back to the groove without you ever noticing. If you haven't listened to Animal Collective before, know that they write intentional and complex music that demands your undivided attention and that you will be immensely rewarded for your effort. If you have listened to them before, go out and get your eighth amazing Animal Collective LP.

Good for: Headphones in the dark, headtrips in the light.