Ionic

Inside Llewyn Davis and The Coen Brothers Too

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Tue, 04 Feb 2014 18:05:00 +0000

The protagonist in a Coen brothers’ film is usually marked for failure. They also sometimes tend to be aware of this destiny and end up engaging in elliptical quests. The protagonists in Coen brothers' films are thus tragic figures. They tend to be gathered under the umbrella of self-imposed isolation and the action, so to speak, occurs when the outer world decides to intrude on this bubble (eg. The Dude, Barton Fink, Larry Gopnik). Llewyn Davis, (it is a Welsh name) is another evolutionary successor to these illustrious gents. A folk singer trying to strike it big in early 60s Greenwich Village, Llewyn is alone. He is a nomad even, who may or may not want to be one. Circumstance, that fell beast, forces this state on him. He is just on the point of breaking in to the inner circle. He can feel it.

If you have ever read a review of a Coen brothers film, you may have read about how the brothers mock their own creations. I don't know how true this is. I personally love their body of work and I think it is the most consistent world view presented in a medium. That said, they do tend to behave as a detached Creator conscious of his creations would (should?). Inside Llewyn Davis, however, seems to me a spiritual successor to the intensely personal ‘A Serious Man’. Both films include warm, handle-with-care protagonists on personal quests in largely uncaring, unsympathetic worlds. The film opens with Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) in 1961's Gaslight Café. A halo frames his bearded face and Llewyn begins to sing. "Amy, Oh Amy" Wait, why is he singing about Amy? Who's Amy? "Hang Me, Oh Hang Me" Yes, that makes some sense. Mournful, beautiful notes. Llewyn can sing. The song ends, the crowd applauds, Llewyn leaves to meet a friend backstage. A happy protagonist? Well, not for long.

When I heard the film was about the kind of time and place that seemed ideal for spawning myths, I automatically assumed Llewyn would be a bit like O Brother's Ulysses Everett McGill—a trickster hero. I watched the film trying to anticipate the point where the film would turn brilliantly on its heels and transform into some kind of magical experience. The film however refuses to (at least not directly) deal with even a tiny bit of magic. Is this what a real period film feels like? Leeched of artistic tone and creative flavour to represent (surprise, surprise) reality? To be honest, I have no clue about historical accuracy and it is not something that I care about. But when someone says a Coen brothers’ film set in 60s America, I expect some form of radical intellectual hijinks. I expect rebels and thinkers and real men and real talent sprouting from every neglected brick wall. I expect a disgusting, colorful orgy of creative juices that would shame my own colorless existence. Instead what we have here is more of the same colorlessness. A story of normal struggle that reads contrary to today's "everyone is born special" landscape.

Llewyn walks alone, quite literally, from gig to gig. He sleeps on the floors and couches of friends. He had a musical partner, Mike, who jumped off the wrong bridge. (Pop quiz: Name a Coen brothers’ movie that has a naturally stable central partnership that lasts) Llewyn is the man against the world (and against the German nihilists, businesses, wives, relatives, forces of nature, legendary killers, government agencies by extension). For Llewyn the world includes Jean (Carey Mulligan, lovely), an angry ex-girlfriend he’s gotten pregnant who wants him to pay for an abortion; Jim (Justin Timberlake, tolerably bearded), her singer-husband; Troy Nelson (Stark Sands), a folk singer-soldier who already is looking at success; Al Cody (Adam Driver, lanky), a friend of Jim’s who accompanies Jim and Llewyn while recording the funny guaranteed-to-succeed Please Mr. Kennedy; the Gorfeins (Ethan Phillips and Robin Barrett), a couple of academics who are genuine Llewyn Davis fans and their cat.

The cat is a crucial character (or is it just the Coens doing that mocking thing again?). The cat (several similar ones were used for filming) ends up traveling with Llewyn and turning possibly into a sort of symbol for Llewyn himself (Llewyn is Welsh for lion). The cat (whose name is a lovely, clever "typical Coen joke" that you must find out for yourself) and the troubadour have much in common. They always seem to be escaping from each other's grasp. When Llewyn calls Professor Gorfein's receptionist to inform him about the cat, she mishears his message. "Llewyn is the cat", she intones. He loses the cat then finds it. Then it turns out it isn't even the same cat. Questions of identity plague Llewyn. To use a cliche, he needs to find himself. Yes, I thought to myself, this is it. This is when he will shed the yoke of his own burden and march to glory. But Llewyn is a jerk to put it mildly. His sister, model suburbanite, and his father, almost dead, are the kind of living that scares Llewyn. He wants success (maybe just validation) but he doesn't want it easy. He makes fun of Jean for wanting family life. During the gig that Jim got him, he mocks Jim without realizing it. He mocks a performing band for having nice sweaters. He mocks a poor old lady. He has no money but he isn't ready to adjust. He takes the wrong cat back to the Gorfeins and ends up fighting with them.

True to the Coen brothers’ name, Inside Llewyn Davis rambles. It takes random turns and one of the most prominent is the road trip. Coen brothers' totem John Goodman as a venom spewing, heroin loving gentleman, and mystery man no.1, a vaguely dangerous enigmatic Beat poet join Llewyn. At one point, Llewyn and the cat look at the driver in an eerily simultaneous way. This was the part where I was sure of a catalyst that will galvanize our protagonist into decisive action. And again I was surprised as the trip was only a slightly surreal car ride. The ride is eventful, yes, but it has nothing to offer Llewyn whose destination is rejection with a liberal dose of irony. The ride back is equally, if not more, hellish. Ice and darkness lead a sleepy Llewyn to maim an animal (A cat? Some metaphorical aspect of Llewyn?).

All self-defeating roads lead home and Oscar Isaac, in a star-making performance, never asks for mercy. All his actions, quirks and gestures seem to be destined for failure. I would even argue that he doesn't possibly want to succeed because after basking in the tragic light of failure for so long any form of success is tinged with compromise in his eyes. When faced with a chance to impress, he chooses a song that he has no hope of pulling off. Cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel, who tries to fill Roger Deakins' freakishly large boots, helps the director(s) visualize Llewyn's situation (note the cramped hallways and the surreal doors). T. Bone Burnett along with Marcus Mumford creates an aural experience that is evocative and representative. Music has always been crucial to the Coen brothers’ and yet again (think O Brother Where Art Thou?) the soundtrack is a character itself.

In a way, the film ends the way it begins. Time runs in circles and timing is often key. The Coens show us another solitary man who takes the stage right after Llewyn. A man who we know is destined for greatness. You can’t help but feel sorry for him. Will he find the right note or will he just fade away? What is the price of failure for an insider? Culture and History both tend to be written by winners. Success becomes emblematic and Failure is relegated to the proverbial abyss of daily life.

In a conversation in the film, Llewyn's sister says, "Exist? Is that what we do outside of show business? It's not so bad." Llewyn however knows that exist is that which some inside the show business must do too. It is this that Llewyn dreads and ultimately comes to terms with.

The cat's name, in this context is a deft touch (think Joycean) and it almost perfectly embodies this problem of identity. After all, the cat and Llewyn both seem to be under the power of their own name at all times. And as the movie nears conclusion, Llewyn, who now knows the name of the cat, behaves differently. As if the knowledge has helped him overcome something internally. He seems to have shed his martyr face and accepted something. I know quiet resignation when I see it.

Trick Me Into Believing

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 10 Aug 2013 16:19:00 +0000

First of all, Let us get this clear, I don't believe in love,
I also don't believe in magic.
Tricks are a whole different ball game though.

Think about it.
It is a dark road and you are walking down it alone.
And you can just make love appear.
You could just pull it out a sleeve.
Ain't nobody gonna mess with you. Man.
Crazy, right?

You could hide it like a warm furry white animal. In a classy top hat.
[The animal won't be wearing the hat. I mean, you hide it in the hat.]
It would stay there, silent and quivering. And maybe shitting.
It needs feeding.
And you might need to let it breathe. Occasionally.
Face it, no one likes a dead dove.
Finally, you might have to pull it out.
But I don't think you can put it back.

It brandishes decks of cards and sometimes silk handkerchiefs.
I hear, it can hypnotize people.
Make them forget themselves.
It can tell people what their card was,
And it can very well saw people in half.

Not all magic tricks are good,
But they are not all bad either.
A few are pretty real.
Most are smokes and mirrors too.

Love sometimes gets out of handcuffs.
Out of straightjackets.
Out of chains.
Out of tanks full of water.
That are buried under land.

Sometimes love just vanishes.
Because? I don't know. You tell me.
No, really, I am asking you.
It leaves you with your mouth open.
Wonder. Like no other.
But It binds you sometimes and it binds you till you can't move.

It transforms you. It transports you.
It levitates you. It penetrates you.
It escapes you.
But it is popular at parties. It makes you meet others.
Who believe. In Abracadabra.
And some who believe. In Hocus Pocus.
Who have read the books and want to practise.

So. For my next trick, I'll need a volunteer.

Ship of Theseus

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 25 Jul 2013 11:50:00 +0000

It is not a very good paradox (very good meaning mind boggling as should be the innate nature of paradoxes) like the grandfather paradox.

As per Plutarch, who is very old and definitely dead by now, the ship in which Theseus and his gang of Athenian youth homies returned from Crete had thirty oars. It was supposedly preserved by the Athenians for quite some time. They took away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their place.

This is the crux of the matter so to speak. The ship changed. Leading to a question of things that grow. The more things change the more they remain the same or is it the other way round? Or something.

My personal choice of question though, voiced by Thomas Hobbes, is what I was trying to explain last night (and failing remarkably).

"What would happen if the original planks were gathered up after they were replaced, and used to build a second ship. Which ship, if either, is the original Ship of Theseus?"

Kinda like that band which is headed by one guy and everyone else just keeps on changing. [Yes, you Axl Rose and you too, Billy Corgan]

eg. You read this when you are unhappy. You read this when you are not unhappy? Is it the same thing?
OF COURSE. Literally, it is. On some terrible philosophical level (which has mood lighting but malfunctioning coffee vending machines) it is not.

The experience changes not just with the environment but also with the perception of the experience.

The formal cause or form is the design of a thing, while the material cause is the matter that the thing is made of. The "nature" of a thing is its design? Or is it a more material connection? Or is it entirely B.S.?

The song remains the same, because the design and not the matter stays constant.

"Apparently."

Jan's Heart

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Mon, 27 May 2013 05:30:00 +0000

It looked quite like a heart. If you have ever been to a fair this side of the sun, you will have seen one of those tents with one of those jars. Cow foetuses masquerading as mutant wonders. This was however something different. It was a beating heart. It was a noiseless thing. You couldn't hear it beating but you could see it moving. Rubbery. Slimy. Something that makes your stomach jump like it does when you see roadkill.

Jan saw it first.

He was a slender man with slender craftman hands and he clenched the barrier that kept the curious spectators back as he stared at it. He stared it like he had stared at the first pair of boobies in the first porno he had seen when Altman's Travelling Movie Circus had shown up in town. He had paid money and he was determined to get his money's worth.

Everything else at the fair was shut down. Not even a single mechanical tinkle could be heard. The audience was streaming homeward. A static hiss of a radio here, a raucous card player there.

At that moment, however, Jan and the heart existed alone in the universe. Wonder lit his eyes.

"You still here, brother?", said a shadow, coming into the glare of the solitary light bulb.

"Yeah," said Jan curtly, not too happy about this intrusion on his thoughts.

The circus master was a connoisseur of curiosity. He nodded at the jar. "Isn't it something?"

Jan grunted and nodded. "I want to buy it."

The circus master snorted and then laughed a mocking laugh. "Why would I want to sell? People come to see it. Makes me money."

"Oh," Jan let his disappointment show.

"Well, now. No need to be too sad young man. If you have money. Speak up."

"How much?"

"How about - " the circus master raised a fists and counted on his fingers. "five and maybe another five?"

Jan nodded with anticipation. The circus master saw this and raised his total, "- well maybe even fifteen?"

Worry creased Jan's brow. "Look here now, I just got twelve cards in my pack. I just want it to make me popular back in my home town. I don't want to make money from it."

"I see, I see. I think we can come to an arrangement.."

Jan was sold the heart and the jar containing it was put in the back of Jan's old cycle rickshaw.

"Just don't take it out of the liquid, will you?" said the circus master as Jan readied to leave. Jan nodded and drove off. The sky was bluer and brighter as stars died and night arrived around man and machine. The rickshaw made a faint clanking and the liquid in the jar sloshed around the heart. Crickets provided company.

Jan looked back again and again at his possession. Checking on his ticket to interestingness.

The Outlands had always been barren and Jan's home town, widely known among by the residents as The Burrow, was an oasis. Lanterns tossed light over patches of the property and the talking men that marked the property.

Jan headed straight to Buttner's store. The men recognized the creak of Jan's cycle-rick and stopped talking as it got closer.

"Hi Dun, Hi Matt," Jan said without stopping. "Come to my house tomorrow, I got something to show you."

"Yeah? What you got?" the men shouted after the departing Jan. They got no answer but the muttering of frogs. "Tell us or we ain't coming Jan!"

"Oh you sure coming fellas. You coming as sure as Jesus!" Jan shouted back. He grinned to himself. They sure coming.

Jan drove by all the places where he could find men and he told them the same thing that he told Dun and Matt. Uncertain men in uncertain lantern lights stood around in The Burrow and talked about this thing that Jan had gotten his idiot hands on. Some people said it was a thing and some others thought it was that other thing. The Redhead said it was an animal but the Buttner brothers claimed it was a machine. Anders wondered if it was a wife and Mrs. Anders wondered if it was a husband. Everyone was interested.

Jan reached home. He lived alone and he carried the jar pushing the door open with his butt and performing all the gymnastics that comes with carrying a heavy thing with both your hands. He set it down in the living room, right over the tee vee. The house was filled with grey things and this was the only thing with any colour.

There was nothing to do now but wait. Jan knew the jar was going to make his life a lot more interesting now. He imagined all manners in which that might happen.

"Damn I try and I try but everyone thinks I am an idiot. You don't think so do you? I think you should have a name. How about Clyde? Clyde is good. So, Clyde do you think I am an idiot? I didn't think so. Well, you know what Clyde? You and I are going to be very good friends. And Clyde, you my friend are going to make me famous."

The jar and its lone resident chose to respond with silence.

Jan dragged the only chair in his house in front of the tee vee and slept in it.

Morning came and it brought people.

Dun and Matt stood in the front door. Jan woke up, startled, and then grinned the widest grin.

"Hey Jan - we - came. To have a look - at whatever it is - that you have."

Jan pointed to the jar. Dun and Matt stared.

"What is it?" asked Dun in a whisper usually reserved for sacred words. Matt's mouth hung limp, a pink weal, showing teeth.

"Jan, tell us what it is. Is it a heart?"

Jan smiled his widest smile, the smile he had planned to smile at his wedding.

"Why fellas, it is indeed a heart. And it is not just any heart. It is my heart."

It was the third month of winter this side of the sun.

For the first time since he was born, Jan was happy as a well fed dog. Boots tramping up to his house to gaze at the horrible wonder, the hushed sounds of respect men made while standing in his house, the groan of the house as people came and went was extremely pleasing for Jan. Hairy wrists and fair faces came to Jan wanting to know if they could see it.

Jan would invite them in casually. He would gesture torpidly towards his heart and silence would engulf the room. Lizzie Buttner even fainted once. She never returned. Most people came twice, thrice and more. The room would burst with people from The Burrow and flies would itch their legs all over the place.

It was the same ritual always. No one would say anything. The people would stand or sit thinking. Jan imagined their brains working behind their bony skulls as he accepted their food, their cigars and their gratitude.

It was like a church. People believed in Jan and his heart. And guess who did not like it? Gramps, the preacher. The ruler of the real church. Unsurprisingly, attendance had dwindled at the church. Gramps had heard about Jan's heart but he had dismissed it as a silly tale. But now it was the only thing anyone talked about. Gramps did not like it one bit. All that reverent awe wasted on that idiot and his oddity.

Some of the men shared Gramps irritation and these men met with Gramps and a plan was hatched.

As was customary, people showed up at Jan's house on a Sunday, like pins to some oddly attractive pin-cushion. The gathering had begun and there was no sound but for that of impatient feet and the scurrying of rats under the porch planks outside. Jan was up front, on his rocking chair, resting on a pillow, gifted by the Buttners. He was rocking slowly, enjoying the fame. Jan had a crush on Mary Buttner since he had seen her and she was at the back of the gathering with all the womenfolk. Her soft lips pursed but she spoke not a word to nobody.

After a period of proper silence, Gramps, who had appeared unseen, cleared the phlegm from his old throat. Everyone turned towards the source of the sound as if to admonish the maker of the sound for breaking their saturnine silence. Gramps, blinking, dried lips, calloused face and all the signs of age, stood. Gramps looked a long while, before licking his lips in a single reptilian motion, and spoke in his thin reedy voice, "Now like you my children, I have wondered what it is. What it is that brings you here? What it is that keeps you from thinking about your Lord and saviour? I ask myself, oh I do, what is it that is so important to my flock that they can't show up at the church and be together in the name of the Lord? Wonder what it is that has made them forget me, your humble servant my Lord? Wonder if it's a he or a she or an it or something else? Now I know. It is this vile thing. This jar sitting here in the long dark night. Think about it lying here. Hanging above this mess. Waiting. For what you think? Death and destruction! That is what! That is right my children. That is all this thing can bring you. Because ask yourself, what really is this thing? That man's heart!? Have you ever seen a man and his heart live apart from each other?! Have you?! Nay, it is not true. Jan is a liar! It is not his heart, It is the work of the Devil, Lord forgive me for taking his name!"

Shocked into silence. And then suddenly everyone started talking. Gramps moved his head side to side before lapsing back into silence. The damage was done. The seed of doubt was sown.

The people left one by one. Jan tried convincing that he had never met the Devil and even if he had he would never collaborate with him on an art project.

Winter did not end that year. It carried on into summer. The town of Burrow was in trouble. Lizzie Buttner had fallen sick. Jo Marner had died in an accident. Dun and Matt had tried to steal food from the Buttners and they had been shot dead in the street. The Burrow had fallen on hard times and in hard times people look for answers. And if they can't find the answers they look for new questions. Which is how one fine day Jan found Mary Buttner and her friends up at his house. They had come around to look at the heart and wanted to know if it was okay. Would Jan mind it awfully if they were to see the heart now?

Why would Jan mind that? Jan nodded happily and beckoned them inside. He watched them watch hungrily. It was like meeting a long lost friend.

"It looks like this dog puppy our Bessie gave birth to. Our Bessie is always giving birth to puppies," said Mary in a benevolent, soft voice. "So this one puppy was born like that. You know, all deformed and unmade. No form, no features except for two large watery eyes."

"It looks like one of those swamp babies my nana talks about. She says they are the reason we don't get no food this time," said Alin, whose nana was crazier than the craziest bat.

And soon enough Jan's house was filled with people again. People wanting to see his heart suspended in the red liquid. People wanting to stare at this wonder in silence. People wanting to forget that they were hungry.

To the few people that came to his church, Gramps preached. He preached understanding and tolerance and virtues. Gramps was angry but he did not let his flock see it. Jan and his heart had stolen his thunder when traditionally it was Gramps' job to comfort his children. Gramps was not needed and Gramps did not like that. And as idle minds are often wont to do, Gramps' mind became the devil's workshop.

One day in the ninth month of winter, Jan woke up to find that the jar was missing. He no longer slept in the living room and he had not heard anything during the night. Jan was distraught. It was more than an oddity for Jan now. It was almost a part of him. It was like suddenly losing an arm. Jan rode his cycle-rick in town looking for the jar or anyone who might have seen the jar.

Questions and their answers led Jan to the church. Jan rushed to the church to recover his beloved heart.

Jan pushed the doors of the church to walk inside and found that almost everyone in The Burrow was present inside. He panicked for a second till his searching eyes found the object of his desire. The jar. Resting in the middle of the stage. Gramps standing to its right. Anders standing to the left.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jan asked as he rushed up to get the jar.

Jan reached the stage and held the jar delicately in his hands. He carressed it like a new born. Afraid that it might fall. He turned and started walking slowly towards the exit. "Thank God," Jan breathed.

"My children, this is what happens. This is what happens when you do not trust me. When you do not trust the Lord. Look at this traitor. Look at this agent of the Devil. He is the reason The Burrow has fallen on harder times. Look at him and his abomination. Look at his fall from grace. Look at his fall from faith. He takes the Lord's name in the same breath as that Devil's contraption. We cannot allow this. We must not allow this. We must put an end to the poor man's sufferings. Else we must risk more of our Lord's fury. Else we risk dying."

By the time Gramps was done, Jan had reached the door of the church and he had not paid attention to the speech. He however realized that the air had changed perceptibly. Something was wrong and he instinctively increased his pace.

"Look at him scamper. I bet he is going right back to his den of vice to experiment in sin and fornicate with the Devil? Will we allow that?" asked Gramps.

"We will not," replied the Buttner brothers. Then someone else said it and soon everyone was saying it.

"Well so now my children it is time for you to take matters in to your hands. Destroy the demon spawn! Destroy that halfwit!"

Jan was trying to run as fast as he could. The liquid sloshed against the jar. It lapped against the sides and some of it got onto Jan's grey shirt. The heart stood resolutely in the middle of the jar, beating. Jan turned around to look at the mob moving towards him and almost tripped. Some of them were armed with weapons. Some carried sticks and stones. Some others had nothing but their fists. All of them looked ready to kill.

I just need to get back to my cycle-rick thought Jan. He had parked it at the base of the hill. Jan looked back again and this time he tripped. He clutched the jar and its lid as tight as he could. He rolled to a stop near the base of the hill. He could see his cycle-rick. Jan got up and examined himself. Minimal damage. He then examined the jar and let out a cry of dismay. The jar had sprung a leak due to a giant crack on the bottom. He hurried towards his vehicle when a stone sailed over his head. He looked back fearfully to see a stone head straight at him.

It caught him square on the nose. Jan fell. So, did the jar. It fell and it broke. Jan scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and struggled to reach the fallen heart. The jar was intact but it had tipped over. The liquid was gone. The heart had fallen on the ground and he could now hear it beating. A faint ticking. The mob had reached the base of the hill now. It encircled the crying Jan. Jan held the heart in his hand, cradling it like one would cradle a baby, and cried.

The crowd parted to let Gramps through.

"Aah, you hear that people? You hear that sound? Buttners grab that heart!"

The Buttner brothers headed towards Jan who immediately got up and held the heart close towards himself.

"NO! Stop where you are!"

The Buttners paid no heed to Jan. One of them arm tackled him and the other took the heart from him and tossed it over to Gramps. The ticking startled Gramps for a second before realization dawned upon him. A faint chuckle escaped him.

He raised the heart in one hand and shouted over the howling wind, "Here's proof! It is not a heart like yours or mine. No thing of flesh like the Lord hath intended it to be! It is a vile contraption of the Devil himself. Watch!"

Gramps hurled the heart at the biggest rock on the ground. Jan attempted to catch it but the heart hit the ground before he did. It broke in two pieces revealing intricate machinery inside a plastic casing.

"There is your proof! This man has been fooling you, my children! He is no miracle! This is not his heart! It is but a tool of the Devil. Personally, I don't blame him. The Devil has deluded stronger men than him. However, there must be a punishment for his sins. You decide!"

Even as the mob stood pondering possible punishments, someone decided to take the initiave and hurled a stone at Jan. The stone hit one of the Buttners. On the head. It was the younger Buttner. He died. The older Buttner rushed to his fallen brother's body asking him to not be dead only to find him dead. In his moment of grief, the older Buttner drew a gun and fired in the direction of the stone thrower. There were people in that direction and one of them was hurt and he died too. His friends and maybe relatives retaliated and something broke. A mental barrier of sorts. The people had had enough of faith and wonder and the winter. They wanted to break things, hurt other people and they wanted the warmth of blood to frame their actions.

Martyn who had a rake plunged it into Jonah's stomach even as Anders hit him in the head with a stick. The stick broke and merely infuriated Martyn who free the rake from Jonah and raised it so as to rest it inside Anders. At this precise moment, Bo threw a stone that hit Anders in the head robbing Martyn of the chance to kill Anders. Martyn turned around looking for the one who threw the stone. He had not lowered the rake yet probably because he believed he would find the stone thrower easily. Mrs Anders saw her husband die while standing in front of Martyn. She promptly stabbed Martyn in the back killing him. Alin was shot in the face and her dead body was shot in the gut. Tom chasing Mary Buttner with the intent of raping her was dispatched with a knife through the eye and Mary Buttner herself was strangled to death by Mrs Goodwin who wanted to do something with her hands.

And in this way, pretty much everyone killed everyone. Gramps was shot and stoned and his body was found crucified on the cycle rickshaw's handlebar. Predictably, someone’s heart had been cut out and left in the jar with some red liquid which might be blood.

Someone here had a sick sense of humor. And what about poor Jan, you ask? Did our idiot escape?

Who the fuck knows and who the fuck cares?

thousand words

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Fri, 17 May 2013 23:39:00 +0000

never more have I ever wanted a picture to be alive or
to be a mirror

afraid that if those eyes ever lifted
they might unclose something deep in me
tenderness, what is thy remedy?

I see that wretched mole still graces your nose
I always thought of it as an establishment and not a woe

I haven't travelled but I have been places
yet I don't think I have ever been where your silence has been, but I would like to go if you would lead me

I imagine you would have frail gestures but I know you don't, you have long slender arms that hide strength.
I have troglodyte extensions fitted with chubby sausages for fingers.

look I am no poet, you must by now be painfully aware
I should maybe say things about the light, the brow, the cheek but what else might I say that bad luck byron hasn't said before me

I am sure reams of poetry exist on those hair,
but what about those shoulders, I hope someone else too cares

[If it was respectable o'clock now, I fear my twitter would intrude on yours to describe your chin with one of those japanese words I just googled; full of intense meaning but economical in form ]

red rien mouth that might just break into a soft calm eloquent smile
red fingertips that might guide hearts lost in the texture of your ocean to port, in thee.

oh how I wish I could show you
the world has a new praxis
with you as its axis

oh look what you made me do
you made me rhyme

Quit Twitter : Day 8

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Fri, 17 May 2013 16:08:00 +0000

TWO DAYS I BEEN LIVING ON EXCELLENT FREE FOOD OHGOD WHERE IS MY CHIN

I yearn for a time when pure love existed.

Talk to someone everyday for a month and then suddenly you can't talk to them for two months. What bullshit.

忝 is apparently unicode or something for 'self deprecation'.

I have been at three parties in the last twenty four or so hours. I might defragment any moment.

I feel an end approaching. It is pointless. Like this forced sabbatical. It did nothing for my whimpering and my hankering.
It is great to be loved by largely nameless, faceless people (you might never meet, hence there is probably very little selfishness involved) for your words (and the you that you let them see via these words because, let us face it, the truest act of love is letting people see who you really are)

"Tiny bubbles hang above me.
It's a sign that someone loves me."

Mr. Hyde, do you wanna be back in the saddle?

Quit Twitter : Day 7

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 16 May 2013 13:40:00 +0000

There is something undeniably alluring about a hot shower.

I was recently asked my views on pani puri. I said 'what difference does it make?'. Upon which I was greeted with a sullen 'you say that for everything.' It is true. It is my stock reply to the little things.

I like saying 'if you know what I mean' to unsuspecting people and watch them (a) recognition add color to their face if they know (b) go along with me and act like they do know what I mean (c) grapple for context and lose.

soft majestic intensity of trouble will find me by the national sees them recoloring pictures that they have already drawn. plus berninger's deeper than ever voice, beautifully morose lyrics and a band that knows itself and knows what it is doing, hey it is my album of the year.

So a misunderstanding later, someone higher up than me said that I knew more things than people my age. I realize that older people are no authority on people my age but I'll take it. There is nothing better than being complimented for your big brain.

Quit Twitter : Day 6

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Wed, 15 May 2013 17:56:00 +0000

Last night I saw beauty and it stole two hours of my sleep. I wrote something about it. I liked it but it also made me a wee bit sad.

So this morning as I woke up and smelled the routine, I listened to Morrissey who works great as an external conduit for melancholy.

Ever feel like you have been given a thin blanket to warm up when you were clearly frozen into some prehistoric peat?

That just after I had read something else that said loneliness is a disease. EVERYTHING IS A DISEASE THESE DAYS.

"are you alone or are you lonely?"
"i am nice, can't wait for that to be declared a disease"

You know how when you are an inexperienced player in Counter Strike and looking through a sniper scope is a risk. You can't switch soon enough for close quarter foes. You can see people coming at you and you know the inevitable is coming at you. But you lumber like a great slow beast and well, die.

"dark words, dark wings"

Dark moods creep up unbidden
in a moment, Mr. Hyde is back in the saddle and all he wants to do is be in charge. That is it. He doesn't want to hurt you. He is an impudent, unpleasant boss and you don't want him telling you what to do.
All you can do is wait.

No silver bullet for that.

Quit Twitter : Day 5

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Tue, 14 May 2013 04:18:00 +0000

ONLY 5??!!
Feels like a lot more.

Guy from my engineering batch, also was my roomate for some time, got married. I panicked till someone told me he was two years older.

You know how you meet someone who is such a breath of freshness in your citizen kane aspect ratio life that you feel more wes anderson colour scheme? All you want to do is talk to them all the time. All the while worrying about verbal missteps that you might make and sour things up.
All you want is them to john hughes like you. It isn't pretty. It is stupid.

I am not entirely sure quitting twitter has changed anything. I still seek digital distractions a.k.a. mobile phone more than anything else. Mostly because of afore mentioned person being easily accessible via mobile phone. I have made the web browser my new centre of affection. I reload pages hoping for magic.
It is unseemly.

In my enthusiasm, I grossly misjudged the hold my digital demons have on me and I started reading a couple of things. By my estimate, I am reading at least ~~seven~~ nine books right now. Scary thing: I know exactly what is going on in each of them.

cripple. (adj.) (masquerades as noun) a good true word; politically incorrect equivalent of physically handicapped.

Every breath I take
Every move I make
Every bond I break
Every step I take
reminds me.

It is easy to blame this state of my being as the cause of every character flaw I have. It is convenient. Probably untrue. But hey a straw is a straw. I hate to use it to my advantage but I can't really ignore it. I think the real problem is I am in the twilight zone. There is nothing visibly wrong with me and for me that is worse.

In some future/s, when cyborgs are cool and the new hipsters, I will fit in.
Till then I will listen to Daft Punk's latest, Random Access Memories.
INSTANT CRUSH TOUCH CONTACT MOTHERBOARD

Quit Twitter : Day 4

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Mon, 13 May 2013 14:25:00 +0000

Back to my kingdom of work. Work shmerk.

It doesn't really interest me anymore. Doesn't feel challenging enough. It was good when it was new but now that I have scaled the learning curve, my interest has waned.

Upstream Colour is not as demanding of attention as Primer was. There is no cerebral plot gymnastics. It is pretty clear what is going on. However, there are several of these that are going on and it is not entirely clear which one is going on.
Is the movie supposed to be a celluloid representation of Nature itself? Has Shane Carruth watched Tree of Life?
I think that everything that is shown is what it is but it is also a part of the internal lifecycle of the worm. Needs more thinking.

Bananas.

Pune weather is currently finer than my taste in life things. Nice cold winds.

Read & Sleep.

Quit Twitter : Day 3

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 12 May 2013 16:00:00 +0000

I woke up thinking of the word febrile.

Modern Family is that rare gem of a television show that I hate for its saccharine sweetness and alluring simplicity and then hate myself for hating something for the aforementioned qualities.

Found a musty old folder somewhere in the dark recesses of my teenage mind's angst compartment.
Nativity in Black, a Black Sabbath tribute album Volume 1.
"Supernaut" performed by Ministry side- project 1000 Homo DJs.
"Children of the Grave" by White Zombie seems like something Marilyn Manson copied later.
"Black Sabbath" performed by one of my favourite metal bands of the '90s: Type O Negative. (The iconic three-note riff is done on piano & a nice organ sound near the end.)
"War Pigs" by Faith No More is a live version. "The Wizard" has Rob Halford singing.
"Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath" has Bruce Dickinson.

Ate meat after what feels like ages but actually could be last week.

I think people will still watch Casablanca even when they need to get to meetings in treepods on their jetpacks. It is a timeless pop-cultural milestone.

Isn't it great when lyrics feel like they are made just for you?
"Lying snowblind in the sun / Will my ice age ever come?"

Watched Upstream Colour.

Quit Twitter : Day 2

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 11 May 2013 14:30:00 +0000

Watched one episode of QI. Learnt a lot. Laughed a lot. I think I might have broken the middle finger on my left hand.

Looks like the Nexus 4 is going to need work to get it up and running. Groan.

Still can't seem to write full sentences. I blame Twitter. Ooh a sentence.

Tried to think of a new book to start reading. Ended up thinking of a lot more than one. Clicked on Plume only once.

Hung out with a friend. Watched Go Goa Gone. Liked it. Might this be the darkest timeline?

Watched the cast of Mad Men react to MLK's death. You know the ones. Slept. No weeping today.

Quit Twitter : Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Fri, 10 May 2013 17:21:00 +0000

Woke up. Checked phone. Clicked on Plume. Remembered last night. Wept.

Went through the motions. Found out that the Nexus 4 had been delivered home. Elation. For a brief moment.

Clicked on Plume to tweet about it. Wept some more.

Realized that I had not finished David Sedaris' Naked only because I had not read the last story, the eponymous, Naked. Finished it.

Reached home. Unboxed the Nexus 4. Wept. This time due to elation.
DAT PHONE.

Slept. Wept some more.

Quit Twitter : Day 1/2

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Thu, 09 May 2013 17:27:00 +0000

I quit twitter laboring under a delusion of control.

I did nothing.

Idea Dump

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 20:23:00 +0000

5 ideas I submitted for some online competition before I read their terms & conditions..

3d printers with cloud brains replace society.
Cancer eventually evolves into Immortality.
Internet speak first eliminates need for vowels and then language itself ceases to exist.
Mobile phones spike evolutionary curve turning humans into a gestalt-sentient race.
Handicapped people world over rejoice as a miraculous new prosthesis appears that 'fits' everyone

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Tell It Like You Mean It

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 13:35:00 +0000

My mother's mother used to tell her a story and as is the nature of such stories my mother tells it to me. She often forgets that she has told it to me before and sometimes she remembers halfway through the telling and very rarely does she finish the telling of the tale.

A brahmin once prayed for an answer from the gods above. He was poor and his lot in life was of the troubled kind. He had a dream the same night and the night after and the night after and so the dream came to him till he could dream no more. The dream was always the same. A disembodied voice would ask him to “Go to the king's palace and dig under the mango tree in the royal gardens to find a buried treasure.”

The king was, as kings often are in such stories, cruel and unjust and the brahmin knew that he could not appeal to the king's sense of humanity. One day, when he could take no more of the dream, he decided to walk to the palace. He found the tree. But there was a gardener in the royal gardens. He returned distraught only to return the next day and find the gardener hard at work. After a few days of lurking and agitation, the brahmin entered the gardens and was immediately stopped by the gardener.

The brahmin, in the manner of one who has been found in a compromising position but has never ever committed a crime, began explaining.

“I had a dream. It said, dig under the mango tree and find treasure.” The gardener mocked him.

“Poor people like are such gullible idiots. Dreams that will make you rich!” said the guard. “Even I had a dream just like it. My dream said dig under the tree behind the house of the brahmin who comes here looking for treasure and you will find treasure. Go away and do some real work.”

The brahmin thanked him and hurried back home. He dug under the tree behind his house and found the treasure.

1. That story has a moral and I don't really care what it is. It is a story. A simple sequence of words that doesn't sound entirely silly. I am honestly fed up of our varied and largely fanciful narratives and 'literary' concoctions. I guess that is horrible spirit for someone who 'writes' but that is how it is. The story above is the kind of story I yearn for. And yet I mutilated it. My mother never described it that way. She never used metaphors and other big words. Those were my inventions. I inserted things into the story for some fiendish purpose that does nothing really to the story itself. My additions do not subvert or divert the course of the story. There is no alchemical change to the very nature of the story. The brahmin will find the treasure even if throw in another simile.

2. Whatever happened to the 'character'? The stock figure, a conventional cardboard cutout that carries all stories on its slim shoulders. With no pretensions of personality and no symptoms of development, the stories of yore would be peopled with the soldier, the princess, the witch, the horse. They are gone now. They have been replaced by flowing prose, literary devices, fragmentation and general cleverness. I do like cleverness. Heck, I am a habitual proponent of cleverness on several social networks and most of my online personas are built on the stable foundations of cleverness and wit. But, I do hope to find that elusive tale told anonymously and filled with the stock characters. Maybe something like the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Or The Arabian Nights.

3. Where do stories come from? The sources, I know of, are both oral and literary. I doubt my maternal grandmother went walking and some strange old woman seized her and told her this tale but most of the olden tales spread word by word. Now, this particular story might seem to some like Paulo Coelho's Alchemist and thus the source might be literary. It’s impossible to say how exactly a story arises and we really aren't concerned with that at this very point. We are concerned with versions however.

4. It is said that the tales grew and changed as time went by becoming more elaborate, sometimes more delicate, religious contexts were acquired. (Are we talking about people here?) Some tales would survive this experience while some others would be absorbed into some other tales. As they went on surviving and merging and mixing with people and the cultural gene pool, the tales changed and names changed and settings changed but their base nature resisted change. (Still not talking about people) They just became complex.

5. All forms of literary and educational tendency has found these tales and glommed onto them by different apparatuses. This is where things get tricky. Books and their kind have influenced you and I and I am sure I am writing this under some such influence that I am not conscious of and you are reading under some such influence that you are not conscious of. (benefit of doubt)

6. Now we come to the real issue at hand. I am interested not only in the tale but also in the taleness of the story. How does it work? What makes it run, not only on several reams of paper but also through a largely dark and dirty public consciousness, freely? Why do we have to reboot/retcon/reinvent them? And why do these crutch words usually end up meaning 'set in modern times'/'personal interpretation'/'creative variation'.

Why can't there be a version 'as is'?

(Recent movie versions of comic books suck not just because they are horrible as movies but also because they have lost sight of what they were as stories)

There is no psychology in a tale. The characters are characters and very little is expected of them in terms of 'life'. Good is good and bad is bad and that is not how the world works. But hey this is a tale and why can't we just leave it at that? Stuff happens in tales and it just happens. There is no ominous event. Nothing is concealed. There is no tricking of the audience business here. There is none of the frailty of the human condition, the gossameriness of memory, the ghosts of long dead doubts and desire almost never interferes. The characters are almost always passive.

They have no identity. The woodcutter, the big bad wolf, Goldilocks and such do not really need names. Names bring meanings and annotations when all you need is a descriptor and a differentiator. They are 1-2 dimensional; flat. They get the job done. For all purposes, they could be one guy putting on different masks as and when needed. But then nothing is that simple.

Realism cannot cope with this multiplicity. That whole kingdom is segregated and not many wander there.

Speed is important and all the good tales have it. They are perfect examples of what you do need and what you don’t.

‘Once upon a time’ and the man shoots his gun and all the runners are off.

They start off at point A and within paragraphs are at F and then K and then S and finally Z.

This is possible only when you have no baggage. None of the sort you get in modern fiction. Modern fiction and I do love it, has names, things, back stories, time and space, material constructs and spiritual dimensions. Here again we glimpse the nature of the tale. It continues with or without ever considering these characters. Every word is a part of the story and no more. When your only instinct is to ask 'and then what happened?' you don't really care about nature.

Individuality is of no consequence to the fragmented and adulterated tale. It does not run on uniqueness and originality.

Thisisnotatext. Well, it is but it would only actually mean something with the spaces inserted at all the right places.

The tale is a different beast. And the nature of the beast dictates that it be affected by many things such as the original teller, the weather on the day of the telling, a physical inconvenience, or it could fall into the hands of an illiterate.

A comedian will perhaps tell a funny tale better than the mistress of mystery who can tell a tale of horror like no other. Their personal quirks and inventions will then become a part of the structure of the tale. Till the time someone forgets a bit or adds upon it.

Thus, the tale becomes and unbecomes.

People are fantastic and they usually sprinkle their versions of tales with their personal demons, dark residue, or brilliant sunshine. The story can stomach it. It however carries a stylistic fleur-de-lis from that moment onwards.

(Imagine for a moment, a Star Wars movie directed by Richard Linklater or Dan Harmon. Or Kathryn Bigelow, Lucas forbid. It would be a Star Wars movie and yet it would also be a Linklater/Harmon/Bigelow movie. I don't like you JJ Abrams.)

What is it that this 'rantthing' is trying to get at?

Telling a story is a delight. I do not like it when a teller sets out with the express intention of fooling the listener. Why can't a story be just a story?

When you have the substance of a tale, you just need to tell it with style (not overpower it).

A bit like jazz. The performance matters a lot.

In the end, even if we do our best to tell it like it used to be, we may find it inadequate. The best tales are told by kids, after all. Maybe it is impossible to tell it like it is.

In the meantime, let us just try and live happily ever after.

Holy Motors

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 10:20:00 +0000

Storytelling is bad, poetry is worse.

It is not at all funny how something you said ages ago comes back to take a bite-sized chunk out of your backside. I don’t understand “poetry” and I am not alone. A lot of people do not understand it and yet they trade in it, revel in their own sickeningly sweet verses, preferring corn syrup to real blood. Beat poets? Gladly! Would you say poetry is obsolete? I wouldn’t go that far.

It is a force of the past. So is cinema. I have no patience for any film that breaches the two hour mark. My attention span has degraded utterly over the last few years. I can’t get through a film without pausing it a hundred times and checking my phone and my digital mailbox and entertaining such petty annoyances. Cinema, and I do mean cinema and not movies or films, is a lumbering leviathan of a forgotten country.

So, when I watched Holy Motors I was slapped in the face with freedom. Yes, freedom from the rigidity of structure, the ever oppressive regime of narration, the ever present A-Z. The inevitable troughs and crests were replaced by a handful of mysterious events. Is it a dream or is this pretty much what passes for real life these days and several nights? Would you think it so strange if someone shot someone right on the street where you learned to ride a bicycle? I don’t think so. Would you cry if your secret, enchanted forest was suddenly replaced by a spectacular city? Hardly a tear.

Oh not this G C F A song again! SO, can I just call it poetry?

I like mad films and this one is steeped in weirdness worthy of a kaleidoscope. It is consumed with an unbridled passion to tilt at several hypothetical windmills. This stands out in an age where most creators of all kinds of content are satisified with a ‘product’. Films adapted from other art, films manufactured for mass market, films free to be devoured as instant classics. And here’s Leos Carax who has the audacity to use the same freedom to make cinema with a slight dab of the crazies.

The film stars Denis Levant, as Monsieur Oscar, who lives in a limo run by a moustachioed boss. The white stretch limo is driven around beautiful Paris by, Céline, played by Edith Scob. Oscar’s face remains a mystery throughout, but it wears many masks on its own. It is a ruined, weathered face sketched on by age, the face of a computer-generated alien full of sexual puissance. Monsieur Oscar lives in "appointments", which are presented to him in case folders. The back of the car is a dressing room.

And the appointments?

“Sauntering the pavement thus, or crossing the ceaseless ferry, faces

and faces and faces,

I see them and complain not, and am content with all.”

Are faces that Lavant/Oscar pulls on one by one for an omnipresent audience.

One, dress up as an old beggar woman, bent over ‘seeing nothing but stone and feet’ and largely ignored by people. Another, a motion-captured human being, a black skin with sensors for unseeing eyes, playing several parts in a hi-tech studio. A red-skin-clad woman shows up and this appointment culminates in a highly erotic routine that defies explanation till you see it translated to two extra-dimensional beings making love. Another, he becomes "Monsieur Merde", a shocking transformation that ends with the abduction of a fashion model played by Eva Mendes. Last but quite clearly the best appointment he has involves, a lost love played by Kylie Minogue. Who sings. And it is beautiful.

In the beginning, the director himself awakens by a clamor beyond his walls and enters a theatre that is hidden behind a wallpaper of trees. Can you enter a theater as if in a dream?

What follows is an exhibition of grotesque. Do you need logic to get through a movie? Do you find yourself yearning for meaning and stability and all the right words and things? Or is it a yearning to escape? All that sounds really cool but can a set of wacky roles by an actor playing an actor work as a film?

There are talking cars and unexpected cameos by chimps. There is absurdity and eccentricity aided by serious emotion. Just when you get used to the unexpected comes something that you are familiar with but it is disturbing because you did not expect it. It comes out of nowhere and it feels real. Oscar is a dying, wealthy old man making a tragic farewell to a woman who is herself at an ‘appointment’. Oscar gets out of bed while she sobs next to him. He talks to her and she talks to him and he leaves for another ‘appointment’. It is business after all. Lavant/Oscar becomes a hitman hired to kill his doppelganger and there is blood. He is a terrible father picking up an unhappy teenage daughter from a party.

He is the hero, of a thousand faces, a master of disguise, the trickster extraordinaire. He is setting up these elaborate scenes for watchers as his chilling, charismatic mustachioed boss reminds him before asking him ‘why does he do it’. "For the beauty of the gesture," he replies.

He is getting old though. The signs are littered all over the place. Motifs of death and decay including actual death (a suicide at night) and decay (a formerly grand, now abandoned building) and a cemetery.

Is it then *gasp* using the cinema itself as a metaphor for the journey of life?

It is that, maybe, but it is also a marvellous movie. In one of my favourite segues, Monsieur Oscar is a grim leader of an accordion band performing in a candlelit church. Vivid, full of charm, varied, puzzling, deeply irritating. You will never see it reviewed as “a thrilling return to form with inspired performances from”. The director, Leos Carax stated in an interview with The Guardian that he regards Holy Motors as a science-fiction movie; a parable of human relationships in the internet age. It all started with those white limousines, which he saw as a neat symbol of the virtual world, in that they are rented by the hour; in that they want to be seen but won't let you see in; in that they are like living in a bubble. In his own words, he was trying to describe the experience of being alive in the internet world, the several lives we lead, the fatigue of being oneself. He says that the answer is to reinvent oneself but at what cost?

The eleven avatars that Denis Lavant dons, an existential experience. There is courage in that. There is flamboyance, enigma and uniqueness that cinema brings. There is history and the past. There is the beauty of the gesture.

Holy Motors is what it is and it is not for me to tell you wha

survival jam, I

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 17:48:00 +0000

when i saw you stagger through the door, bradshaw
"honey, grab the baseball bat, i'll grab the chainsaw"
i sliced through your soft decaying head like bread
i tore through your guts and your blood flowed red

---

you died on christmas day and came back to me with a ravenous hunger
you never liked my cooking and now you wanted to eat it and
i was surprised
but then you started eating everything and i mean everything
moth balls
the linen
photos
my favourite shoes
the sofa
but when you went for dog i said enough and i meant it
i am sorry for this but i don't think any of us wanted this
[well that is not entirely true because i have always wanted this since i was little]
but you never shed tears when I got hurt and
you made promises that there would be no more hurt
oh the promises! oh the lies!
we couldn't come to the play because your uncle henry ate your aunt beth,
i mean how could you
lie
you could have just told me the truth and i would have understood
for in my mind i did love you
but now you have broken the tv and for that you must be punished
the basement is not such a bad place to hang
and there's some of my older writing in there
somewhere if you want to read it now but
you never read it back then so i don't know
why you would read it now
i like a guy and he is coming over and
i am going to cook for him and
i will not have you moaning under my roof
i hate to say this but
mom and dad you are grounded

---

1. when faced with a choice between wolves and the hungry, feed the wolves.
2. learn basic anatomy so that you can protect important bodily shit like the river jugular.
5. it is okay to lose an arm.
3. moisturise.
6. forget language and forget that bitch judy
5. there is no reason to hate yourself.
8. if you need to sever your appendages use clean and sharp instruments unless you want to die of tetanus or gangrene.
11. judy is not coming back by thinking about her like she was your mumtaz, or your mustang, or your theory of relativity.
9. you are not going anywhere for a while so might as well learn a language.
10. learn to ask for help in that language.
12. it is okay to pretend that everything is gonna be okay.
13. pretending might save you.
4. be organized, it is not the end of the world.

--

dear,

it is evening and i feel sorry
you are pregnant like a lorry
the house was on fire
maybe someone was a liar
i came to steal some money
i heard you had a pony
there is no way to say this
i had to leave you, miss
you were bound to the pillar
your babe was crying
it had burst forth
hungry for something
i could never
provide

--

do not share any of your information
remember your full name
if you forget it, create one
inscribe it everywhere
remember your loves
carve them on your flesh
talk to yourself lest you forget speech
retain bone structure / organs as far as you can
don't drag skeletons around

Real Spammers Don't Reply, Mr. 27bslash6

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 14:41:00 +0000

Payment Purpose: Inheritance Fund Release
Payment Value: $5,500,000.00 dollars
Authorized Paying Bank: Union Bank of Nigeria
Transaction Reference Code: UBN/KTT/27890/0000/002
Payment Approval Date:21/9/2012

Dear Beneficiary,

My name is DR. JOHN EZE. I am the newly appointed Director Union Bank
Of Nigeria and the 10th Director of the Union Bank of Nigeria. I
assumed duty as Director, Union Bank of Nigeria on June 4, 2012 at the
Bank's Corporate Head Office in Abuja following the confirmation of my
nomination by the Senate of the Federal Republic of Nigeria on
Wednesday, June 3, 2012.

However, acting in my capacity as the newly-appointed Director of the
(UBN), I have been mandated by the Senate National Assembly to check
through the statutory disk of every payment pending during the last
quarter of the year. Hence, your payment file has been forwarded to my
desk for final approval. Therefore, after vetting and verification
about the source and origin of your funds, I am convinced 100% that
the $5,500,000.00 dollars part payment is a legitimate
contract/inheritance claim. Hence, I have granted approval for the
release of the $5,500,000.00 dollars in your favor.

Note: That a charges of $120dollars must be paid for this transaction
to take place in your bank, for your fund to be release in our bank
here in NIGERIA this said fee must be paid,you are paying for the releasement
of your fund in your home country, do not be afraid of any thing as we provide
you all
the decument that back-up this fund in our bank here in NIGERIA, once you
comply with us your fund will be in safe hands in our bank.

For this reason, your payment has been rightfully approved and will be
paid out directly into your bank account via "automatic swift
transfer" from our Electronic transfer unit. Already,all transfer
processing has been concluded in line with the new (UBN) Payment
Policy.

However, on the note of receiving your inheritance funds, you are
requested to forward the details of your receiving bank account; You
are to send us your bank account details for immediate wire transfer
of your funds. Your bank details should include:

FULL NAME:
ACCOUNT NAME:
ACCOUNT NUMBER:
BANK NAME:
BANK ADDRESS:
NAME OF NEXT OF KIN:
ADDRESS OF NEXT OF KIN:
PHONE NUMBER:
BENEFICIARY ADDRESS:
OCCUPATION:

You are to forward the required information above and other available
bank account information like your PAN number to me via the contact
information below. Please call me immediately for more details.

Contact Information:
Director Union Bank Of Nigeria
Name:....Mr John Eze.
Telephone:.... +234-815-778-6945 +234-816-986-6162
E-mail of head office in lagos...johneze_unionbnkplc109@cafuc.net

Contact Information:
fund transfer officer
Mrs Joy Chris Efe
E-mail of branch at work:.. johneze_unionbnkplc007@cafuc.net
Telephone:.... +234-810-741-5899 +234-817-973-9145

I am expecting to receive your earliest reply and details of your
receiving bank account as well as a copy of any of your available ID
proof (National ID card,Voter's ID, Driver's liscense, PAN card or any
recognized company/working ID card) for identification. Your fund will
be transfered to your bank account details provided within 2 hours
after we receive it.

Yours Sincerely,
DR. JOHN EZE
Director Union Bank Of Nigeria
P.S: Please note that all other authorities handling your payment has
been stopped by the FBI. Hence, the (UBN) has been appointed as the
sole authority in-charge of your fund release. Therefore, you are
advised to stop further communication with any other office or
financial institution handling your payment.

----------------------------------------------------------------
This message was sent using IMP, the Internet Messaging Program.

***

Subject: Re: PAYMENT NOTIFICATION OF YOUR FUNDS.
From: <hilink6@gmail.com>
To: johneze_unionbnkplc109@cafuc.net.basu.ac.ir
Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=f46d043c7de46c6c2304ca8005d6

Dear DR. JOHN EZE,

Firstly congratulations on being newly appointed as Director Union Bank
Of Nigeria and the 10th Director of the Union Bank of Nigeria.

I am pleased to hear that my file has finally reached your
desk for final approval. That poor file has gone through a lot. It's mama
was an alcoholic and papa was a rolling stone. Also, thanks for granting
your approval. I must confess that the sum of $5,500,000.00 dollars seems
rather too much for one man [I am assuming that these are American dollars
and not Nigerian dollars].

Hence, I would like you to transfer half of that to Mr. Bill Gates'
foundation. He is a great friend of mine and he would be pleased with a
little help from his friends.

Regarding the rest, I am afraid that I cannot pay the charge of $120
dollars for this transaction
to take place in your bank. I assure you I am not afraid of any but I do
not have this money now. I had it a while back but I do not have it now.
I can pay you after you pay me. I can in fact double your money through
another friend of mine who has discovered the secrets of the south american
money god Ponzi. Do you know of him? He is very potent and I personally
guarantee a large fortune.

My passport has been confiscated but it is just a misunderstanding I tell
you. I go by the name "Count of Monte Cristo" and they think that it is not
my name. I can not call you immediately for more details as ISD is not
enabled on my phone. I also do not have a phone.

I am expecting to receive your earliest reply.

Yours Sincerely,

Daughter Dear

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 13:45:00 +0000

"It is uncomfortable being dead for long periods. There is a whole lot of inactivity involved in it. Folk don't usually call for it but when they do they usually end up getting it.

On the outskirts of the world, where I rest, a group gathered. There is snow everywhere. Snow and relics. The seat of the emperor of the world. The group chanted it religiously. They inched their way through the white blanket towards an abandoned factory. Man beaten by Nature.

The factory grounds are covered by snow and there is a fine line of barbed wire visible over the snow. The group spread out around the factory in a circle. Their chanting reaches with a dull fervour.

One of the group, a woman, broke from the circle and she moved towards the factory. There is a "Trespassers Not Allowed" board. The woman jumped over it. She entered. The others followed and soon the chanting entered the factory, my home. I was bloody well asleep.

It is hard being a paladin, y'know. Folk praying all the time for this and that. Folk scrabbling all over each other trying to please your God. Folk getting angry or happy at you when they should be doing their work. It ain't right.

Well, so there I am sleeping and I feel this aetheric voice trying to wake me. I resist as I am having a good dream but suddenly the din fills my dream too. It angers me. I mutter in my dream and soon I am muttering in my sleep. I don't even listen to what they are singing. Oh yes, they are singing now. I am mad by now. And I am awake.

When I went to sleep here, I went to sleep with a sword. One of those Japanese swords. I grab it and I smash out of the glass panel. The group stops singing. They scatter and they get down on their knees. The woman, their prophet, smiles at me. I put the sword through her. The group screams as one and flees.

So, I figure, now that I am awake. Might as well make the most of it. Which is why I am here right now. Fix me another drink, bartender."

The woman has a sword slung across her back and she has the look of the warrior. She is telling this to a drunk in a bar in the Western District. She is here for she is a Paladin of the Stone. She was supposed to protect it from however wanted it. For whatever reasons. Good or bad, no human should ever have it. Now someone wanted it and she was back looking for whoever wanted it.

The drunk looked at her and gave her a crooked grin. He then proceeded to slur his words as drunks are known to do, "That's a fine yarn, sister and I believe you. You look like the type that would put a sword through a person. Got a name?"

She did not have a name. She might have had one in the olden ages but she did not remember. The group knew her as the Daughter of the Emperor of the World. The group was chanting something else though. Might be it is my name, she thought. Might be it is not.

"They just called me Daughter Dear."

The Disappearing Man

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 18:30:00 +0000

Tall Jim got off the tram near the Bananas. The Bananas was the finest hotel this side of the district divide. Tall Jim had a room there and he was in a hurry to get in. Out of sight.

He had a case with him and was dressed as shady men are wont to dress. He stopped to check if he had been tailed. He walked into the lobby, smiled at the manager and went on up to his room.

He stuck his key in the lock and jarred the door open. He threw his case in a chair and walked to the lamp to switch on the lights.

"Don't turn on the light."

Tall Jim froze. His heart seemed to gallop out of his being and his throat went dry like Old Jim's laugh.

"I don't have any money. I am just a courier." Tall Jim felt like he was being held in a vise. A Telepathic hold.

"I know that. Don't move. I have a gun that likes being shot."

"What do you want, Bung?" asked Tall Jim, even though he knew what the answer was.

"Oh so you know me. Mind-reader Bung, they call me. You know. You know exactly what I want and I know that you know. I always wanted to say that."

"They also call you Half-dick Bung. But you know that too already." Tall Jim felt the vise tighten.

"Oh yes. I don't like that. You know what else I don't like? Talking to strange men. Give me the case, so I can go."

"Well, you are free to take it."

"Please don't take me for a fool, Tall Jim. I know the case is coded to your touch. Blasted family of yours. Inbred cloned shits everywhere, Jims. If I touch it, it won't serve my purpose. I need the case. The technology inside it. The one you have been ferrying for Professor Corasso."

Tall Jim sighed. Must it always come to this, he thought. Sometimes he hated being a Jim.
He moved slowly to his case. He picked up the case and opened it slowly.

Bung leapt to his feet shouting something in Korean but he was too slow.
Tall Jim had touched the gossamer filament inside the case and now the case had swallowed him. And he was gone. So was the case.

"Come now, Tall Jim. You can't hide forever. I know that. You know that. You got to resurface. For air. And when you do, my gun will be ready, believe you me."

Tall Jim could not hear Bung. Tall Jim could not hear anyone. Tall Jim had disappeared.

But, the one they called Half-dick was right. The filament, for lack of a better word, could swallow things but it had to show them too. And show it did. Tall Jim popped right out of the lamp he had been trying to reach for. Bung was caught unaware as the lamp smashed into his face. Tall Jim disappeared again and reappeared this time behind White. A punch to the small of his back and White was gasping for air.

Bung stumbled to the window. He was shouting again, this time in English.
"The technology is not stable. Stop before you do yourself harm."

"Shutup telepath," a voice sneered.

Bung shot in the direction but hit air. No Tall Jim in sight. Another popping noise but this time Bung was ready. He hurled a throwing knife from the inside of his sleeve and struck Tall Jim's hand.

A disembodied howl filled the room. A howl of pain and rage.

"You shall pay, dick. You shall pay with fire."

Bung ran and again he was too late. An explosion rocked the floor. The fire birthed another and soon The Bananas were as yellow as their namesake.

Tall Jim was nowhere to be seen. Bung had however been hurled out the window by the explosion. He was found impaled upon a lampost.

The war was begun.

Two Murders, One Stone

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 16:11:00 +0000

It is the first morning of a new year and a federation guard stands infront of the bank. The bank wall features prominent graffiti and lurid posters.

He is new here. He is married and he is new and he is thinking about his lovely wife and dreaming about their house.
He is distracted.

An old woman dodders into the panel. She is non-descript except for a red scarf that is flimsy protection against the perennial winter. She carries a cane and a bag. That peculiar old people scent precedes her.

The guard sees her and thinks of his wife's frail little granny and rushes to help him.

As he approaches her, the old woman reacts with surprising agility. She draws a handgun from her bag.
The guard is shot through the right eye.

He falls down dead.

---

At the same time, inside the bank.

"A brain is little worth without tongue." That is what Blessing Tom's grandfather used to say.

Blessing Tom loved his grandfather and he listens to his grandfather. Which is why, he ripped out the tongue of the one guard inside. Blessing Tom is not a violent man as such but he just loves blood.

So, what is going on inside is this. The West Island Hawaiians are robbing the bank. They are inside and they have no idea that Mama Redcap and her crew are outside. The Hawaiians want money but Mama Redcap wants something else.

The key to the stone. The only real power left in this boulevard of corruption.

The Hawaiians grab the money and Blessing Tom shoots the moaning guard and they all step out. Mama Redcap smiles at them and all the Boris-es open fire. With tranq darts.

The Hawaiians will most probably wake up in one of the Western Island's rust bucket workshops that are used by the Redcap crew for torture and such. If the captured don't die by torture, they die by tetanus. Plus, the rent is low.

Two rent-a-cops dead for a stone. For some that is a bloodbath.
For Mama Redcap, it is Monday, January the First.

Department of Department of Prognostication and Prestidigitation

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 17:35:00 +0000

Everytime, I get off the 123 Elephant, I get that feeling. Like stepping off a bus in a foreign country. You are new and you have nothing on you but paper money and directions written in a code that you don't know how to decrypt. You know? That is how I feel, everytime, I get off that tramline. And this time, oh boy, I was going to the Bureau. Someone there took pity on me and finally agreed to see me.

I mean, Harvey wasn't the sort to run off. He was loving and gentle and kind and loving. And we just got married, you know? What could make him disappear like that? I know, I know, what you are thinking. Men have needed less reasons to disappear. But, I know my Harvey. I loved him and he loved me. Naive, I know.

So, I go up to the entrance of that big peach coloured building and there is no one at the door. And I looked up. Just rows after rows of windows and obviously all of them, full of activity. But, you know what? No sound. Not a single click or clack. Just an entity with a thousand box-shaped eyes that didn't care who it swallowed next as long as the Ship Tax papers were filed correctly. God, I hate those ships.

So, I went in and there was noise. It just didn't get out the door. Now, I am standing there on the red carpet, all alone and shivering. I don't know why I was shivering but I was shivering. One of those squirrels, you know.. 'the peons', comes up to me and tugs at my dress. I did not actually know they did that. Did you? It was so weird. And then I was doing things that I did not know I was doing. I let the squirrel lead me. I followed it and I did not walk long. We came to a corridor. You know, the sort that leads nowhere? That sort. Dark and musty and staticky. The hair on my arms stood right up. The squirrel disappeared into one of the doors and I followed it and I emerged into a room. A reception room. A blue leather sofa and a water jet in the corner. Nothing else. There was a curtain at the far end and the squirrel was nowhere to be seen, so, I went towards it. I could feel a certain something. I do not know how to describe it but I knew there was something behind that door that was going to help me.

It was a machine. A fortune telling machine. You know, the kind that they have at gypsy fairs? No, you don't? Well, there were these fairs back in my hometown and it was that sort of a machine and it was kinda creepy being alone in a room with it. The squirrel wasn't there. But, I knew what I must do. Put a coin.

That is what I did. Nothing happened. So, I laughed and cried and then did both. I don't know what I had expected. So, I started to leave and I thought let me atleast get a drink of water. And as I finished drinking my drink of water, there was a whirring and a clicking sound and the machine whirred and clicked and it clanged and finally stopped making all that noise with a pop. I knew that sound and so I rushed to it.

Sure enough, there was a card. A 6x6 inch card with a prognostication. It said,

"When you leave here, you will leave happy. You will find yourself a new dress and you will treat yourself to a nice lunch. You will be happy. You will be happier when Harvey returns in 15 days.

Avoid narrow alleys and sunshine and remember that our greatest glory is not in never falling down but in never letting the neighbours know about it.

This is not a fortune cookie. I wish I could predict the future. Now sod off."

Then, I turned and I left and I could not not be happy. I knew Harvey would be back and everything would be fine.

[Do you have the card, ma'am?]

No. The squirrel took it.

[You see now, why it is so hard to believe you, ma'am?]

Oh, you silly, never you mind! You'll see in 15 days.

---

This is an excerpt of a call logged by the Greater Central Police Station operator. The caller is a Angela Owens, wife of Harvey Owens. She reported him missing last Monday. The operator did not know this. Filed.

The Beast

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sun, 27 May 2012 07:58:00 +0000

It is here. That time. It creeps up slowly today. I rise slowly from my bed. I open my eyes and I see darkness all around. Nothing else.

I stumble around till I find the door. I walk outside. There are woods surrounding my cottage and they are darker still. I spot a moonlit clearing in the distance and run towards it. I stumble. I trip. I almost fall.

I strip off my clothes. There is a rush of blood to my head. I take a deep breath and sit down. Long, red grass surrounds me. I wait. I listen.

A steady chirp of crickets. A frog croaking party. A bubbling creek. Rustling grass as something feline passes through it. The sound of something invisible slithering away from me.

I have had experiences. I have done things. I am a librarian but I have done more than read books.

But, I do not know how this feels. How does someone else see this? What did they think? What came next?

I will soon travel. I will seek wise men and old fools and ask of them a cure. I have heard of clerics in Onsoop who deal with this sort of thing regularly. This curse.

Now, however, I must endure. I must suffer the ignorance. And the fear. The lurking fear that I actually enjoy this. This thing I have become.

Never should have touched that damned stone.

The moonlight hits me. I shift out of my own body. It works as The Inventor said it would. My essence has now been transferred momentarily to a construct from where I am free to observe my own body. The thing I have become.

My body stands up. It rubs its hands together. With glee. The face, my face, grins. A bearded, dark-haired madman stands in the middle of a forest. Naked in the dead of the night.

I panic. My body stands strong.

I experience a prickling sensation across my skin. Something shifts inside me. Something tears at my feeble mind. And I give up. I stop resisting the change. My senses sharpen. My body breathes loudly. It smells things.

A dead snake. A predator nearby. A fearful monkey on a tree behind me. A man’s clothes. Damp leaves. A metal thing. A wary ecosystem.

My body opens its eyes and I sneak a look. My forearms are rippling with some ancient force that seeks to rend them in two. The faint moonlight reveals impossibly furry paws where my legs should have been. Thick black fur sprouts out of me. There is a cracking sound and unearthly pain that soon gives way to the realization of new bones and joints and muscles and claws. My back and shoulders hunch. Uncomfortable anatomical changes abound.

The beast inside my mind overpowers me for a moment and I feel hunger.

I fight it. Fascinated by the transformation and weakened by my feeble existence I submit to the beast. My fingers become paws. Massive black claws. The night becomes day to these eyes. Everything appears illuminated. A wet, sniffing nose looms infront of my eyes and I realize what I am now.

A predator like no other. The Glass People called it a wendigo. Half man- half bear.

All hungry. I drop down on all fours. My nose picks up the scent of prey. I grin, a lopsided monstrous grin.

Food, good. Thinks the beast. It smells lively, leaping fish at a water’s edge.

I follow.

First-of-Names

noreply@blogger.com (nik hill) — Sat, 19 May 2012 17:50:00 +0000

There is a man who stands all day in a shady corner of Lungtown. They call him Storyteller. The Storyteller belongs to one of the native tribes of Lungtown.

He is older than middle age, well past sixty, but trim, sunburned, and looks ancient.

There is a story he tells often. A story of a man. A story of fire.

“The natives have a concept of business. It is one of those things that take a hundred words to explain in the tongue of the common because we do not have a word for it.

I’ll give an example. Terrible things happen. People die, animals die. Weather dies. Water dies. The inhabitants of most towns pray for rain. Some resort to science. The tribe of the Golden Skinned People do rain dances. The Bitter Leaf tribe slaughter birds. The Glass Makers make glass. They accept. The Storyteller was a Glass Maker and so was First-Of-Names. You see what I mean?

The average Glass Maker takes stock of the situation, understands that he does not have the power to change anything but his attitude to accept the inevitable.

However, First-Of-Names was not an average Glass Maker.

When he was born, somewhere in a hot summer season, his lifegiver wanted to name him after clouds and rivers and such natural things. His father’s father wanted something else and he got it. A name that would mark him for terrible greatness. Like Man-With-Terribly-Long-Name but not like Man-Of-No-Name. They called him First-Of-Names.

In the age of dust, The Rulers denied the people of The Outer Regions a lot of rights. The Rulers were harsh and cruel. They restricted a flow of supplies to The Outer Regions and the people suffered. There was a call for change and revolution and blood and all the younger people answered it. First-Of-Names was a reasonable man but he wished to impress a particularly beautiful female and so he decided to undertake his own foolhardy quest.

A quest to bring fire to the Glass Makers. A fire that would not go out and a fire that would not be a slave of The Rulers. A fire of glory.

First-Of-Names, the champion of the people, with his wily wit and the blessing of the gods stole fire from The Rulers. He gave it to his tribe. He brought glory to Lungtown.

But, alas! The Rulers punished him for his crime. They sent their cronies and they had him arrested. The held him in a tower of black rock.

It is said that a great mechanical bird guards the tower and there are men in white coats inside the tower who try science on First-Of-Names. The Rulers came down harder than ever on The Outer Regions.

They created the District and sealed us all in here. They left us to die but the fire of glory blazed in all our hearts and we survived and rebuilt an existence out of the dust.

The fire is lost now but the people know it still burns for them.”

“That is a fine story, Storyteller. I thank you for telling me this story. Here is your coin. Now, tell me where to find this fire.”

The Storyteller merely chuckled. “I am sorry, sinjoro. There is no fire. It is but a story that I tell to earn a living.”

“That so? Vloek! My name is Grijs and this is my contact card. If you ever feel like not lying to me, give me a call.”