Nephilista Beastly's Secret Show

Grant Morrison : The DISINFORMATION Speech

2010-12-29T07:12:00.000-08:00

§PINNING

2010-08-15T07:04:00.000-07:00

Pondering north/south = up/down on a global scale as just another construct. A consensual fiction. You know. Like time. Or money.
Heh.

just another aeon at the office

2010-03-04T16:57:00.000-08:00

Hmm.
*Looks around. Blows dust off pixels*

Saint Michael closed his eyes, visualized billowing clouds like spun alabaster suffused with golden light, recreated harmonies of harp and celestial choir, and breathed deeply for a moment. He opened his eyes and blinked at the sleek and elegant planner on his desk. No way around it. Just as he reached for it, his next appointment burst through the door. Mike sighed. Prescience was a gift, yes. Discretion would be nice, too. Common courtesy would be almost too much to bear.

“It’s a lie!” The words burst from Ex’s apoplectic lips without preamble.

“That’s hardly news.” Mike didn't even have to ask for clarification.

“It’s wrong. It’s a lie”

Mike kept his voice steady, his demeanor imperturbable. “Define ‘lie’.”

“The poor bastards are living a lie. They think it’s real...”

“Define ‘real’.”

Saint Expedite crossed his arms, glared across the polished expanse of mahogany desk . “How would you feel if at some point you discovered that all this-” he stretched his wings wide to include the well-appointed office with it’s spare yet comfortable furnishings, its view of the Pearly Gates- “wasn’t real?!?”

“Grateful, I suspect.” Michael shut his eyes for the briefest of seconds. Sometimes - often, lately- the new hires just didn’t get it. Most of them were naive, over-zealous and … “Look, Ex -”

“Saint Expedite.”

… and so crisply formal as to restrict movement. That they actually achieved flight was - dare he say it? - a Miracle. Mike sighed. “Saint Expedite. Sit. Please.”

Ex sat, with a great deal of indignant wing-rustling.

“Perhaps what is needed, Mike began, is a redefining of our role here. Our emphasis on public relations-”

“Community Outreach. I’m on the task force.”

“Yes...” Mike silently counted to Seven before proceeding. “Our Community Outreach division has always been quite effective; a credit to the operation, although not always observant of bottom-line issues. As of course, we must be.”

"You don’t give them enough credit," Ex shot back. "If they weren’t crippled by their stupid, finite, linear little lives -- and WHOSE idea was THAT?!?- they could...they’d..."

“They’d be like us.” Mike finished the sentence flatly, and, envisioning a great unSanctified human horde storming the Gates, repressed a shudder. Ex was looking at him oddly, as though they’d just met.

“This position isn’t at all what I’d thought,” Ex said finally, still regarding Mike suspiciously.

“Think about it some more,” Mike responded, with a conclusive air. The office door swung smoothly open at his thought. “And as you know,” Mike smiled broadly “... The Competition is always hiring.”

Ex now smiled too, a thin and disdainful quirk of the lips. “Thank you for your time, “ he said simply, and exited not by the proffered door, but transformed into a dove which became a ray of light and disbursed.

Mike sighed again -at least he hadn’t done the music, too- and prepared for his next meeting.

Vicarious living and the return of Sasquatch Envy

2009-06-10T10:36:00.000-07:00

I know everybody's seen this, but I just had to. It starts with one man with a humble dream... to shake his ass to Santigold at Sasquatch 2009...

Y'all want this party started, right? Y'all want this party started QUICKLY... right???

"Unstoppable" for true. This guy's my hero!

☻☻☻

2009-04-21T20:01:00.000-07:00

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith.

Zombies.
Yes.

Per The Miami Herald.

♫

2009-03-17T11:44:00.000-07:00

In honor of PHONOGRAM: RUE BRITANNIA (Kieron Gillen & James McKelvie) which I'm *finally* getting to read:

011

2009-03-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

The chimney stood, blackened but absurdly intact. The rest of the house had burned quickly. The old iron pot and the heavy kettle lay cracked and misshapen amid the glowing embers of what had been the hearth. The air smelled of smoke, charred flesh and burnt pumpkin, the scents easily mistaken for the beginnings of an evening meal. Ella stood where the clearing gave way to woodland, glad of the breeze that refreshed the air. She watched the smoke and ash swirl and eddy against the late afternoon sky, feeling the comforting weight of the shoe in her apron pocket. Only when she heard voices approaching did she back away into the woods. She’d soothe her burned and sooty hands in the stream and retrieve her meager belongings -- a bit of sack-cloth concealing the other shoe and a single gold coin -- before leaving this place for good.

1848

2009-02-24T11:22:00.000-08:00

Today's essentials.

- ♥

2009-02-13T16:34:00.000-08:00

Does it somehow seem appropriately cautionary that Friday the Thirteenth directly precedes Valentine's Day this year?
Many happy returns of the day. Thanks for the chocolate.
Be careful. It's a Hallmark® greeting card world out there.

[9]

2009-02-11T17:00:00.000-08:00

“How…” Omraziel’s silvered voice hesitated, unaccustomed to vocalized inquiry, low yet resonant, the barest whisper of wind against a sterling gong. “Tell me how you feel.”
“Like 'm flying…falling,” Eliah stuttered a laugh. “This close to you… my wings are melting…” He rubbed his wet cheeks against Omraziel’s, hands tightening on the silksmoke skin, senses full of black and silver. He was panting, incoherent.
Omraziel considered this with a barely audible hmmm, absorbed the urgency of Eliah’s responsive whimpers. “Fall,” he said at last. “I have you.” Omraziel surged forward and upward with the inexorability of seeds and tides and captured Eliah’s moan in his own mouth. They both fell, spinning, blazing and full of light.

%

2009-02-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

Well. Perhaps poetry was something of an overstatement, but they were short things composed of words that frequently rhymed, and they were his.

M

2009-02-09T21:11:00.000-08:00

Josh had never been downstairs before, not all the way, and was thinking that he really hadn’t missed much. Climbing down, down, down the tall, slippery, narrow steps had been fun; made him feel bold, like an explorer, but the chilly emptiness at the bottom was rather dull. Josh was about to hurry back up before he was missed, when motion caught his eye.

The wall was… dissolving, solid, colorless stone sliding away from the beams beneath the stair. Light glowed through the gaps, a radiance similar to Josh’s own, but… pointier? Not brighter, really, but much more sparkly. Josh drew closer, almost touching the closely placed bars. It was like a little room under there, or maybe a cage. Josh peered in, fascinated. A knowing, amused gaze met his wondering one: a quicksilver smile and a wink, at once greeting and admonishment. Shhh.

Josh had no idea what to say, anyway.

An entire section of gray stone wall curled down to land with a soft plop beside Josh’s bare feet. The opening was almost large enough for someone to squeeze through.

“Son. Come here.” Father’s voice from above permitted no delay or demurrer. Still astonished, Josh backed away to scramble up the stairs, slipping once and banging his knee, but not stopping until he stood, a bit breathless, in the door to Father's chambers.

“Yes, Father?” He asked, trying not to sound like he felt.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” replied Josh, automatically, staring up into Father’s face. Well…it wasn’t not true. Josh wasn’t doing anything now, and hadn’t been doing anything but standing there, looking. Still, his stomach squirmed. Who is that? Josh wanted to ask. He looks like me. Do you know him? Why is he down there? Father would tell him. Father never lied. Of course Father knew him. Father knew everything. Didn’t he?

“Nothing?” Father repeated, staring back at Josh. “Well. Let’s fix that, shall we?”

05

2009-02-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

WORDS TO LIVE BY:

04

2009-02-08T03:57:00.000-08:00

The bookmarks looked boring, and he thought the crying face his teacher suggested was funny, so he picked the paperweight. He mixed the paints until he'd almost matched his dad's dark tan skin, and the teacher yelled at him for taking so long. The girl next to him was gluing buttons on a strip of felt. He coated the smooth, oval rock the teacher gave him with paint. He tried to make the hair above the face curly like his dad's, and then dotted tiny, light-blue tears coming from the black eyes. He painted a sad mouth, and finally B-I-L-L-S in red letters at the top. The letters were in Dad's hair, but that seemed to be OK. He didn't understand "Bills," but he'd gotten yelled at once already, so he didn't ask. Rock/paper/scissors didn't make sense, either. Scissors cut paper and rocks smash scissors, but rocks also weigh more than paper. A rock could hold the paper down. Wasn't that the point?

03

2009-02-04T11:09:00.000-08:00

02

2009-02-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

"...because his kid's got Asperger's." Donald pronounces it like a particularly unsavory fast-food item. I lose my appetite, but Donald’s client, another parent, merely nods, and takes another bite of his turkey club sandwich. Donald smiles that way that his clients find reassuring, but I think makes him look like a wolf. Most of them never even realize they’ve been screwed. I guess it’s nice when the prey brings its own platter; kind of a hunter’s holiday.
“Eat smart,” I mutter, shoving my spinach salad across the table toward Donald and collecting my bag.
“I’ll see you back at the office,” Donald calls easily behind my graceless exit, secure in the strength of his scam.
His files are in an envelope en route to the DA. There is nothing in my bag but new ID and a plane ticket. He won’t see me, and I’m going to do my best to forget that I ever saw him.

01

2009-02-01T05:25:00.000-08:00

“Sing what?”
Anything, he said, in the slush that passed for speech these days. Just…stay here with me. And don’t stop.
So she crawled over the busted bed rail that they never could get to go down, and curled carefully around him and all his tubes and wires, placed her head on his shoulder and sang. Gospel, lullabies, rockers and nursery rhymes rolled out of her mouth without conscious thought. He was flat on his back, gaunt profile taut, eyes closed. On the second song, the corner of his mouth quirked up and his body relaxed like a sigh. She sang and didn’t stop, even when his pained spasms returned, the bed rocking like remembrance of good times. She fumbled for his hand, the one without the IV that was pressed between their bodies. His fingers clenched around hers as his rasping breaths hitched, slowed, and finally gurgled away like a drain unclogging. She kept singing, finished the song, whatever it was, and then lay there feeling like an out-take from the kind of movie she never watched, the kind where someone died, and someone else watched while the music swelled and then the credits rolled. This was quiet, though, like all the sound had been siphoned out of the world, leaving her empty.

0

2009-01-11T04:19:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not going to buy you expensive tech so you can begin your career in phone sex.

There's just no good way to say that to a friend.