For latecomers, another Tornado Norm tale can be found at this location.
And on with the show:
William Emory Onandon III, whose rather unusual surname both his father and his grandfather insisted was pronounced so that it rhymed with “Landon” but was more commonly pronounced “On and on” as ya might expect, was Tornado Norm’s best friend from the time they were very young. Norm just called him “Infinite Will.”
Somewhat ironically, Infinite Will was a lad of very few words. In fact, his parents done thought him a retard and drug him from doctor to doctor, lamentin’ his slow development, till that time on his third birthday when Will up an’ recited the Declaration of Independence in full and asked for a lawyer to sue for emancipation. He rarely uttered more than a sentence at a stretch afterwards, thinking language itself was to blame for his parents’ cool reserve.
Infinite Will and Tornado Norm lived next door to each other, even though to look at ’em you’d think they were from different galaxies, let alone neighborhoods. But that’s the way it was in their town of ________ and in much of the Deep South at the time: ramshackle shotgun apartments on the same street as honest-to-goodness mansions.
Though Tornado Norm was the son of a preacher and Infinite Will the son of a concert pianist (Norm’s father always made Norm say “piano-player” to avoid saying anything that sounded like the male genitalia), the two shared a love for baseball, ice cream, and mischief that made all eleven-year-olds just about equal.
( Click here. Read more. It's the right thing to do. ) |
"Vesper #1" © ray gunn 2004
vesper
Main Entry:
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin, evening, evening star -- more at WEST
1 capitalized, archaic : EVENING STAR
2 : a vesper bell
3 archaic : EVENING, EVENTIDE
The sun has returned to do some astounding things. A paroxysm of displacement and liberation. Particles of afternoon waltzing into the night. |
For ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) ghastlymess:
ray gunn 2004 |
In some ways, I am envious of the folks who made you. Who could be so fortunate - to craft a vehicle that, in design eloquence would capably transport Push-Ups, Lucky Charms, and Chocolate Milk?
But...
Your back wheel has a flat spot (it could be a chewing gum affliction, but I'm not really sure) and one of your front wheels shudders as you browse down the aisles. You want to bear to the left even on purposeful rights. O, and the ceramic tile floor near the deli makes you rattle like a can of marbles. You've endured so many rains that your welds are rusting through the chrome, while the sun has bleached your handle from a shiny new red to a dull and faded orange. All of your identifying letters are but a ghost of the name you once bore proudly, but be certain, that I won't forget you.
Still, I'll follow you around and race with you to the curb. "Don't try and stop me, I am invincible," I am shouting, and I am six again, running behind you and leaping onto your bottom rail to coast along until my father yells at me to stop before I break my face. My face is still not broken and when my spirit is, I can always think of you.
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"Fireworks" © ray gunn 2004
"Dandelions" © ray gunn 2004
A sound from somewhere distant and lateral.
Then, a doomed blooming.
The season folding in upon itself: teeming insertions and devastating erasures.
Seed spilled across the tabula rasa of the sky. |
© ray gunn 2004
Kill your darlings.
Meticulously. |
"When Buildings Die, They Go to Heaven" © ray gunn 2004
I miss you.
All of you. |
George Washington Bridge and Little Red Lighthouse, NYC © ray gunn 2004
Is a bridge a dead metaphor?
He is a riot of steel, leaping and surging forward, firmly anchored in two bodies.
He is always almost there.
He is swaying imperceptibly.
And what of the lighthouse?
She is timed exposure.
She is the brightness that shows how dark the surrounding landscape has become.
She is schooled in signals.
It's a frontier love affair. Two solitudes versus the void.
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New Orleans, LA © ray gunn 2004
In memory, the lights burned an historical amber--you could almost expect to find ancient insects suspended in the glass of the lanterns.
Amber lights mean "caution," but we knew none, then.
A chemical process was later applied that turned yellow to green.
Green lights mean "move forward," but have we? Will we?
Or is it as the ever-sodden Scott once said of the green lights, that they call to us from a distance and carry us back "ceaselessly into the past"?
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Airship Tower, Coney Island © ray gunn 2004
The same theme of perpendicularity. The same rush to the sky.
But to what? To where?
Above the horizon, an emptiness.
An emptiness that doesn't exist all that much.
An emptiness of attention.
Casualties of Dreamland:
1. Steel Pier
2. Shoot-the-Chutes leading into lagoon
2a. Lagoon
3. Ballroom
3a. Dance
4. Lilliputia
5. Fall of Pompeii
6. Ride in a Submarine
7. Incubator Building
8. End of the World*
9. Circus
9a. Replaced with freak show
10. Creation*
11. Flight Over Manhattan
11a. Still prohibited
12. Canals of Venice
13. Coasting Through Switzerland
14. Fighting the Flames
14a. Heroes
15. Japanese Teahouse with Santos Dumont Airship No. 9
16. Leap Frog Railway
17. Beacon Tower
17a. Come home safe. Come home.
*In Dreamland, ony 150 feet separated Beginning and End. |
I was blinking, or looking away in disgust and complaining about how much last night's closing cermonies of the 2004 Summer Olympics sucked, when drsmax gave a start and announced that something cool had just happened. This:
"The whole stadium just exploded," is what he said.
"What?!" My head snapped back in the direction of the TV, but all action had ceased.
"Fireworks. It was pretty cool."
"Oh."
Well, from the picture, I certainly can't argue that it wasn't, indeed, pretty cool. And I'm heartily sorry I missed it. But my initial reaction to the revelation that the OAKA Stadium had just "exploded" was one of having been much more favorably impressed. You see, some part of my eschatological brain was instantly convinced that the only proper way to end the Olympic Games is with an explosion that neatly annihilates the site, the participants, and, effectively, the memory of the event.
Go on. Try it. Try to name (without Googling) the winner of the platform diving competition from Sydney. What about the names and the scores of the top two male all-around gymnasts? Uh-uh. No way. Not unless you're a total anorak. And in that case, you can stop reading here; I'm not talking to you. Even Bob Costas couldn't keep the names and functions and personal stories of the athletes straight without a teleprompter. For however impressed we may be with the exemplary feats of self-denial and self-actualization it has taken these folks to attain the level of excellence required to be an Olympian, we are on some plane acutely aware that the sum of their efforts contributes to precious little more than a planned obsolescence.
The truth is, after the torch (or giant doobie, in this case) is blown out, so are the career aspirations, hopes, and entitlements to fame and admiration of the majority of the athletes participating. Even those who are still young and fit enough to compete in four years' time almost invariably face disappointment in their next performance. Those who bow out gracefully then go on to execute the remainder of their days in relative to utter obscurity, or, if they're lucky, to play insultingly small roles in Sprint commericals, while living in the steadily decaying shells of their once spectacularly honed and hyperarticulated bodies, living through distorted sound bites of their former glory.
So imagine, then, what a wonderful spectacle it would be to have the Olympian heroes and also-rans, also-jumpeds, and also-swams file in for a great big bacchanale, an orgiastic celebration of their intense yet brief moments of glory and passion, collectively extinguishing themselves as a service to their future selves.
If any of this rite sounds strangely familiar to you, you need only recall the bizarre yet entrancing sequences that showed brilliantly costumed young, vital human beings zapping out of existence on their thirtieth birthday to the shouts of "Renew! Renew!"--the nightly participants in the Carousel ceremony in Logan's Run
There is already a loose association of professionals, amateurs, and fetishists who provide video documentation of the demolition of sporting and entertainment arenas (and other structures of interest to niche markets) in the name of titillation and edification. And while of course none of the stadia are occupied when these implosions take place, can we really say that's for the best?
After more than two weeks of highs, lows, the agony, and the ecstasy, some of us find ourselves saying we need closure. We all tune in, then, for the last hurrah, the closing ceremonies (not coincidentally, statistically more watched than the opening ceremonies). If the reactions to the "closure" of the Games at Athens in 2004 are any indicator, I'm wagering that, now more than ever, we are primed to witness more of a bang than a whimper.
*Much thanks and love to drsmax for feeding me the title and link used in this commentary...and for feeding my imagination. |
An interview meme (...because everyone loves to talk about him/herself!):
1. Leave a comment saying you want to be interviewed. (especially people I don't know well yet)
2. I'll reply and give you five questions to answer.
3. You'll update your LJ with the five questions answered.
4. You'll include this explanation.
5. You ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
cataptromancer asks some probing questions:
1. name a grammar/spellling mistake that, to you, is unpardonable
This is a tough one. The use of the word "unpardonable" brings forth painful images of bodily reprisals such as loss of limb or life. There are few such grammatical faux pas that, even in my professional opinion, would qualify for such dreadful consequences. Oh, now I've gone and done it. I've lost my membership in the grammar gestapo. They'll be by to take my badge and my boots away any moment now.
That being said, however, I feel that there is no reason educated people should misspell the word "definitely" as often as they do.
And, grammatically speaking, the whole unnecessary-apostrophe-at-the-end-of-plural-nouns movement has gone much too far.
Oh, and by the way, you've put an extra "l" in "spelling." :)
( Click to see the other four questions of the Apocalypse ) |
Born with two heads, four arms, and three legs, baby Kali-Kiva (hyphenated because they were two-in-one) thought together alone for geologically long periods of time about the possibility of separation. "We are about to become a god," Kali said to herselves. "If we separate, the following options are the best. One: two beings, each with a head, one with two arms and two legs, the other with two arms and one leg. Two: two beings, each with a head, one with three arms and two legs, the other with one arm and one leg. Three: one being with a head, two arms and two legs, the remaining limbs and head sacrificed. Four: one being with a head, three arms and three legs, and the remaining limb and head sacrificed. Five: one being with a head, four arms and three legs, and only the spare head sacrificed."
Kiva replied, "As much as I favor the first option, we have only one heart. We cannot both survive if we separate ourself. In fact, we may both perish. Perhaps we should remain conjoined."
Kali looked at her sister-self coldly and said, "Didn't you hear me? We are about to become a god. Where multiple arms and legs would be useful, the heart is as disposable as any other part. In fact, it's a liability."
Then she made her choice.
© ray gunn 2004
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What I paid for: The Blanket of Invisibility.
What I got: The Blanket of Extreme Visibility.
© ray gunn 2004 |
I've been experiencing techno-somatic difficulties. Thank you for standing by. Your desires will be fulfilled in the order they were expressed. In the meantime, take heart. All things, regardless of size, are actual size.
© ray gunn 2004</center>>>j'écoute<<: John Jackson - "Matchbox Blues" |
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