only in casino

The following is a true story...

Loren goes innocently about his business in the sleepy town of degenerates inexplicably known as Casino (doesn't have one). One of the local dole bludgers, at first comatose on his front porch, stirs from his drunken stupor, beer clasped firmly in hand and begins to bellow incoherently. Loren aka Loza (it's an Aussie thing), turns from his beloved occupational obligations only to discover a beer bellied monstrosity of man with double take worthy I can't believe what I'm seeing right now pointy nipples.

"How's it goin' mate, too right, Bob's your uncle, stone the flamin' crows, it's a little joey. Dingo ate me baby." All conversation in Australia begins this way. "You know what mate, I was watching discovery channel last night." His nipples seem to harden at this point. "One of them shows about body modification. Well, me son's a black belt in tae kwon do, so I get him to fetch me fillet knife." The relation between these facts appears to be tenuous at best, Loren ever the polite submissive displays all the signs of an intent listener, though the strangeness of the situation is beginning to win him over. Feigning interest may no longer be required.

"Cool. What was the knife for?" The pointy nippled man pokes his tongue out revealing a serpent like taster, at which point the puddle of blood between his perky breasts moves into sharp focus. What would possess a man to do this? "Oh, shit."

"Ya know mate, the missus likes one tongue, she's gonna love two."

"Oh, shit."

the speed of sound

"That's the original iPod." said uncle Ian who coincidentally looked similar to Sir Ian McKellen and was at least as old.

"Cool." said Hannah, Loren's little sister. It was sad she was reduced to a bit player in another man's universe, defined primarily by her relationship to her brother, the seeds of neo-feminism were being thoroughly fertilized.

The Edison Phonograph continued to play what sounded like the soundtrack to the Skeleton Key.

"I can't believe that one day some one figured out that you could store sound on wax cylinders." said Loren.

Ian took a puff of his pipe, "True, but when you think about it, it's amazing that anything can make sound in the first place."

They all went on listening.

writing and false dichotomies

What is real? How do you define real? If you're talking about what you feel, taste, smell, or see, then real is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain. -- Morpheus

"In the mind of a novelist, nothing short of writing novels constitutes writing. When you began lifting weights you used to worry about prosaic things, like do I count the bar? As if circular shaped objects (plates) were somehow more worthy of measurement then long cylindrical ones (barbels). How foolish you were.

There are planners and discover as you go writers. Some say one is organic and the other mechanical. Some people like their pets just as much as they like their iPhones, now is as good a time as any to rearrange your prejudices. Or you could embrace all options, why play favourites?

Ever write a comic before? How bout a screenplay? The final product of these is different from a novel and perhaps for that reason it is acceptable to employ a process which doesn't conform to making it all up in order as you go along. An outline is nothing but a high level (in the OOP sense) version of a first draft. Write a plan or don't. Never think more than a word ahead, it's all up to you. There is no violation of purity in doing any of these. Ideas squiggled on paper is writing, blogging is writing, writing is writing. The bar counts, it all counts, but only if you do something. Now hop to it."

"Yes sir, Muse sir."

next: to be continued or not to be continued the continuity question.

My Eulogy

For fun Fast forward to my death. What would the world look like>>

"We are here today to celebrate the passing, sorry I'm a little nervous. To celebrate the life of our dearly departed friend, the late Loren Hopkins. He was a good man, a kind man, a man of rare and misguided breeding. His scruples we're always wound tighter then a supermodel's butt cheeks, but we loved him. It all started on a beautiful day in 19...blah blah blah."

2 minutes later...

"Damn we'll miss him. Would anyone else like to say anything?

Anyone?"

A dark figure entered from the back of the chapel, he was wearing shutter shades -- a gimcrack that Kanye West had regrettably reintroduced into the sphere of socially acceptable fashion -- and a black three quarter coat. He solemnly marched to the podium and removed his shades. Gasps pinballed throughout the audience.

"Trust me to be late for my own funeral, a few complications almost kept me from being here tonight, but, well, here I am; With apologies to Mark Twain 'The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated', who when you think about it is actually dead now." *Loren paused as if expecting an additional response to this inane insight, it however was easily overpowered in the minds of the onlookers by his surprising revivification.* "Ahem, I appreciate so many of you being here tonight." *In truth the number of attendees left something to be desired.* "And I hate to send you home disappointed, but while I was sitting at the pearly gates waiting for my number to be called I realised that there was something I'd forgotten to do here. As quickly as possible I made arrangements for my return. Many kind things have been said tonight most of which (like my death) were exaggerations. I never quite lived up to my end of the bargain down here, so I've decided to make a comeback and settle my unfinished business. I'm sure you'll all understand, second chances are uncommon, so do what you can when you can and do it the best. It took me a while to learn that, I was 29 years old when I lived for the first time. You'll have to excuse me now, I should be writing. Thank you. Peace out."

There was no solitary clap building in a crescendo to a rousing ovation. There wasn't much of anything in the way of response. Silence hung over the congregation like a very unpleasant cloud.

Then one man stood up. "If you're you, then who's that lying in the casket?!?"

'Ummm."

And so it was that Loren returned to the land of the living.

hope prevails

Imagine a world where it takes 20 minutes to load Microsoft word document.
Welcome to my world...

He felt an internal vice slowly crushing his intestinal tract, sending distress signals to his extremities. Responding would incur a net cost of at least $2000. Consequently his primal rage would be realised in more peaceful ways. Specifically, a non-response appeared to be the only valid option, that or purchasing a boxing bag for the next laptop inspired mental melt down.

NaNoWriMo prodded his back like hooks attached to a large vehicle ready to be dragged in a vaudevillian freak display. It hurt for now, but once he overcame the initial inertia that's when the real pain would kick in.

A jump start was in order. Loren had heard of a secret cure to the condition that afflicted him. It was called work (and definitely dressed in overalls).

There had to be other possibilities. Where to seek inspiration though? Then he remembered what people in the Olympics do when they want a little extra juice in the tank. Remember the expression "this baby runs like Ben Johnson on steroids." Loren immediately began searching through his magic bag (which he'd stolen from Sport Billy). Just when he was about to give up he pricked his finger on a syringe of hypergraphia. He strapped up and got ready for a heavy dose, but as he gazed at the disturbingly large vain protruding from his arm he heard something in the distance, it sounded like hope.

He plodded slowly out into the living area. Barack Obama was just elected President of the United States of America.

A number of soundbites replayed in Loren's mind
"It doesn't matter what happens to me now, I've been to the mountain top." "Let freedom ring", "From coast to coast, from sea to shining sea", "yes, we shall overcome". "YES WE CAN."

Loren dropped the syringe, he didn't need synthetics, if he wanted it badly enough he could self- generate his own compulsive writing disorder. The world just changed, so did he.

DYW2DTF

Do You Want To Do This Forever?

The manifestation of vocation had taken many forms, but the question remained the same.

You wake up one day as a dishwasher, a movie usher, a teacher's aide, an administrator, a million different things, none of them are you. I am Technicolour Joseph, except in a prison of my own making, the butcher, baker, the candlestick maker have their own problems, deliverance like captivity will come down to personal choice. I choose life...

Loren sat hermetically sealed in a world of podcasts, staring blankly at his monitor and hopefully doing some work. His co-workers strolled by occasionally emitting signals which upon close examination could be construed as attempts at communication. When pressed he reciprocated. His demeanour was in no way a slight toward their amicable out reach, rather a by product of despondency caused by a lack of mental stimulation. In an attempt to off set the brain drain he had fostered an addiction to sound, mostly of the type that provided useful information.

"Hey Loren."

"Huh? Somebody say something" He removed his earplugs.

"What does that sticky note mean?"

"Uh, oh DYW2DTF. It's my existential imperative, it stands for: Do You Want To Do This Forever?"

"Tell me about it, one day we gonna be out here. I almost won the power ball this week."

"Yep everyday I wake up and come here it reminds of my destiny and my destiny's somewhere else. Do I want to do this forever? Not remotely."


Disclaimer: Loren has no desire to be "dooced" and is grateful to all past, present and future employers. He gives them time, they gave him money, it's more than a fair trade. Work is a friendly reminder of the most important things in life and Loren harbours no resentment toward any party who engages in or facilitates any form of paid labour. One day Loren will join the ranks of the creative class and none of you will have to worry.

This post was inspired by a newsarama article and its associated comments (and maybe Trainspotting too), who's authors I can't remember, sorry.

Owned

It had been a long day although it consisted of 24.5 hours, just like any other. Loren had just returned from dismantling his younger brothers in a game of 21 (basketball), this was often enough to boost his alpha male status for at least a few minutes before the subtle undermining began again in earnest.

Basking in the victor's glow of complicit acknowledged superiority Loren was unprepared for what awaited at his parents home. Reverting to type, incapable of preparing even the most basic meal, Loren was a throwback to a simpler time, a hunter gatherer, he scoured his parents pantry with relish, gorging himself on the scraps of whatever he could find, and so he visited often.

While there, he came upon a wily, deceitful creature, his younger sister Hannah. Oblivious to her incredulous mind games, distracted by his own brilliance, he began to conversate with her as a means of expressing his genteel manner and well publicized concern for other humans (who were of his kin). Before he knew it he was involved in a third world squatting, while reading a book contest. The first to leave this uncomfortable position entitled the other to a special favour. What was his disappointment when he lost. Undone by a 10 year old, outwilled by a little girl, Loren tried to locate his man badge but it seemed to have gone missing.

The next day, as promised, he took his sister to the movies. To his chagrin The Clone Wars was her choice, but it turned out to be better than the other three prequels combined, which was not a difficult task, but surprising nonetheless. Live action follow ups to the greatest films ever made, beaten by an upstart second rate CGI flick, they should have been better, in a way he could sympathise, he should have been too. Damn you George Lucas.

an important engagement

Loren walked purposefully toward the employee loo avoiding eye contact, tucking his novel unobtrusively under his armpit. Loren completed at least three good books a year while dropping a deuce. He was happy to be reading The Wind up Bird Chronicle, but thought he may be stretching the servant/master trust to breaking point by turning rest stop time into fun time (and prolonging an already lengthy engagement). There was no obscene graffiti to occupy his attention, these toilets were always kept pristine, so he felt somewhat justified in supplying his own material.

After finding a comfortable position, his meditative focus was disturbed by an incoming cubicle compatriot. If a tree falls in a forest and no one's there to hear it, does it make a noise? Loren didn't know, but he preferred to not have anyone hear his noises. The bodily ones were bad enough, but to be caught reading on the john at work, oh the embarrassment. Loren froze for a time, then after an uncomfortable silence came sweet relief: the sound of rustling pages from the adjacent potty. Free to read, free at last, oh my people, free at last.

the awakening

Loren tried to wake up; on days like this that seemed like a hard ask. It was Saturday morning; the last time he'd seen one of those was when there were only two television channels and he'd get up for the cartoons. These were much darker times. The bleak prospect of being an adult about the situation failed to move him from the fetal position. The promise of vacuuming, laundrying and other household chores lay ahead; he preferred his mattress and so went on sleeping for longer than anyone cared to remember.

The next time he remembered having a coherent thought, he realised that he had a date scheduled for later that day. Sleep would have to go on hold unfortunately.

Being partial to a Zen out look, decisions were often postponed until they became absolutely necessary. Specifics like where the date would occur, and how to get to the datees house were all concerns that would be dealt with in the moment that he encountered them. This philosophy had served him well as far as he could tell, that lucky girl she'd probably never come across another person this spontaneous.

Loren failed several times trying to tame his semi-receding afro. A baseball cap proved to be the most sensible option. He shaved and also misplaced his wallet before running out the door. Tardiness would never do. Projecting a an aura of reliability by arriving on time was imperative. It meant you had some semblance of order in your life even if, strictly speaking, that was not necessarily true.

After a relatively event-less journey he walked down the drive, up to the door and knocked. She opened the door. Things were off to a great start.

saddle up sad sap

Loren sat wistfully staring at his monitor.

"Looks like you got a problem on your hands, pardner." Said a bad John Wayne impression in the back of his head.

Loren had never met John Wayne and mercifully had never sat through any of his movies. Still he couldn't help but respond, "I'm just wore out you know, trying to be the absolute man a little bit at a time can be draining. I think all the hoped for improvements are bottle-necking somewhere just slightly outside the reach of my grasp."

"That a fact? Life's hard some times, pardner. No use in complaining 'bout it. I figure no matter what happens you saddle up and just keep riding on anyway."

"Gosh darn it you're right! Thanks, John. I can call you that right?"