burnvictim: (Default)
[personal profile] burnvictim

Shards of the children's bones in his teeth, he attempted to claw his way from the sewer, but the walls were too slippery to find a hold. He kept coming back with fistfuls of slime. With nothing else to do, he scraped his palms as clean as he could on the rim of his bucket, allowing the filth to sluggishly drip inside it. He couldn’t remember why he had not brought a ladder, except that they are just too large to carry on one’s person, especially if you’ve got a girl under your left arm and a boy under your right. The candles guttered; he was nearly completely engulfed in darkness. The light of the sun was blinding as he attempted to stare up at the hole to the surface some two stories up. He tried again to climb the wall, to get his footing in the brickwork. His soles skidded back to the floor, his ankles absorbing the impact.

He looked around at the rats, the bones, the scum, the black water, or what little he could really see of them in the diminishing light. “This is the last time I take my lunch in a fucking sewer.”


Kids with air rifles had taken over the Capitol, so he smoked a cigarette angrily in the farthest minaret. If he could dampen his handkerchief, he thought it might be possible to send tiny smoke signals to the elderly who still held most of the office buildings on the adjacent block. By the time he'd hacked up enough phlegm and spittle, his cigarette had burned down to the filter. Reaching into his coat pocket, he realized his pack was empty. He wondered why he had bothered to put an empty pack back in his pocket. He flipped the lid and looked inside. There was a lick-and-stick tattoo of a circus seal inside.

They must be watching me right now, he thought, and then blacked out from concussion.

Read more... )
richardbjr: (Default)
[personal profile] richardbjr
I watched the light, just one of six, on my router blinking. It meant that my internet was working, feeding my machine with digitized data, my machine feeding me. I watched it blink, blink, blink-blink, blink.

It was on the floor, on the right side of my desk, wouldn't see it at all unless I rolled away from the desk and looked down, blink, blink-blink.

It was right then that the meteor struck. I felt the building shake, the balcony doors rattled. I covered my ears and ducked down low to protect myself from the BOOM and SCREAM of destruction.

I uncovered my ears and opened my eyes. I sat up and rolled back into position at the machine which I was surprised was still working, but I didn't figure it would be working for long so I typed fast, faster, and faster to finish the story before... before the end came.

After the sun rose and sunlight filled the room again, I knew that it was time for breakfast.
mrnihil: (Default)
[personal profile] mrnihil
richardbjr: (Default)
[personal profile] richardbjr
A friend and I were sharing early childhood memories. It was her younger brother's birthday; she was writing a tribute to him recalling her earliest memories of their first few years in Scotland, then their trip across the ocean to the brave new world. Her earliest memories were of seeing him for the first time in his pram (that's a baby carriage); she was just three or four years old. They were all beautiful, lovely, wonderful memories. I know her brother as well and none of us are young anymore, although we still feel that way, sort of, sometimes.

I tried to recall my earliest memories. The first was when I was four years old I hit my two-year-old little brother in the head with a stick, an accident, of course. There were a few other things that seem like memories, but I think only because of the pictures my parents took and I still have all the pictures in boxes somewhere, and some in old photo albums. Then I remembered my little brother again, he was older, maybe six or eight. I'd just come in from playing outside. I saw him big smiling with his hands on the back of the couch, the couch facing away from the front entrance foyer looking into the living room. He was bouncing up and down on his knees on the couch. When I walked around the couch and he'd stopped bouncing I saw that there was something under the cushion he was bouncing upon. There were a bunch of kittens under the cushion; I could hear their muffled, little meows. I don't remember why he was doing that to the kittens but the kittens survived. Another day, not long after the couch incident, I came home again to check on my mischievous little brother and he was nowhere to be found. I heard something up on the roof. The house, designed and built by my genius father in the early fifties had a flat roof; even today the house would be considered a modern design but the price to recreate it, with the same materials, would be astronomical, with exotic woods inside, cork floors, Nova Scotian vertical cedar siding outside, three levels, and a big bomb shelter (his design, amazing) underneath in case the commies attacked, BOOM. Anyhow (that was a nice memory), my brother was up on the roof with a box of kittens, of course. He was tossing the kittens off of the roof, making them do flips and twists; it was at least a fifteen foot drop to the ground, maybe more. I yelled at him to stop! He turned around as I approached, he was smiling with a kitten in his hands. He turned back around and gave the kitten a toss before I could get to him. I asked him why. He said he was conducting an experiment to see if it was true that cats always landed on their feet. The kittens survived.

Another day, same age range, in the summertime, I caught him up on the terrace with a jar full of salamanders he'd caught down at the stream. He was taking them out of the jar, one at a time, and tearing them apart, carefully separating the body parts into piles. I don't remember his explanation for that one.

Read more... )
mrnihil: (boxhead 2011)
[personal profile] mrnihil
with everyone else posting things, i suppose i should to. then this happened:

The External World TRAILER from David OReilly on Vimeo.

does vimeo post here ok? who knows. it doesn't, apparently. wait, i fixed it.
richardbjr: (Default)
[personal profile] richardbjr
While I was researching youth arts and culture my son suggested that I listen to this art rock/performance art band. My analysis is forthcoming. The band was called Idiot Flesh. The song, with special guest appearance by Geraldo Rivera, had one of the longest song titles I've seen: "Teen Devil Worshipper Jonathan Cantero's List of Activities for the 12th of October". They disbanded in 1998. Two members went on to form Sleepytime Gorilla Museum.

I listened and looked for more.

The band was a band formed in 1985 at Barrington Hall, a student co-op at the University of California at Berkeley.

It's no wonder I missed Idiot Flesh, in 1985 I was exploring with advanced composites in the astro-communications outer space industry, while they were exploring experimental sound with non-traditional instruments, inner space, industrializing strange, "rock against rock" attitude and funny costumes. I wore a tie most days and sensible shoes.

"The band was known to tour the US in a converted city bus with Rathbun [band member] as the driver/mechanic, with the windshield destination banner set for HELL." I drove a Mercedes and a VF750F Interceptor on weekends. "Their work was characterized by its 'rock against rock' attitude and defied classification with marching band routines, puppet shows, and the playing of household items as tuned instruments." I got into a Motown thing in the mid-80s. "A rumor following the group alleged that when the band was offered a record contract from a label, that it would disband before selling out." Their first album was released in 1995. "Their final show was held on a Friday the 13th." I got all that from Wiki.

It's no wonder I missed Idiot Flesh. But times have changed. I dress differently now, any way I want to and I even have pants with holes in them. My son calls me an idiot sometimes. I am expanding my horizons. I am experiencing the wonders of all I may have missed when I was what I was. The analysis is forthcoming, maybe.

Idiot Flesh often performed live with a group of additional stage performers who called themselves the Filthy Rotten Excuse Chickens. They were "a motley bunch," wrote Andrew Lentz in Metroactive Music, "that enhances the Idiot Flesh experience with a variety of acrobatics, dancing and pantomime." Members of Filthy Rotten Excuse Chickens went by the names:

* The Minotaurs of Baal
* Beefra The Cook
* Helpy The Hamburger Bee
* Mr. Punch
* Hatcha & Datcha The Siamese Twins
* Ming Tsao: Professor of Black Math
* Uro Butoh
* El Evil
* Ward C. Picnic
* The Queen of Oakland
* Mumble

Enjoy! more... Idiot Flesh and I get it now. There's something, a message in the names perhaps. And here I've been worrying about things like terrorism, the failing economy, shrinking bank accounts and expanding waistline, and what kind of sneakers I should wear. I think I get it now, there's no point to analyze since it's all there, whatever it is it's all there, in her wagon.

Idiot Song

burnvictim: (Default)
[personal profile] burnvictim
I shall have another weird offering very shortly. In the meantime, here is a short list of things that are weird.

Weird Films
Blood Tea and Red String


Weird Books
The Stories of Paul Bowles

Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo

richardbjr: (Default)
[personal profile] richardbjr
My name is Richard B junior. My journey started far away, five or six blocks I'd say to the sea depending on the route I took. I was well prepared with freshly charged batteries in my camera, a small Moleskine and a pen in case I had a thought worth writing down. I patted Monkey on the head (my stuffed, white Monkey that hangs out on my piano bench), played a few notes on the piano, stumbled one last time to the balcony and looked out to the marvelous sea. It was a beautiful, early morning just after sunrise.

I chose the right cane for my journey and hobbled for the door.

Suddenly the walls across the room turned translucent. Spreading out at the axis of symmetry the angle between them became obtuse. What was beyond the walls was indistinct, iridescent.

Images formed, first symmetrically across the joined surfaces, two dimensional, kaleidoscopic and colorful. The surfaces merged into one giant, techno-colored scene shivering in arabesques of the great outdoors.

A surreal scene, I was standing naked in a field of grass, oaks and persimmons dropping red-brown leaves into a small river where trees floated by and bright colored snakes watched the shore with sad eyes. There were birds and other strange, small animals. I could feel the wind blowing through my hair.

This was no beach. I thought that Monkey might be doing it. He sat up in a tree, golden beams shot out of his eyes.

And then the music started. It was "Let the River Run", as sung by Rosa López.

The scene changed to a desert landscape as seen from a mountain top. Across an expanse of empty desert was the ocean. Looking down I made a declaration. I said, "Tonight when the wind visits I'll leave, no fear, I'll dance and sing and the wind will carry me there."

Shortly after that I fell down the mountain and for most of the night I crawled across the desert. I reached the shore at sunrise with skinned knees and rested.

I know too well what this was all about. I know too well that I would stroll the beach while the wind and I commiserate about the fall of man, the rise of rocks and waves and sand.

Then I blinked and sneezed twice. I hadn't left the room, and there was Monkey on the piano bench as usual, wearing sunglasses. The walls returned to normal walls. It was a clear morning outside.

My head hurt. I was laying on the floor, oh shit. I'd tripped and bumped my head. I have a bad right leg. Some mornings I don't walk very well. I checked and there was no blood, no other injuries. I'd bumped my head before. Nonetheless, I got right up and wrote this vision I had seen.

After I finished the writing I was ready again. I was well prepared for my journey to the sea. The door waited to be opened. I went to the freezer first to get out an ice pack to put on my bumped head. As the cold penetrated my skull I thought that maybe I'd wait and go at sunset instead.

This writer's life can be dangerous on mornings like this. Never know what I'll bump my head on next.

3 Weeks

Nov. 29th, 2010 12:51 am
mrnihil: (Default)
[personal profile] mrnihil
don't mind me, Pan-Weirdism is still alive.
burnvictim: (Default)
[personal profile] burnvictim

A Vision of the Future

by G. Arthur Brown


Tuesday I got a vision of the future.  You can’t control what it is you see when something like that happens.  Keep that in mind.  The images came to me quickly, so I’ll try to relate them in some kind of sensible order.


i.                    General Overview of the Future


In the future things will be cleaner, movies will be better and small children won’t need to be afraid of anything at all. Restroom technology will be simply astounding.  A really amazing remake of Robin Hood will come out.  Kids will have a horny armor-like shell.


I.  The Restrooms


In the future you won’t have to worry about catching a disease in a public toilet.  For one thing, commodes will be eliminated and everyone will use those eastern-style porcelain holes in the floor.  In the future everyone will have been bred to be mostly Asian and the lack of a seat won’t be a problem for anyone.  This will fix the problem of germ transmission via contact.  Butts will have fewer pimples.  But that will not be all.

In the future everyone will take special pills.  These pills will be colloquially known as ‘your daily chalk.’ This will cause a person’s feces to come out in small roundish units roughly the size of golf balls, with a smooth, white shell.  This will prevent the feces from dirtying the posterior of the defector and also will limit the possible transmission of feces-born pathogens.  It will not be hard to squeeze out these ‘eggs.’

Read more... )


mrnihil: (Default)
[personal profile] mrnihil
Semi-legendary blind jazz musician G. Arthur Brown and some other guy drafted a set of guidelines for the community that will be adapted, discarded, recarded, and set in stone. These are as follows, and are at all times listed on the profile page:

If a story is over 500 words, put the rest behind a cut.

If an image is over 600 pixels tall, or threatens to break the format of the page, put it behind a cut.

No existential, whining poetry. No one thinks it's weird, absurd, surreal, or anything but boring. Same goes for teen angst. We don’t care how blind the rest of the world is to your pain, because your pain is not special.

Everyone is welcome, but if we get a big influx of non-pan-weirdist stuff, we'll put the boots to you (light style). We want to include everything that fits, but we can’t allow this to become a spam post for things that aren’t truly weird.

We're in favour of not being elitist snobs about what's weird and what's monkeycheese. You may find that this statement contradicts the way we treat you when we think you're boring old monkeycheese. It probably does, but we don't really care. Go start a "pan-weirdism is elitist and gay community," we wish you the best. It may also happen that we don’t think you are boring monkeycheese at all, but that you are just doing an excellent job in a non-pan-weirdist medium. Your excellent clinical realism or your amazing sword and sorcery might be great, but they don’t really belong here.

Seriously, the stuff that fits pan-weirdism just fits. You know it when you see it. I don't think we need a mission statement, manifesto, or membership cards. We know what we like to see, hear, and read.

"Pie pie hamster kawaii" and "the evil monkey did it" do not belong here.

We're not trying to muscle in on Bizarro, but we do welcome it as a method. Some of us very much like Bizarro, but aren't writers, which is the primary focus of Bizarro, or maybe you don't like Bizarro but you like some other "weird" thing. That's what Pan-Weirdism is here for: no variety of weird is left out in the cold. This is meant as a resource to bring things/people together so that we don't have to search 1,000 different places to find some obscure guy's awesome work, and so we don't have to dig through BBS topics (something we get tired of doing pretty quickly). We believe most people who like weird stuff tend to like a lot of different weird stuff and it should not be hard to find weird stuff of all types.

Please, please, please format the titles of your post as follows: Medium - Title of Piece - Author Name. Egs. Short Story - Pie Doom Pox on Shocking Hamster - Kawaii Pops. We're in the process of coming up with proper media descriptions, but they should be obvious, viz., "Animation," "Comic," "Photo," "Short Story," blah blha buhl. You get it. Common sense goes here. As we develop into a tyrannical pack of assholes, we will impose more rules on you at whim.
mrnihil: nihil 2010 headshot with animated static (my 2010 icon)
[personal profile] mrnihil
during a conversation with semi-famous writer Griswold A. Blackfeld, we came up with the idea of starting a community/utopia of sorts for our brand of hoohah. something that doesn't just encompass the writing aspect, but takes it to a level of pan-weirdism. we're tired of seeking out other people who do what we do, and having to visit 18 different sites just to find out what everyone's doing.

thus, we've created Pan-Weirdism, so that we can hopefully round some of these cretins up and keep them contained in our digital snares. Pan-Weirdism is for anyone who makes anything considered "weird" by the rest of the public. post your stuff, talk about your stuff, talk about other people's stuff, have sex together, eat toast with a friend on the other side of the world, decide things, ask questions, &c., and wotever else you might be inclined to do.

we plan on keeping things pure, so no posting about the angst of your existential crisis in the form of bad poetries, and no bad monkeycheese, and no pictures of Goku's penis in Naruto's mouth unless it's made with really vibrant colours. i'm sure there's probably more to say, but for now that's it.
Page generated Oct. 23rd, 2017 11:59 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios