I remember Mary and Joseph. They were a nice couple. It took Joseph forever to finally pop the question.

You see, they met at our church, a medium-sized un-affiliated Baptist, the only church in a nothing-special midwestern town of 1277. Our town doesn't have much time for church, or for semi-stable interpersonal groupings at all for that matter. It exists primarily as a pass-through for the cattle drivers; there are stables for the old-fashioned kind and truck stops for the modern ones. One of the stables bought some bleachers in 1953 and has since hosted a mid-sized rodeo that draws a statewide crowd in June.

You see, Mary and Joseph ho-hawed for quite some time, seeing each other in church when they both showed up on the same Sunday. There seemed to be this tension between the two that suggested that if they remained in the same physical proximity for too long, flammable objects located nearby would start to spontaneously combust.

So you see, it wasn't much surprise to us church regulars when, soon after getting engaged, it turned out that Mary was pregnant. My wife and I had been trying to have a baby for years and grumbled about how it's always the people that don't want kids that have them, and the people that want them can't. There was of course a church board meeting that, despite its agenda, was almost wholly devoted to the topic of Mary's pregnancy.

For a while there you see, things became really difficult. We suggested that they go ahead with the marriage, and simply get it over with very quickly, or wait until after the birth. The problem was, however, that Joseph was insisting that the baby wasn't his. We tried to assure him that he was forgiven and that we did not judge him for his actions, but that it was important that he take responsibility for them. After a couple weeks of this, Mary and Joseph finally decided to go together to her parent's place back East to give birth to their son. They had a very simple, small ceremony at the church and left that very afternoon. There was still a slight hint of stress behind Joseph's eyes.

But you see, upon their return some months later, things seemed remarkably different. The baby was a beautiful baby boy, one whose smile could light up the room; indeed just the presence of baby Jesus, as Mary and Joseph had so oddly named him, seemed to uplift all those around. But Joseph's attitude seemed absolutely reversed. He was now a proud father, beaming about his son to any who would look like they were listening. Mary, too, had been somehow transformed into the most determined mother of the year award. We wondered if there was something magical about "back East" or if they had seen a vision somewhere on the road through Ohio, but for the most part we just shrugged our shoulders and moved on.

So you see, it wasn't much surprise to me when a little stick of a boy, Jesus, showed up at one of our church board meetings last week…

Every day for weeks we would go there. At first right there, with flowers and a cloth, to clean the stone. Then, from a distance, just staring at the bell, willing it to move. Then, just pausing, peering through the distance from the street, while on a detour, to or from the market.

Ring, we'd beg it, with our eyes. With our wills.

Then leaves fell around it, and we'd visit to shuffle them away with our feet very casually, hands deep in coat pockets, not yet cold enough for gloves.

As the first bits of rust formed on its little curve, ring, we would think. Move, the silent command.

And as snow lay across it and ice formed down the string, we shivered and prayed, for a sound, even just a mystery in our head.

By the time the grass again began to grow, and the thread had long since been consumed by the ground, someone...perhaps the caretaker?...someone had charitably removed the reminder.

Removed the reminder that all hope was lost. That all the stories told from that mouth, all the laughter blasted from those lungs, all the warmth under those arms, all the thoughts behind those eyes...they were all only ever to live in our memories.


inspired by

"I can't believe you got so drunk you shat the bed."

"Well Jesus did say to be like the little children, and when I was a kid, I shat the bed all the time."

The third and final installment of The Antipocalypse is out. The first two can be found: Part 2, Part 1.

"Pop! Oh look, a can of worms just opened."

"I mean, I hate myself for even debating this with you."

(those two from here)

"And now I'm drunk and I can't be funny or awesome..." (from here)

"You can't teach a drowning person how to swim."

"Well I guess I don't have to worry about surfing pr0n at work anymore."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well you just had that up on your screen and I wasn't offended."

"Oh, you're the most easily offended in this room?"

"Well I'm the only one who has been an imam."

"You were am imam?"

"No. But I was a worship pastor once."

"I want to play!"

"Sometimes you have to play alone."

"But I don't want to play alone."

"But part of being an adult is to learn that You can go your own way. You can call it another lonely day. You can go your own way. If I could, baby, I'd give you my world. Open up everything's waiting for you.

"How I miss St. Petersburg. How I miss Venice."

The Antipocalypse 1.1 is out. (Part 1 was mentioned here.)

"But this time we could do it right! I mean, did you read about that new network they're installing in New Beijing?"

"Beijing is a fiefdom! And you know those Chilaskans--give them one printing press and all they'll produce is propaganda."

"Or the monetary system in the Nordics?"

"What's next? An arms race? 'Language should be angelic, instead it is infected with a virus,'" Johnny was poorly quoting anarchists again, "If we require another Hermes to carry our messages, he'll eventually get bored and kill our cows, leaving us hungry and very pissed off."

My friend Wood is the editor for SCM's
Movement magazine. While I was visiting him last year (I think that's when it was), he asked me if I'd like to write for the magazine. Christians over there not generally being quite the strange bunch they are stateside, I agreed. The following is what resulted:

The Antipocalypse

I'm actually slated to do two more, and the request is I continue this thread. I have no idea how I'm going to do that, but I have three weeks to figure it out!

"Wow I've never seen a priest smoke before. Especially not Camel regulars."

"Or known a priest who played in a Led Zeppelin cover band."

"Holy shit! You must be the coolest priest ever!"

"Cigarettes, Guinness, and sex with my girlfriend. These are my only vices. I pay indulgences by hanging out with the likes of you."

"And the Zep'?"

"I have it on the highest authority that Jimmy Page is Jesus' favorite singer."

"Is that right?"

"It's partly the hair, of course. The sheolic production of Jesus Christ Superstar has been on hold awaiting his arrival. Omnipotent, trinitarian beings make awful producers."

"Don't you kind of have to be a schizophrenic asshole to be in the musical making business?"

"Or gay."

"Of course."

"dedbtddy.exe" is a trojan installed by Love4Evar, Inc.'s "Prego" app, popular in the late 90's and early 00's. The "Prego" app was, among other things, supposed to free up resources on your computer so users could "focus on more important things." "dedbtddy.exe" was originally a forgotten about and never-executed portion of the "ddy.exe" code, but at some point a nefarious developer compiled it into its own application and packaged it in "Prego", hiding its execution behind "ddy.exe", which would at a slow but ever-increasing rate ferry its requests to "dedbtddy.exe".

"dedbtddy.exe" can effect the system in many ways, but its most common symptom is resource hogging and spawning new "Love4Evar" processes that steal directly from the original "Love4Evar" application installed by the user. Sometimes "dedbtddy.exe" processes exist at lower levels, not stealing many machine resources, but attempting to interfere with the process threads of more "productive" applications like Life, Happy, and Survive.

"dedbtddy.exe" is typically impossible to remove without removing the entire "ddy.exe" portion of the "Prego" app (which in turn is impossible to remove). There are a FEW documented cases of "dedbtddy.exe" removal from "ddy.exe", but only by professionals and often involving hours (if not days) of sysadmin time. Sometimes users are able to install a new version of "ddy.exe" without the "dedbtddy.exe" trojan. Typically this "ddy.exe" ships with less features than the original, although without "dedbtddy.exe" performance is vastly improved.

Dallas, exhuming the dead body of the accused and flogging it some more will achieve no more justice against the politicians and judges who orchestrated the crimes.

(And he goes to drink and smoke and chant "Wu wei, wu wei.")

It goes something like this: symbolic orders survive at the cost of our dreams. They are sacrificed at the cost of everything. Joy and madness can be found down either path. If madness comes from the fear of what might compromise "everything," then it is best to sacrifice your dreams.

Those of us "after the fact"--those left without a façade of order, be it at the violent hands of an other and/or the machinations of our own hearts--cannot produce violence because the purpose of violence is the survival of the order. The positive outcome of violence is death--a reminder to those still "alive" that the lack is a fait accompli. (This is why we put the insane and dying away out of sight.)

What is interesting is how dreams survive the violence. They float there as the dust settles, taunting both the dead and the red-handed, frustrating a common longing for peace. These vile ghosts, these messengers of a cruel God... ...we can name them all day long because they reside outside the abilities of our words.

Those who are either chosen and trained or who thrust themselves upon the laughing Deity, they come at worst to compete with these Caspers of the Castle, at best they return to us as one themselves. We will build our walls and our weapons, and they will dance on the battlefield.

and all those birds would have sung to your beautiful heart anyhow.

Dallas, I drove by your house tonight; for the first time in so long. You know, for the first days and weeks I had to drive around. I could not bear the sight of it. These days avoidance is easy. I generally head the opposite direction. Here I am, back in my safe house. I poured a green tea drink and scrubbed the toilet.

Even the dog could smell his old friends, his old stomping grounds. We went by the old homestead. The lights were out. So many lights were out.

I'm not sure why I did it. I imagined myself visiting you in your dreams, the way you visit me in all my moments when I am not sleeping. It is so odd how the vision I described to you in our last meeting is still as clear as the day I had it. Now only I question the characters.

( Read more... )

I saw nothing had changed. I hope for all of our sakes that appearances, and my heart, are so very deceiving.

i'll never be free if i'm not free now.

i never was free, what are you talking about?

On bad days, when he prays in tongues it's less a pentecostal throwback and more a whimpering baby.

Johnny died alone choked on wine in 2010. The last three years had been a blur. Since She had departed with seething "Fuck You"s and turned everything on its head, things had steadily improved on paper. Finally comfortable in his own skin. Professional and creative output at all-time highs. Comfortable spaces in which to reside. Moments of complete, pure clarity. Threads intersecting, monkeys-of-the-mind swinging on them, trapeze artists performing for the entertainment of neurons.

But that quiet night in July a cheap Pinot Noir would work its random, deadly deed, starting a positive feedback loop of liquid and spit and general desperation and acquiescence to fate. His last retinal stimulation a beautiful quilt hung in three dimensions, its gradients and shapes a perfect representation of what would meet him on the other side. It was titled "A New Song" and referenced Psalm 40. Little did its creator and bearer know when she presented it just how many new songs would have to be sung.

She (She, not the quilt bearer) would find out weeks later and will a single tear from her eye, even though she was busy.

So many beautiful folk singers in the player, so few beautiful folk singers in real life.

Dallas, your symbolic orders have survived, but at what cost?

Don't you see you are exactly as those you mock? It's not eradicating, but recognizing the sameness that is the most difficult. We will do violence to ignore the fact.

Those of us after the fact are left with many choices, but violence is not one of them.

Jenny woke up with something new (to her) on the brain. She swung her legs gingerly out from under the duvet and spread her toes on the hardwoods. With a brief detour to press the coffeemaker's "on" button, she settled at the computer. The Idea Copyright Database website was in her bookmarks, her search query submitted within seconds and with nary a touch of the mouse. The annoying "please wait" graphic a throwback to 2007, when the (then called) Apple computer popularized the hypnotic spinner. Government websites were always a solid decade behind the times. "This thing gets slower every damn day," she mumbled under her breath, and stood to retrieve a cup of tasty caffeine.

1004 results matched your request... "Shit," Jenny thought, "not specific enough yet," and sipped her coffee faster in an attempt to facilitate the process. She only had 15 minutes before she had to start getting ready for work. She managed two more keywords and searched within the results. This brought the list to a manageable two pages' worth. She scanned the abstracts and clicked through to a couple. Finally, towards the bottom of the second page she found what she was secretly hoping not to (having long ago stopped worrying about the ironic causality of the process). She mumbled some obscenities and clicked through to the Execution Permits. Already a three-year with two more years left on it, and three more in the queue.

"These," more obscenities, "people," Jenny said loud enough to elicit a groan and some rustling from her lover, still in the bed. "They need this shit like so many trophies on their shelf. What would they talk about at parties? How would they know how to feel about themselves, how to rate their self esteem against all the other similarly-but-not-too-similarly-now dressed people in their precious little peer groups? Oh, I'm sorry: communities. What ever would the world do without their precious little ideas, codified by Big Brother for all to see."

"Oh, for the days when a freakin' domain registration was as far as these nascent mental masturbations need freakin' go, when there were actually TLDs to be had."

"Does class Love extend class Sex or does class Sex extend class Love?"

"It depends. They both inherit from each other."

"How can they inherit from each other, wouldn't that be impossible? Wait. Are they in different includes? So if I do include Love then I can instantiate Sex and it will inherit from Love, but if I do an include Sex then I can instantiate Love and it will inherit from Sex?"

"Something like that. No. Wait."

"Love and Sex both inherit from something else."

"Yes."

"But what?"

"Life?"

"Ooh. But I could swear sometimes Love inherits from Sex and vice versa."

"I think the namespaces are all fucked up. Love is under Life but also under Sex which is also under Life. And Fucking is under all of the above."

"You have to be really careful how you instantiate those classes, man."

"Seriously."

"They should scrap the whole object model and start over."

"Too late to refactor?"

"Well, would you want the job?"

"I would do Sex but only if they moved it into the root namespace."

"What do you want for your birthday grandpa?"

"A pack of cigarettes and a six-pack of Shiner!" he yelled in response to our question. He always yelled. We didn't know if it was because he was deaf or always pissed off.

We called him grandpa because of his age not his relation to us. As far as we knew he had no family. He sat on his porch across the street most nights, and as we were also in the habit, we had come to know him.

We knew little about him. He was hilariously grumpy. He read small philosophical tomes. He smoked incessantly. He drank in the evenings. He stayed up late on the weekends, watching the bar crowds stumble down the street. It was most frequently those nights, arriving home ourselves, that we would take the guitars and go sit on the porch with him, laughing at his gentle obstinance.

We wouldn't have given any thought to his birthday had it not been for the card laying on the table that night. We were infinitely curious as to who had sent the card -- a daughter? An ex-lover? All we knew was it was a woman's handwriting on a homemade card. On the front it said, "You're not dead yet?!?" We didn't assume to pick it up and look at whatever was written inside.

"And a HOOKER!" he added, laughing big guffaws, as he did, quickly turning into coughs that took a full minute to recover from.

Then, "Never let fear prevent you from doing what is right, or what will make you happy." We were all somewhat dumbstruck. Such austereness was never heard from his mouth; even when we asked him about his philosophy books, he would only reply, "It's crap!"

"There will come a day when you have to decide between what you've been taught to be true and what you know to be true. And on that day you will be scared as shit! And on that day, pick your gawwd damm," he slipped into a Texas accent when he said "god damn" and then repeated sans accent, "Pick your god damn balls up off the ground, reattach them to your god damn body, and make the right choice!"

The next afternoon I walked across the street with a carton of Camel lights and a case of beer. He wasn't on the porch, so -- for the first time ever -- I knocked on the door. He didn't answer, so I put the gifts next to his chair and hoped the rainclouds that were threatening wouldn't ruin our offerings before he discovered them.

As I started back across the street a nondescript car pulled up in front of the house and a nondescript woman got out. I was so in shock to see someone else coming to grandpa's house I don't even remember what I asked her.

"Mr. Citizen died in the night," she said, "We are trying to locate a next of kin, but he has no records with the state."

I was a little numb most of the day, and smoked the cigarettes and drank the beer. None of the other guys could believe it either, and that night we raised a glass to "grandpa." The next week a family of four bought the house at auction. They were considerably less keen on our late night porch soirees.