Interlude - Thoughtfulness - Great Blogs

I've finally posted story #406 (post below this one).

Seich has honored me with the Thoughtful Blogger award. I'll work out a post for that in the next days. So stay tuned...

A couple of weeks ago I went through all my comments, and searched in technorati for all the new links, and compiled a list of blogs which I want to stop by and get to know and to incorporate into my links. I wonder how, though, as there are more then 150 urls in that list. But over the last weeks I've noted a few of them, and wanted to mention a few here:

1) My Pseudobackpack
"One Blog. Five Restless Souls. Countless Adventures"

This is a blog by five lovely ladies who just finished grad school and are now traveling the world independently of each other, but using the blog as their meeting point to share with each other and with us. They hope to reunite in some remote island paradise in one year's time, but I am hoping I can convince them to do it Hamburg instead. The concept of the blog grabbed me right away - I think it's turning out very nice.

2) Half Dentist
"Stan Johns' Fictional Blog"

It's a fictional blog about a fictional UK dentist called Stan Johns - probably the name is made up too. The blog follows the adventures of Stan himself, Bessy (his dog), Cookie (his nurse), his friend Felix, his 60ish receptionist George, and the wife Margaret. What the writing lacks in non-fiction it makes up in wit, humor and hilarity. Maybe this is the ghost of Jerome K. Jerome blogging?

3) Madeleine in the Shade

This site has some incredible writing, a style that is intricate, intelligent and compelling. You will find prose and poetry, cultural reviews and some photography - a creative scrapbook. Madeline herself is very mysterious - she has not written much about herself, except that she is in Prague (for the moment) and is a teacher/screenwriter. I suspect she may be a professor of film and have written classic film that we've all seen. Her review of the Czech film "Sedmikrásky" especially impressed me - it went beyond anything I'd ever read about the film (one of my favorites).

4) Lorena's Blogbilingue
"Two languages, two cultures, the door opens. Dos idiomas, dos culturas, la puerta se abre"

This fantastic site features bilingual posts (English and Spanish), short stories with a wonderful fairy-tale like quality about them, poetry, observations, and occasional photography. I haven't explored everything yet but her story about the moon A Story / Un Cuento and her post Faces in the Stones are good starting points.

5) Things Look Like Things
"Blogs and photos as fable, fairytale, fiction and fact."

What can I say about this site except that I'm waiting for God to start commenting here.

Exhausted she lay on the bed, eyes pried wide with fear, her thoughts like waves of tempestuous ocean. She thought what would happen if they caught her. The violin sensed her dread and began to hum the chords of a Brahmsian lullaby, counteracting the turmoil that held her awake. Her eyes flickered shut as she slipped into a troubled dream of what had transpired...

She saw herself scurry up the tree, the violin secure in a small knapsack strapped to her back. There was just enough time to conceal herself in the branches before they came.

"She went this way."
"Follow the tracks -- Over here!"
"There she is! In the tree"
"Bring the ladder."

They'd have her down soon - she knew that, so she removed the violin and started to play, that melody without words, the melody that coaxed primal peace out of the depth of feeling. And it worked. Those who would destroy her talent stood like totem poles that had accidentally touched heaven. Hate, rage and the will to destroy became an altruistic love for one's fellow creatures. She sprang from the tree and vanished quickly into the brush. But their rapture would soon dissolve and the next time they caught her they might be wearing ear plugs.

She awoke on the bed of the motel room, the violin beside her. Men's voices penetrated the glass of the closed window. They had found her, and this time she was cornered. They would smash the violin, she knew. And she would be next. Why did the desire to hate perpetuate itself so savagely? But that's how it was. Not everyone welcomed the affects of her music, but she could at least stand for the principle. She decided to face them. She arose, opened the door and confronted faces hardened by the hours of pursuit and the lust for destruction. The burliest and roughest looking of the men stepped forward and spoke, moisture welling into a tear drop at the corner of one eye. "We'd like an encore," he sniffed.

Story #406

THanks to all who contributed! I'll answer leave my comments later tonight! So many stories to read and soak in! It's the part I like best.

Note: I've been having trouble with my spam filter - lately I've found several non-spams marked as spam. If you've written to me and I haven't answered, it could be I never got the message. I'm checking carefully now, but I can't help feeling that some mails got lost.

Ten year old Max was cleverer than Swatches in a cuckoo clock. He tackled IQ tests in ten minutes flat, obtaining perfect scores with one hand while beating the last level on his Nintendo DS with the other. He was so clever there was really no way to tell how clever he was, because no one had ever seen the likes of it before. So they gave up trying. "I want to invent things," the wunderkind stated one day out of the blue.

"He's clever," they said, "Give him everything he wants." And so they gave him a laboratory. It took him twenty minutes to work out the principle of time travel and prove it with a device that could transcend linear chronology.

"Wow!" everyone exclaimed.

The principle was simple: a perpetual motion energy field influenced by variably poled magnets.

"Aha," everyone said, quite confusedly, "But It's cute how he built it in the form of a 1920's Buick."

From his first journey in the years he brought back two of his future, older selves, one 15, the other 25. He dressed them up like Chicago gangsters to match the car.

"How sweet," everyone commented, "let him do it!"

He also set his future selves to work, each building a new time contraption and journeying off to snatch back further twins from the timeline who in turn began the process all over again.

"Ohhhhh, ahhhhhh," everyone noted with astonishment, "it's exponential."

By now there were hundreds of thousands of Maxes, each a unique instance from some point in time, population doubling and trebling by the moment.

"Hey," everyone noted with sudden consternation, "maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."

But it was too late. Max opened up a dead end milliminute in a skipped chronological beat and transfered every man woman and child that wasn't him smack dab into the middle of it.

"Hey," they all nodded, "this looks very much like a cornfield."

But it was the beginning of the end. The youngest Max hadn't yet discovered girls, and as his elder versions explained them to him, it flustered him so, that he lost all his cleverness. Soon the Maxes were little more than a lonely, lustful mob with no place to go. They floundered around a few decades, lamenting the loss of ladies, then vanished into the timeless stasis of extinction.

Story #405

Carrie and Carl played volleyball at the lake, bopping the ball back and forth. The sun wanted to play too so in a twinkling of an instant blew a diversionary cloud of dust. The couple blinked, not noticing the momentary flash as the sun switched places with the ball. They continued their ritual of fun, slapping the solar disk form hand to hand until it was time for the sun to go down and the two to go home. They stopped, smiling at the incognito sphere, holding it between them.

"How did you know?" the sun asked.

"The tan," Carl answered.

"Yeah," Carrie continued, "our palms have a nice brown tan after playing with you."

"So what happens now?" the sun asked.

"We put you back," Carrie stated matter-of-factly.

"I'm afraid we'll have to," Carl went on, "we have plans tonight, and it rather involved it being dark."

So Carrie and Carl placed the glowing orb back onto the horizon. The night was one they never forgot. The horizon they'd chosen was the one in the East.

Story #404

Thanks for all the stories! I've finally commented them!

I'm off the front page of Blogsofnote.blogspot.com now so traffic has dropped down a bit. It's been a very rewarding time for me, as I've met so many new and interesting bloggers - which in itself has been a great source of inspiration to me. Most of all, so many of you have shared your creativity in producing these fantastic mosaics around the photos I've posted. I hope that you will all keep coming back, in spite of my strange stories. German untranslateables of the day: schräg and skurril.

Let's play another round of Russian roulette with some of the bloggers, artists and musicians I like. Take your click:

[eins] [zwei] [drei] [vier] [fünf] [sechs]

It looked like a simple washing machine but in reality it was a transdimensional anti-phase fabric interpolator. For the less technically inclined, this means you turn it on, add soap, and clean clothes appear out of nowhere. Nowhere in this case is an identical palimpsest of our dimension, with the exception that clothes on that side are constantly disappearing - the way umbrellas do in our dimension. Bob got a shock one day when he reached into the machine to retrieve his new wardrobe. He selected a fresh pair of dress Levi's, but as he pulled on the leg a door on the other side of the machine opened and there was his completely naked parallel twin, pulling on the other leg, refusing to let go.

Story #403

Thanks everyone for all the stories! I've finally commented them and will now concentrate on the story for #404. Anyone still wishing to write their own story to the above photo, please feel welcome to do so!

Balloon: Which came first, the girl or the balloon?

Girl: I came first, and none too soon.

Balloon: You were a wish that I created!

Girl: You are a thing that I inflated!

Balloon: But I can float to outer space!

Girl: With a few quick squiggles I drew your face!

Balloon: I can prove that it was I.

Girl: Whatever you prove will be a lie. But please, let's hear you certify...

Balloon: It was like this: One day, floating along the shore, I spied a boy alone on his towel wishing for a girl. Since wishing for girls is what boys do best and since issuing wishes is my finesse, I hovered to the boy and presented him his complementary wish. Well, of course he wished for you! I dipped into the sea, patted some jellyfish together, added some seaweed for hair, some salt for preservation. And there you were! End of conversation.

Girl: Jellyfish!? Seaweed!? Salt!? My softness and huggability have nothing to do with jelly! And my hair is perfectly the opposite of algae! And last and never least, I am sweet, not salty! Your ravings are nonsense times triple and double - you're but a stick of gum I chewed and blew into a bubble!

Story #402

Note: Today's found photo is a self-portrait by Jenny, an Austrian photographer with galleries at Deviantart.com where you'll find many sensitive images of femininity and an Alice in Wonderland kind of charm. Stop by and tell her what you think of her photography! And thanks Jenny, for your kind permission to repost this lovely photo.

You're invited to post your own spontaneous stories, captions or impressions to this photo here in the comments section. Sunday morning I will post a new photo for stories.

Second Note: The form of this story was inspired by Doug's delightful audio post "The Bath" at Waking Ambrose. I listened to that and had to start rhyming things.

The crack squad of philosophers paused after a violent dispute with the enemy. They'd discussed the meaning of life and war, but no one could agree to die. So they withdrew in a stalemate and waited while their sergeant consulted the magic 8 ball. "Does war have a meaning?" he asked. "Maybe" the 8 ball said. The sergeant tossed the black sphere wide into the air. It landed in a ditch some hundred yards away, exploding in a cloud of inconsequence and colored confetti. The philosopher-soldiers rested cross-legged on the ground, waiting for abstract orders. None came, but the enemy marched forwards now, carrying a banner bearing the large letters and digits: "Error 401"

"Now what does that mean?" one of the soldier-thinkers asked the soldier-thinker next to him.

"Damn! Why did you interrupt me?" the soldier-thinker answered, "I almost had what war meant!"

"It's all making nonsense to me too!"

They watched as the banner bobbed in nearer to their position. The enemy soldiers halted and bowed slightly in a show of respect, then brought out the t-shirts they were selling, complete with date and time of the battle ironed on in red, white and blue, a wonderful souvenir to take home to the family. And that was the revelation they'd waited for: There's no place like home, especially during a war. Now they could all go home and celebrate Independence Day.

Story #401

Happy Fourth of July! And thanks for all the stories you guys posted. I'll comment on them tomorrow. Ready to sleep now.

Photo by Myca Angel

At first I did not know where I was or what had happened. Everything was a dull blur, and the throbbing in my head made it difficult to concentrate. But the feeling faded and my senses began to differentiate themselves. I lay sprawled on the stone floor of a subterranean chamber. The water flowing down one of the walls caused a steady tinkling sound, not deafening, but loud enough to mask the ambient stillness. Last of all I noticed the light, the steady fluorescent glow of the blue rocks forming the walls around the spot I lay. It was a dead light, with none of the warmth of the sun, but nevertheless the temperature was comfortable.

In a flash the events of the last days passed before me: Exploring the cave. The mishap. Tripping and sliding down the incline. Losing my way. The flashlight giving out. Inching along in darkness until the blue illumination appeared in the distance. I might be miles below the Earth's surface, had no idea of how to return.

I heard the sound of bare feet splashing through the puddles where the water had paused on its way to the center of the Earth. I saw the feet, the legs and body of a stunning feminine creature. Her skin caught the glow of the rocks and reflected a sheen of pale emerald. She stood near the streaming water, collecting drops and rivulets upon her hair and shoulders. The splashes clothed her flesh in a costume of glistening wetness. I studied her in my prone position, too weak to rise, though I felt an intense desire to embrace her.

All the while her eyes never met mine. She might have been oblivious to my presence, the way she held her head in shy aversion while continuing to bask in the falling water - a sight I could not turn away from.

She revolved slowly under the gentle cascade, revealing every aspect of her physical form, ended facing me again. The deep blue of her hair, the green shimmer of skin and the pale red of her lips combined into beauty I'd never seen before. She took notice of me as I thought this, and began her approach with measured steps and motions. I wanted to rise to meet her, but still I could not. Soon she knelt beside me, placed her moist hands upon my shoulders, and bent intimately close. I thrilled at feeling her wet hair touch my skin. I felt her tongue exploring my neck, felt how soft her lips were and then the pressure of two sharp fangs as they painlessly slipped through parting skin. As she drew my blood into her mouth, the sensation was one of dizzy ecstasy, that wound the center of my entire awareness. Unable to contain the pleasure I began to moan and turn from side to side, and she continued to drink from me.

I became numb with pleasure. My vision began to cloud. I saw her rise from me, her lips much redder than they had been before. She backed away with those same measured motions that had carried her to me. But this time her eyes were fixed upon mine, in her expression a mixture of sadness and desire. As she backed into the dripping water she inclined her head shyly, invitingly. Then my head began to throb and my senses succumbed to darkness.

Story #400

Four hundred is a special number, and deserved a special photo. This photo appeared by very kind permission of Myca Angel. Myca is a hobby photographer and extremely photogenic young lady from Chile. You may enjoy her photography, and her poetic writing (in Spanish) at two Webpages: [Myca Angel] and [Siko My].

Possibly this story might be taken as a sequel to another story written to a photo by Myca - but it wasn't intentional. This only occurred to me afterward.

Thanks to everyone who contributed their creativity here!

Pleasure cruises, those rendezvous of the young, rich and beautiful were extremely expensive, so there the cruisers all were, dancing on the deck, ladies and men mingling and lingering with the one they had found among the waiting willing. As Gerry and Yvonne meshed into each other's arms it was like two electromagnetic surfaces pressing together. They danced in oblivion of the others, of the ship and the waves it hurdled through. The beat of the new-found partner was all that mattered.

Captain Rogers viewed from above with deep satisfaction. Half of the couples would begin a new time together, a seed sprouting into the fascinated intertwinings that initial attraction enjoyed. For some this would last a lifetime, others, merely a night, after which they'd return to the deck for the next dance. The captain was satisfied with his contribution to society, and proud that he had made the experience affordable. All the feeling of a Caribbean cruise and none of the expense, by building the open air ship's deck right next to the downtown.

Story #399

German word of the day: mittelprächtig (see above). Thanks to everyone who contributed a story/caption!

Now let's play a game of Russian Roulette. Six cool bloggers:

[one], [two], [three], [four], [five], [six]

Take your click...

Between missions Agent Double D'Lemon dined at the Golden Dragon to receive his new instructions. He was the organization's most dedicated employee. The orders, as always, would be passed to him via fortune cookie. The last message "You will climb high mountains" directed him to a breathtaking deployment in the Himalayas, where he single handedly defeated a gang of goat rustlers. "An enemy will succumb to your persuasiveness" had been a coded order to arrest the dangerous Doktor Mabuse, a fictional character best described as an evil German incarnation of Professor Moriarty. That task had proven itself immensely difficult.

Now D'Lemon finished the final bite of nasi goring and awaited his instructions. Waiter Chang lay a plate with the cookie before him. But the Golden Dragon had a new kitchen boy, and he in turn had a sweet tooth. At a sudden impulse the boy had devoured a plateful of cookies meant for the guests, including the one for D'Lemon. Double D'Lemon broke the two halves of the wrong cookie away and read "You will discover happiness with a dark haired stranger." As he left the restaurant he scanned the faces. There she was: dark hair, dark eyes and stunning midnight complexion. He smiled. She winked. They talked. He lingered. They married. And lived happily ever after until the day they died. Mission accomplished.

Afterword: The message in the original fortune cookie, "The Aliens are among us," was a false alarm. The Aliens had been among us, but they took one look at "The Synchronicity of Indeterminacy" and left.

Story #398

Thanks everyone for making this a great round! More stories are welcome, of course! My comments and the next photo will be posted in a few hours...

If you can read Polish, check out this great translation of Story 396 by Joanna "Rotten" Banana

Since the invention of the bubble combustion motor or the Bucomo, as it was affectionately known, oil was no longer needed - except for sensual massages. Cars now ran on dish soap. All the world's problems were solved and even pollution became a fun event. The occasional soap tanker that floundered off the coast led to wonderful spills of bubbly suds, all of it pH neutral. The lemon-flavored beachside air drew crowds eager for fun and cleanliness. Saline bubbles floated back and forth, volleyed by carefree frolickers while bikini-clad beauties, legs sunning in suds, enjoyed the peace of sand and detergent. Often a boyfriend or hubby trotted back from the seashore to his freshly bathed girl, sparkling dishes hugged in his arms.

Story #397

Thanks to everyone who wrote their own story/caption to the above photo. More are welcome. I'll comment them tonight, and post the next photo too.

Special note: Today is Roachz's birthday! So go wish her a happy birthday - and while you're at it, read her wonderful blog!

I'd heard they were a mixed couple, but that didn't bother me. I always try to keep an open mind. I knocked. He opened, and there was that fleshy smile of his - and those eyes that followed wherever one went. It unsettled me. He stood beaming and beaconing me to enter. I did.

"She's in the library," he explained, "reading the Kamasutra."

I followed him into the library. There she waited, a wooden monument next to his random build. Cedar she was - I could tell by the scent - or perhaps just the limbs were of cedar. I suspected a torso of oak, the noblest of woods. As I looked upon her we shared a meaningful glance. Her steady gaze put me at ease, for I did have slight inhibitions about the visit, considering their relationship.

"Did you bring the tools?" he inquired, expecting, perhaps, that I might have forgotten.

"They're in my case," I told him. "But could I ask you to leave the room while I work?" I knew it wasn't ethical in my profession, but I wanted to be alone with her.

"Is that necessary?" He seemed surprised. "After all, I am paying you for your services. I had thought to watch."

"All right," I acquiesced, but his continued presence was a source of unease.

We carried her to the bed. She was heavier than I had imagined, for her petite design.

"I'll remove her clothes for you, if you wish," he offered.

"No," I told him, "I'll continue from here."

I undid the clasps and zippers of the ankle-length dress covering her shapely form. But as I slid the article away I saw how blemished and raw the wood beneath had become. Secretly, I wondered what he had done with her to get her like that - I could tell she had been a careful work of art when first she was made. Wood should never be treated with neglect!

I activated the power sander and set to work. Sawdust sprayed from her midriff as I smoothed the roughened area. When I was finished I ran my palm across the midsection. How warm the wooden skin felt after the sanding! With a chisel I accentuated the navel, then I turned my attention to the remaining anatomy, sanded arms, legs and the artfully carved back. Soon the surfaces were restored, and the grain of her skin seemed to glow in the dim bedroom light.

I studied her intensely to see what work remained. There were still the erogenous areas to complete. The breasts I would have to do by hand - they might be ruined otherwise. So I selected the finest grain of sandpaper I had and began, slowly and steadily, to rub. It would take a few hours, but my hands and arms were firm and I was confident of their endurance. All the while I massaged those oaken orbs our gazes were locked and her smile never changed. And as I finished the delicate work below the waist I could tell she was completely satisfied. Then I was done.

I was sorry that my visit must finally end. But I had attended to the job conscientiously and well. She was a masterpiece to behold, as I was certain she had been the day she was created. We dressed her and returned her to the library.

"You may go now," he said, "I'll call you again if I need you."

As I left I could feel his roving eyes upon me, observing me with the condescension that creatures of flesh reserved for us beings of wood.

Story #396

(Read this story in Polish - translation by Joanna.

Note: Thanks everyone who contributed their own story to the above photo - more are welcome! Just leave a mini-story, caption or other impressions in the comments section. Tuesday night, NY time, I'll post a new found photo for a further set of stories.

P.S. I was tempted to caption this "Behind every good man there stands a woman." :-)

Grego had a dream: mad, daring, passionate love with fifteen ladies at once. He had a plan too: download the latest pre-release fileshared Brad Pitt film and present it to the ladies on his wide-screen plasma TV. The ladies were seated in his makeshift theater, breathless in anticipation. Their eager eyes seemed to press the screen flat onto the wall. As their gorgeous masculine heartthrob appeared, salivary glands performed marvels to please a Pavlov. One could sense the building of erotic tension. Grego saw. Then he switched in the subliminal soundtrack he'd recorded himself in his rather shy and squeaky voice to bombard the feminine psyches with indecent salaciousness. But contrary to Grego's expectations, the ladies dropped into an immediate and impenetrable slumber. Grego, it seems, was an incredible bore, even subliminally, but when the ladies awoke, they recalled with a creepy shudder that the movie had been about him.

Story #395

Thanks to all who contributed a story! I'll comment on them tonight when I'm home from work. The next photo will be posted in a few hours.

P.S. Here's a cool photo-story one of my blogging friends put together using a series of photos I took recently. (I mentioned this already, but those who haven't seen it - it's really funny.)

His heaven was formed entirely out of plastic. He poured the substance from an oil can, molded and patted the molten mass, until it hardened into diffuseness the color of fleece. He stood back and saw that it was good. Then he exhaled shadows and light which flew over the surface in a kaleidoscopic dance, raging and flowing like seas at high tide. When he cast his stare towards the finite walls of his holy realm he found they had merged with infinity. If it were possible to fall he could have done so perpetually, never leaving the universe that contained him. But he did not ponder this. He sat cross-legged in the center of his creativity and waited.

He saw that he was alone and it displeased him. He patterned angels out of the nothingness. They formed before him, aesthetic outlines clothed in a costume of fine alabaster thread softer than silk, if it were possible to touch. The angels wore skates which bore them through the unwalled realm. They moved with a steady grace transcending the physics of motion, like falcons in an endless glide never needing to flex their wings. As they passed his field of vision he admired their details which lingered in an afterimage quickly filled by the next of the heavenly forms.

Behind them fluttered a cloth, transparent red, created by the meeting of shadows and light. With a dexterous flip of the wrist the passing angel let loose of the cloth. It hurdled net-like, closer, upon him, invisible as it wrapped his body. The cloth vanished into his skin just as the heaven's walls had merged with a blurred infinity, or as a single snowflake vanishes in warmth. With each new layer he felt his thoughts wander ever further beyond the steady hand of controlled thought. And soon he drifted into sleep.

This was his last resort since counting sheep had lost its effect.

Story #394

This photo appears by the kind courtesy of a fascinating young visual and photographic artist called Cylixe. You may view her video collages at Youtube, or her photography at Flickr. I think you'll see why I was so fascinated by her art. The black and white photographs are poetry for the eye, which is not to say that her color photos are anything less. Please visit her galleries and tell her what you think. And Thanks to everyone who contributed a comment or story here.

June 23rd: If you've clicked in via blogger's "Blogs of Note" - welcome! And thanks Blogger, for this honor! What a stunning surprise it was to notice all the sudden traffic. This blog has been around since 2004 - but lately my posts have not been so frequent. To get a feel for the idea of spontaneous stories written to found photos, I invite you to try the "Random Story" link under that awful profile photo to your right in the sidebar.

Note: One of my short stories has been translated into Spanish at the E-zine Ediciones Efimeras (# 112). Click the green icon and look for the story entitled "Mecánico"

News Flash Interlude

My best friend Vince, whom you may recall from my "Here's How, Sniff" story has just released a new single entitled "Working A Lot." I'm very happy for him, as this is his first release under his own name. Vince has otherwise received quite a lot of recognition as lead guitarist for the iconic avant garde musician Gary Wilson. I met Vince back in 1984, as the department I worked in moved a few desks down the aisle. Vince took over my old desk, and I found myself going back to pick up my messages - but those conversations got longer and longer as we talked about all the music we had in common, such as The Velvet Underground, Captain Beefheart and other classics I was just discovering. We quickly became friends, and I'm very glad we kept in touch. There are so many great memories hanging out with Vince, for example, the story behind the above photo.

So do check out Vince's new single, with the tracks "Working A Lot" and "Driving Into New York" - you can listen to samples at Vince's myspace page. You'll find the single at the Itunes site (if you have the Itunes software installed) or at Ruckusnetwork.com. P.S. The tunes are cool and funky!

Other news: Tom & Icy have posted a really funny photo story using a set of photos I took recently.

Last and least: I'll post a photo on Sunday for you all to play with next week - I will be gone then until Friday, somewhere in the wilds of Barcelona.

The party was starting to drag. The problem, quite simply, was that none of the boys could dance. The girls all could, sure, but that's always the case, and the girls who never could looked good faking it. Party hosts Bill and Lil danced obligatorily - but it was the female of the two who had taught the left-footed oaf all he knew. Sally, Malli, Molly and Dolly, lovely and single, wheeled the beats with each other, moving in dazzles of rhythmic rotation, pausing for occasional deep kisses that caught the boys' attention as they sat like flesh-eating wallflowers, backs hugging the wall, feet planted in a stew of yearnful frustration.

This described the general scene at Lil's and Bill's parties, but tonight would be different. At midnight Lil brought out her surprise, a secret weapon she had trained intensively in numerous nighttime sessions while Bill worked late at the office. Her secret appeared at the door, looking quite germane and urbane in the hand-tailored, long-sleeved apparel she'd knitted, and as all eyes perceived, it was a real, live octopus twirling it's way into the room. He danced with Sally, Malli, Molly and Dolly, all four at once. Afterwards, when the lights turned low, he disappeared with his partners, silently, discreetly, but one at a time. Everyone was happy - except the boys, whose arms hung limp and motionless by their sides.

Story #393

- I walk along a corridor. Girls are seated on a bench to my right. They are all pretty, clothed in varied tones and cuts of black material. I glance at the faces and forms as I walk by. I join with them mentally, bathing at once in the wild mixture of curiosity and skepticism their eyes betray. I desire them. Each of them. Sometimes the face is partially covered, a dark scarf concealing the mysteries beneath. Lovely banditas. The wall behind is lined with photographs and posters - an occasional face there reminds me of one I saw perhaps thirty seconds ago, but when I return the way I came, I cannot find who it might have been. So I move forwards along the wall of femininity that tempts me with each and every facet of color, form and expression. I attempt to speak to one, than another of the girls. Variations of "Where is this place?" or "Wasn't that you in the photograph I just saw?" Eyes turn upwards to view me. I feel them study me with interest, but the reply is another language whose syllables I cannot decipher, and there is no revelation in the girl's features as to what my questions mean to her. So I continue. Walking. Walking. Walking.

- Describe the corridor.

- It is a corridor without end. Or maybe this is an illusion created by a slight lengthwise convexity of the inner wall, matched by an equal concavity in the outer wall. But if that is so, the walls curve as the surface of the Earth curves, so minutely and negligibly, that it is impossible to perceive. It might be a corridor along a ring of Saturn. But all this remains a vague nuance. It is the girls who command my attention.

- Now I want you to concentrate. To think. This next question is vitally important. Let us say there are four phenomena of the mind. Four categories, antiseptically distinct. There are real perceptions. There are hallucinations. There are daydreams; and finally there are dreams of sleep, perhaps even nightmares. Each of these mind-events leaves indelible traces: memories, the documents we turn over in our hands later and examine front to back for details determined by the intensity of the phenomenon. Look closely at that document you hold now and trace its lineage to the source.

- It's no use. I've tried again and again but I can't. I am terrified that this memory lives, and that I cannot determine its origin. I close my eyes to conjure it forth again. I search for the slightest clue. I dream the memory at night and approach one of the girls to ask if she is an hallucination. But her reply is as meaningless as in the memory.

- Still I feel that we are much nearer now to the truth. But I'm afraid the time is up. We must end the session for today. You will think of these questions, won't you? And we'll continue again next time?

- Yes. I will. We will.

She rose from the plush leather couch that had embraced her form. The therapist watched her. She might be 15. She might be 20, or even 25. Oh to have lain on that couch with her, he thought, instead of this mere exchange of words! He gave a noncommittal glance as she moved towards the door, opened it, and vanished from his sight into the hall. But she did not cease to exist. She scanned the corridor from left to right in search of a vacant place to sit. But each spot on the bench was occupied by a girl she had never seen before. From behind the door the therapist's voice called a name she did not recognize. One of the girls on the bench rose and entered the chamber, leaving a vacant seat behind her.

Story #392

Thanks to everyone who posted a story, despite my having been away so long!

Story Interlude - Thinking

Jess at Just a Touch of Sweetness made my month by nominating me for a Thinking Blogger Award. (No, that's not her picture, but I thought it went well with the idea). If you haven't read Jess you really should. She writes with charm, wit, humor and sexiness that keeps you wanting more. When I read her, I wish it had been Georgia I'd moved to way back when and not Germany. I'd really like to meet her.

So I am going to give my own Thinking Blogger nominations - which requires a lot of thought and I'm not really as good at it as Jess thinks. First off, here are the rules:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
3. Optional: Proudly display the Thinking Blogger Award

My nominations:

1. Princess Haiku's blog is a "literary collage of poetry, prose, photography, classical music, dance and book reviews, written in the tradition of a poetic memoir," as she puts it. The individual collage she presents is the most cultured and has the most depth of any I've seen in the Internet. Intelligently done, a fine balance of video, photography, design and content. Princess Haiku was a shoe-in for this nomination.

2. Colored Clouds has a blog entitled "Creations of Another Nature". Each of her posts is an invitation to reflect, to stop and think about the world around us and feelings we have. The posts are interwoven with her impeccable photography: sight and thought combined. There's a sense of peace and serenity in all of her posts. I always enjoy stopping by there.

3. Ellen at Soulkin is as rare as a speck of amber on a beach of gray sand. There is something divine about the way she writes. The positive outlook and the subtle insights make each post worth its weight (and wait) in gold. I wish she were more prolific, but the quality of her posts makes up for the quantity. If you are ever having a bad day, read a page of her archives and I guarantee you will feel better.

4. Frances Bo Bancess has a wonderful site documenting her thoughts, impressions and vignettes of imagination. Hers was one of the first blogs I ever linked to, and I'm glad I did. It was a long time before I knew her age, and I was surprised when I found out. She is wise far beyond that superficial number.

5. Cooper: Not only is Cooper a Thinking Blogger, she is also our conscience. She sees directly through the bullshit going on in our society and in our world, and with a few clear cut thoughts, chops it into mincemeat. There's greatness at Cooper's, and I predict it's only just begun.

"I've known you all my life," the girl declared into the Sun, a meaningful smile glazing the words. Her sentiments rose like steaming vapor into the air and melted in the sunlight. The Sun was strangely intense in the last minutes before the dusk, but heard, nevertheless.

"And so many have forgotten," the Sun whispered with words that glowed warmth onto her legs, tanning them instantly. There wasn't often time to converse. The massive sphere went about a "daily" routine, spewing rays into infinity, while the globes of the Universal realm orbited and spun perpetually, hoping to catch the emanating breaths with every aspect of their geographical contours.

She continued her adoring smile straight into the glowing body with eyes immune to the intense glare: "I will not forget."

"You are worthy to be cherished," the Sun breathed in response with sizzling licks that felt grand on her bare limbs.

In the early days of human existence the Sun was all-encompassing. It was God and Goddess alike. Before the dawn of language its daily journey was the one expression that all understood. Universal and Archetypal. But now? Demysticized century after century, and finally with the arrival of technology, the Sun felt impotent and eclipsed. There was so much more to compete with - Internet - Playstations - Reality Shows. No one cared about a burning orb crossing the heavens from an Eastern point in the horizon to some obscure destination in the West. The daytime omnipresence no longer overwhelmed, was no longer a part of primal perception.

She read these thoughts in the waning rays cast upon her. "I will change all that," she stated boldly, above her ability to know how stunning her presence would be when she left that hidden alcove of the long-distance bus that carried her. The holy tan of her skin and the Sun-like glow of her disposition would charm those who had forsaken the memory of Ra, of Helios, of Amaterasu, and all the other names of Sol.

"Yes you will, my child," spoke the Sun while the land beneath slipped away into the jurisdiction and influence of the Nocturnal. "You are my offspring, and I give you the night!" And then the Sun was gone. A fading glow lingered on the Western horizon, the Sun still trying to meet her eyes. The bus, her birthplace into instant womanhood, vanished into the night, ever closer to its destination.

Story #391

This photo appears with kind permission from Myca Angel, a fotolog.com user in Chile, with two very [lovely] [pages] of photography accompanied by her passionate texts written in Spanish. Anyone who would like is invited to contribute a spontaneous story inspired by the above image.

Here is another story written to a photo by Myca Angel: Story #400.

The terror began and ended in her arms - not that there was anything horrific about her, or the arms - it was all in his con-voluted, relationship-analyzing, dis-satisfied brain. Out of those thoughts seeped a labyrinthine fog that wound about and kept her from him, while he, in the center of that density, felt hollow inside. Indeed. Something was missing.

"Why do you look so disturbed," she'd asked him, concerned at the expression clouding his face.
"Nothing, it's nothing at all."
"I don't please you."
"Yes, of course you do," but his reassurance was empty, even to himself. Then he'd fix his gaze on a fleeting image of her in a drinking glass, specters of his own imaginings that were the essence of the girl he wanted, the girl that wasn't there.

It hadn't always been that way. Not before that visit to the art museum. They walked in, hand in hand, harmoniously in love, walked past couples on canvas. First the naturalistic styles. How grand it was walking with her! Then the impressionists. But was it really right? The expressionists. He began not to understand her. Then into the next room, where the implode ended. Surrealists! When he saw into her eyes. she never looked that way, and when he folded her in his embrace none of those parts were ever there.

Story #390

Thanks to all who wrote a story and waited so patiently for me to post mine! I'm really lucky to have such creative visitors.