I think there will soon be a breakthrough in the mysterious case of Little Bar of Soap. Apparently there is subliminal evidence hidden at the Barofsoap Website. But I am just a layman at this, so I am waiting for Inspector Poirot's opinion.

Meanwhile, I have studied the photos I downloaded on the night of the Bar of Soap tragedy (March 22/23) and have discovered several suspicious irregularities. These are in the form of highly disturbing images, images of soap orgies, bathers in various stages of soapiness, boys and girls frolicking in sud-filled tubs, etc. I am turning these images over to Inspector Poirot in the hopes that they may shed more light on the set of circumstances surrounding this strange case.

The first one of these photos depicts a blob of soap suds in a hot tub. These suds are in a form that suspiciously matches the physique of Little Bar of Soap, as it has been described in happier days at her blog. Notice the callous, grinning smiles on the faces of the bathers, and try not to shudder. It is very distressing to think of Little Bar of Soap having ended this way.


The second photograph I downloaded on the night of the murder depicts a lather orgie, such as would certainly have made Little Bar of Soap faint, had she lived to witness it. I find it difficult to look at this picture for more than a few seconds. The inhumanity of it is more than I can bear.


The final photograph of soapy abandon is this especially shocking image of boys and girls together in a pool of soap suds. I do not like to think of what happened next for fear of sullying the memory of our beloved Bar of Soap, who is no longer here to tell the Devil to get thee the hell out of me.

Looking at all three of these horrific images, I relive the entire shock of Little Bar of Soap leaving us, whether she left us forcibly or of her own free will. But I trust that each of us, in our own way will finally come to terms with the horror of it, and find some way to go on living. For indeed, life goes on, even without soap.

I have been extremely distraught since learning that A Little Bar of Soap has "died in her home", as posted at her blog. The shock has left me unable to write, which is why I did not post a story today. But it now seems that there is more to this than meets the eye. Could LBOS have been murdered? Is she still alive? Or worse? An international investigation is now underway by Inspector Poirot and a team of Miss Americas and psychics to uncover the details of this horrible crime and apprehend the perpetrator(s). Suspects have already been interrogated at their blogs, and I suppose we will soon learn what has happened. Agatha Christie is a great writer.

I wish to assist Poirot with the investigation and have therefore minutely examined the obituary notice. This examination has uncovered various discrepancies.

If you look closely at the obituary newspaper, you see print in the background. This would obviously be the article on the other side of the page. If you look closer, however, you see that this print is not mirrored as one would expect and that it furthermore spells nothing but gibberish. I have circled what is clearly the letter "C" which is not backwards as it should be.


If this were a legitimate scan of a newspaper, this lettering we see in the background would have to have been reversed, and would have to form recognizable text, which it does not.

An investigation of the newspapers of Topeka, Kansas turns up further discrepancies. There are two newspapers in Topeka. The main one, "The Topeka Capital-Journal", uses block print and not the gothic lettering of the forgery. Here are variations of that newspaper's logo:




The other Topeka newspaper is "The Topeka Metro News" - an independent newspaper which emphasizes the Metro News in its title, and also uses a different lettering.


It goes without saying that Little Bar of Soap would not be caught dead in an Independent Newspaper.

I find no similarity in the "newspaper" of the alleged "obituary" to any existing Topeka, Kansas newspaper. Furthermore there is no "Evangelical Church of Christ" listed in Topeka, Kansas - the church where the supposed services have been held. Nor is there a "Reverend Arthur Schutz" (0 hits in Google).

Taken together, this proves conclusively that the obituary is a cheap fake, as is the memorial service. If these were expensive fakes, someone should demand a refund. All of this gives me the hope that I may one day be able to write again.

To hold you over until the next story, I have made a repost of last Tuesday's story, the Girl at the Blackboard, because there were two really great story contributions and I want everyone to be able see them. The first story is from GPV and the second contribution was anonymous, but wonderfully written, and strangely erotic, as well.

You may read the stories here. Note to anonymous: please tell us who you are. I would love to read more of your writing.

This raises a disharmonic point that I have to clear up. During the course of the blog, I've always reposted the weekend stories, but occasional contributions lay scattered throughout the weekday stories. I don't want these to be lost, so I intend on locating them all and reposting them at Indeterminacies.

The metropolis: a smothering jumble of towering facades, sullied air and noise. There I was, trudging through it when I wondered how pleasant it would be if it were a peaceful Japanese meadow instead. In the honk of a city horn, my entire field of vision blurred and I was strolling through just such a land, but it was considerably more elaborate than I had expected. In the distance loomed a massive volcano, and across the grassy plains loitered a modern Japanese maiden, giggling mysteriously at something. At me? At the mountain? Or some secret? She stopped and fixed her gaze in my direction.

"Why are you dressed in pink?" I asked her.

"My clothes were blue a moment ago." she stated enigmatically, and giggled again.

The sky was blue, but her clothes certainly weren't. I decided not to press the matter, choosing instead to engage a new subject, "Could you tell me about that volcano in the distance?"

But she continued giggling and finally answered not the question I had asked, but the one I was actually thinking of, "I'm not really a Japanese girl, I'm that cloud over there.

I took this as slightly presumptuous. After all, this was my day dream, and not hers. I looked at the cumulus formation drifting high by the mountain's peak, and wondered if the volcano itself might have puffed it into existence. It looked to me like a sage poring over an ancient volume, a dictionary perhaps. But not a young Japanese girl! More giggles.

"April fool!" she exclaimed, causing my thoughts to trip backwards and fall flat, if thoughts are capable of such a thing. "I'm not really that cloud over there, I'm Doug, Doug! Don't you know me? You do recognize me, don't you?"

Then I did recognize him, and that we were standing on a Los Angeles street corner, waiting for the light to change. "What an odd happenstance, meeting you here," I told him," I heard you were down in Guatemala."

"Oh, no. Not anymore. I came back."

Then the light flashed green and he was off before I could ask the most important question. I called urgently into the moving masses, "Did you find Ambrose Bierce!?" but not a single person looked up.

And that's how I met Doug. But when I was home something happened to make me wonder whether I had simply imagined my imaginings. I recalled quite lucidly that I had never in my life been to Los Angeles, nor had I ever seen Doug or spoken with him in person.

Story #349

Afterword: I suppose there are some people who have never heard of Ambrose Bierce or Doug Pascover, who blogs impeccable modern-day versions of the Devil's Dictionary entries. Bierce, author of the original Devil's Dictionary disappeared in Mexico in 1913. It is my opinion that Doug doesn't need to search for Ambrose Bierce. He's already found him. Doug has recently posted a five part account of his travels in Guatemala, a wonderful excursion into the real and the imaginary, which were the inspiration for this story. It's well worth reading/listening to: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]. Also, these and more of Doug's audio stories are collected at dougdroneson.blogspot.com.

Story contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Class, last night I finished grading the animals you all built. But there were mishaps and I think we need to discuss them before I return the assignments. Clara, your animal was huffing and grunting continuously, and ran everywhere licking things! I finally had to lock it in the cellar, where it went on licking - the entire night! Too much reflex, no reflection. Please pay more attention next time! Douglas, your animal began running around in circles. Then it started jumping and tumbling about until finally smashing through the window and thumping into a neighbor's house. We must be extremely cautious about the amount of adrenalin we add to the mix! Mistakes like these make our animal very hard to subdue. Ben and Bela, I'm afraid it was all I could do to keep your animals apart. At first sight they wrapped limbs and rolled here and there, and off into the sunset. Quite a sunset hanging over the road by my house, and they rolled right into it. Next time don't use parts from the same dish. They instinctively try to reunite. Harvey, your animal just lay there. Please try harder next time. The rest of you, I finally had to lock your animals in separate closets to keep them from acting out their lust instincts. Some did, however, manage to burrow out and vanish to parts unknown. Please keep an eye on the newspapers and blogs these weeks for anything unusual.

So, due to the loss of a large portion of our animals and the time we will lose correcting the ones that did not get away, we must double up in teams. I will assign boy-girl project teams at the end of today's session. Also, I'm afraid we will have to omit material due to the time lost. In particular I've decided to dispense with the lecture on how to build sexual organs. We simply do not have the resources to deal with further complications.

For the next session I would like you to add a digestive system to your animals, which will enable them to absorb nourishment, and hence, enjoy an extended life span. After that, we'll work through emotional fine-tuning, and, in the concluding session, learn how to decorate our animals. Despite the glitches up to now, I feel you will soon arrive at the point where you may take your destiny into your own hands and create animals whenever you like.

Story #348

The first time Agnes used sunglasses was at a late-night party. Usually she felt stiff and uneasy when the shades were passed around and slipped over the eyes, but now she felt a strange thrill of attraction. Misgivings dashed aside, she thrust her face into the hug of the ebony arms, pressed the frame into her vision. Her eyes darted excitedly about through dark fields blackly lit with moving blurs and distant voices. She swam in echoes of music, sensed dancing figures around her, glided in and out among the traversers she saw, seeking hands, grasping and tracing her fingers in outlines of the bodily shapes they offered. Her lips slid against lips and her tongue sought the caress of the other tongue. Long it lasted, as she molded herself to form after form in unlit encounter, each inhalation intensifying the nearness. The taste of man and woman alike filled her perceptions. As her lips quivered in exhaustion she tumbled, landing on the soft cushions of a sofa. She removed the glasses, turned her head about to notice the remainder of the party standing stunned, their eyes on her, awestruck, all of them, at her dance with the shadows reflected on the wall.

Story #347

Manuela stood staring at the blackboard. Should she write out her love for him? It was the chance, the perfect chance to proclaim for all and him the feelings in her heart, ready to ignite in wild, cyclonic emotion. She grasped the chalk in her fingers, twirling the dry cylinder to feel the transference of surface. If he were this piece of chalk, I would reduce him to dust with my kiss, to fine, white dust, and immerse myself in him. With one puff I would totter him into a cloud of manly chaos, ready to erupt in a geyser of passion to my cyclone. Her fingernails scratched the chalk, causing snow-like flakes to scatter to the floor. I have so much to tell you, she told him in thoughts, imagining his reaction. About us. All about us. Yes, I will tell you. And how I will tell you!

"Go on," the teacher admonished. "It shouldn't take that long."

"I was just thinking," she said. "I'm not sure of all the words." The tip of the chalk met the blackboard, and she wrote out the first lesson: "- Wie ist das Wetter? - Das Wetter ist schön."

Story #346

Postscript: While I'm at it, I think I will dedicate this story to deutschimmerlernen.blogspot.com.

There were two great reader contributions to this story, so I decided to repost them at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

In a tersely worded announcement, "Coming to a shore near you!" the aliens declared their arrival. It worked better than any advertising slogan known to man. And why not? These were superior beings who knew how to sell a product, e.g. their flyover. Everyone turned out for a look. Despite the rush, no one was trampled in the massive conglomerate of humanity that collected on sea, lake and river shores all over the world - though a few were mistakenly baptized in the glowing water. The alien vessels traced a leisurely levitation along the shores - so slow you could see the beings standing at the portals, shadows waving with stilt-like arms to those down below. Of course the people on ground waved excitedly back. How happy they all were! Until they returned home and saw that their computers and televisions were gone, whisked away into outer space. It was amazing how fast civilization collapsed after that.

Story #345

Thanks to everyone who contributed! It turned into an interesting set of perspectives, though all of the stories had something spectacular, apocolyptic etc. as an underlying theme. All contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com..

There are some who believe our world is nothing more than a huge pumpkin carted around the universe by an even larger girl-like deity. They believe further that the universe itself is an infinite maze of supermarket aisles and shelves, each item on the shelves a world of its own. How could anyone prove that one way or the other? You might enjoy endless night-time hours of pumpkin pie and coffee, philosophizing with your friends about it, and never reach a satisfactory conclusion. And when the pie and coffee ran out, you'd have to go to the supermarket and buy some more. That's what happened to Eugene following an especially intense debate on these matters of deeper magnitude. He wandered off, slightly unbalanced, to arrange for a continuation of caffeinated drinks and bites of pie. When the girl with the pumpkin idled into his path, he bowed humbly before her and offered her his grocery cart.

Story #344

These stories have all been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Also: read Mushroom's story. It's impressive.

Postscript: I've published a new translation of a remarkable Tucholsky text, called "What If..." at the Tucholsky blog.

Sophie's eyes and Troy's eyes never met when they saw each other. Troy looked at Sophie, admired her hair resting on the shoulders, hair of dark auburn he wanted to touch, admired the arch of her back beneath the clothes. But Sophie wasn't looking visibly, though she may have smiled. She may have known, even felt the thoughts of Troy. Troy dreamed, gaze unfocused, wishing wishes of Sophie. Sophie felt his eyes gone elsewhere, drifting to his dream distraction. Then she studied him, admired angular shoulders, hands to grasp her, wistful wonderings of a kiss she herself might borrow from his lips, then wondering more, ending when the bus came to speed her away. Close behind came Troy's to carry him off. Two dreams dispersing like the tide from a shore - until tomorrow.

Story #343

Note from Indeterminacy: Virustwitch has posted an excellent story at Another Galaxy!

Further footnote: This story was written while listening to Nico's "Chelsea Girl" (1968).

Today is International Women's Day! So to all of my visitors who are women, I wish you a very happy time today! You're all invited over to my place, and I'll sit you down on the couch and bring you a fresh cup of cappuccino and some conversation.

My post on the Indeterminacy Girls has been accepted in the Tenth Feminist Carnival How does that happen, you ask? The answer is, I hid my beard. Stop by there and have a look at the great content they've collected.

Now I'd like to share something cool I've come across with you. It's called Flork.com, an offbeat and interesting place to find music, films, movies and people that might be on your wavelength. I signed up there a few days ago and already got a few messages including one from this intriguing lady: Mela. She has just begun a series of podcasts she's entitled Melafestos. Her regular blog is here. All I can say is I think it would be fun to start a revolution with her.

Postscript: This has been a wonderful day with lots of synchronicity in the air, so I thought I would add this. I came across a newborn blog, and I have a feeling it might be worth keeping an eye on! An Altered State of Consciousness

"That ought to be an easy picture to write to," I thought to myself as I pulled the photo out of my directory of stand-bys. It depicted three persons on top of the Empire State Building, a man pointing out at something, and two girls, one staring off to the side - but not at the view, and one staring straight and somewhat impertinently into the camera.

Sunday night came, then Monday, and still no story. Sure, I'd written stuff down, but it was, all of it, lame: some nonsense about spirits of concrete having to leave their building after it had been demolished, then deciding which high-rise to move into next. Who would believe such a thing? I thought of writing a story about how hard it is to write a story, but I remembered from a writing class that this was the one topic authors should avoid. Nobody wants to read stories about how hard it is to write. Besides, I'd done one of those already. So you see the torment of my dilemma.

Monday drew to an end, and still no story. The worries pursued me into my sleep. My ideas formed into lame, limping gremlins parading before me, sticking their tongues out as they passed. Then I was falling, tumbling endlessly through dusty urban air. I looked above and saw faces everywhere peering from the rooftops, pointing and leering as I toppled. When I awoke I knew what had to be done: slip into that photo and find out what those people were really up to.

I merged into the scene from behind the camera, and stood off to one side, so as not to disturb the harmony of the actual photograph. But it went badly. The transition unsteadied me, causing me to slip and bump my head against the tourist telescope. The loud bong attracted her attention. She looked straight at me, smiling at some secret idea. My head turned to her like a magnet and I was so stunned even my thoughts were stuttering.

"Say, you two," she called to her friends, her captivating gaze never leaving me once, "Who says we have to possess a building? Let's possess him."

Story #342

The contributions have all been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com

Original post: Should I try for five stories next week, or switch to three a week? Do the stories turn out better if there's more time between them? Does it make it easier to follow the blog if posts aren't as frequent? Was it better when I was posting a story a day, seven days a week?

Artie went out looking for the snowman he remembered building the night before. He pulled the scarf over his face as the blast of constricting coldness slapped him like dry ice onto a thaw. Never had he known it so cold. As he forced his eyes to turn in the slicing wind he felt his frozen breath adhere to his pupils, blurring his vision. He blinked slowly, holding his eyes shut long enough to unfreeze the oval surfaces. When he opened them again he saw the girl. A girl in the snow. In a bikini.

"What are you doing in that bikini?" he uttered in puzzlement to the smiling beauty in snow.

"I'm not wearing a bikini," she giggled through a grin flexing from slight to wide as if to tease with its warmness - by no means were her lips frozen.

"I don't understand," he spoke in baffled whispers to himself, "A moment ago I was in the house, drinking hot chocolate, looking out at the summer season. But the night before I'd built a snow man..." None of it fit. None of it made sense, and he knew it.

She smiled livelier than before, as if humoring him. His world wobbled. With trembling tongue and shivering lips he parried frozen words at her, "Icicles entwine you! Snowballs untan you! Coldness upon your feet!" but the syllables failed their affect. He didn't know why he'd said it all.

"I love crystallized speech! Give me more of those candies!" she cooed.

His vision clouded again and he saw snowflakes before his eyes. When he came to he perceived that he was stiff, stiff and standing in the snow, arms weighted by his side, eyes fixed on the feminine apparition in the snow.

"You're confused," she told Artie. "Your mind's wandering. You babble on about walking around in that house. And summer. And bikinis. Then you act as if you never saw me before. What's gotten into you? You're a snowman, Artie, and don't forget it. And I'm a snowgirl. Snuggle up to me Artie, and cherish the cold."

Story #341

Check out Will Brady's story for the photo!

Matthew entered the shadow studio, as it was called. He stood in the silent chamber, taking in the apparatus and the convex projection screen. The lights dimmed and he counted the seconds of silence while the hum of transistors and electrified circuits cut in as a steady, subliminal vibration. All the preparations had paid off. Soon he would be able to carry out his plan. His mind drifted through bits and pieces of the interview with the psychologist who'd certified his suitability for the procedure. Not everyone was allowed into the room...

"Tell me again about these voices you've been hearing," the psychologist’s voice stated unemotionally, eyes staring through the wire-rimmed glasses at Matthew.

"---It's when no one else is around. They call to me --- beaconing me --- as if they were around the corner, or in the next room. But when I go in, they've moved on --- and when I hear them again their condescension only builds." Matthew spoke like a man hounded, and the sensors on his fingers and pasted to his head confirmed the emotion.

"And these voices, do they ever tell you to do anything?"

"Yes. Yes, at night. It begins as insinuations, 'That girl next door would like someone to...' Then the demands become more direct, first as questions, 'Why don't you visit her and---' Then commands, 'Go to her now and---' And loud, very loud, sexual things, you understand --- I press my hands to my ears and fall to the floor, but they scream at me, many voices at once, an entire crowd, and won't let up." At this point he buried his face in his hands and began to cry, his frame shaking with emotion. It was a passionate performance and sustained throughout a film may even have sufficed for an Oscar nomination. The psychologist, though no connoisseur of acting, liked what he saw.

"I think I can certify your insanity," he told Matthew. "We shall begin the procedure in half an hour."

Matthew smiled inwardly. Those weeks of intense meditation and practice with his homemade lie-detector had put him in a position to claim anything he wanted, and have it officially approved as truth. Suddenly, light appeared behind the now rippling membrane. It was a weak, colorless glow at first, strengthening finally into a thick hue of green like one might expect in the illuminated brine of a fathomless ocean. It was his soul, his soul that formed out of the green ether as a dense, dark shadow. He reached out to it, to touch it, to embrace it, the ultimate embrace of oneself, which had been his intention all along. Had he been insane, the procedure would have extracted the pathological segments of his being and left them to dissolve into dust, to be vacuumed away and sealed in a specimen tube for scientific reference. But now the complete soul presented itself intact, stood before him in his reach. His hand felt drawn towards the real reflection but as his fingertips grasped, the soul turned away. His soul, too, had had intentions. It wanted out, out of dull, normal Matthew. A moment later it vanished entirely, and Matthew stood alone, a mere shell of his former self.

Story #340

Important announcement: The new blog discussed in the comments of the previous post has been launched with a premier story by Viruswitch: anothergalaxy.blogspot.com.

All story contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

The Indeterminacy Girls

Introduction
Women fascinate me. I love women. I love their smiles, their hair, their eyes, the soft parts of the neck that seem to invite a kiss, the curves of their shoulders, and there it only begins. I'm in love with the feminine imagery I find randomly all over the Internet. I have wondered whether this makes me a pervert or a lecher. But I feel that I respect women, and I think I have always been caring towards women. I hope that this shows in the stories I write to the pictures and in my attitude towards these characters I've pulled out of the two-dimensional aesthetic. My esteem for women is not just for the physical, but for the playfully smart glances, for the charming wit that can make a conversation so stimulating and pleasant, for her refreshing intelligence. Women fascinate me.

It is not easy in life for a gender that is dominated in so many fields by the male. This domination is not fair nor is it right or just. I have been outraged over the fate of women in areas where order has broken down, or over the sexual exploitation of women tricked, beaten or sold into submission. It is such a tragic destruction of human potential. Perhaps that is why, in many of my stories, I turn the tables. It is the woman who is the predator and the man who is the victim.

Some of my stories have tried to explore the psychology of the female or ventured into the realm of female sexuality. Others have dived into the concepts of beauty and fashion. Still others have speculated what it would be like if the tables were turned, if women were in charge. Again and again I've written homages to the natural beauty of the women whose images I've found. Perhaps these apply as homages to womanhood itself. Or perhaps they are a mental pursuit of the mother archetype, as Herman Hesse's character Goldmund undertook a carnal pursuit.

I have gone through my stories and tried to make a selection relating to various aspects of femininity and/or masculinity in regard to women. It has become a long list, and sometimes stories could easily fit into many categories. No one, I know, will have time or inclination to follow all of these links. Here they are, just the same, each topic with a short synopsis.


The Psychology of Women
The thoughts and feelings of the women I've been close too were often a mystery to me. But I like the mysterious. I love delving into it, piecing the clues together, and then starting over again with the new mysteries that arise out of the discoveries. So I have as much trouble understanding women as anyone. The stories I selected here are speculatory in that sense. For example, what are the emotions that tear a woman apart? What happens when she is alone or out on the prowl or clowning with a friend? What goes on in her mind when she's deciding which boy to go out with, or how does a guy know whether or not she likes him? I don't know the answer to any of these questions. I'm only guessing. It's easy to make up vignettes to a photo - if it reads well, it is right, no matter how crazy or surreal. But to understand the woman you are with at any given time, is still a mystery to me, albeit a beautiful one. Maybe it all boils down to the wonderful song "Girls Just Want to Have Fun."


Tables Turned
As I mentioned, females suffer much under the hand of male domination. The outrages go on: the struggles of a single mother trying to work and raise a child at the same time, the trafficking of women, the physical abuse by a violent partner, women raped and forced to bear the child, and rape period. There's very much to be upset about. I feel sometimes that I have mentally abandoned my own gender. I feel closer to women. I like them better. For example, I found myself trusting women physicians more than their male colleagues. I respect and admire their achievement in making it in a male-dominated field. When I had that old Ford that kept breaking down I brought it to a woman who ran her own garage after her husband had a stroke and could no longer continue. She was so engaged for her customers, she was so bright and wonderful to talk to, but she eventually had to close the garage because it was so difficult to find mechanics willing to work for a woman. These things get to me.

In some of my stories I've explored situations in which the tables were turned, in which men have fallen victim to women. Many of my male characters have met with horrid fates, and often they are not undeserving of these. One of my more extreme stories involved a duo of man-eaters. Once I imagined a situation in which the female sex has overturned male domination. Another shows how two girls solved the problem of their love triangle. We find out what a woman might do after breaking up with her boyfriend. Two other stories, but there are certainly more, show why it is neither advisable nor clever, to conquer a woman against her will. It might also be that I dislike the majority of my own gender, this writing of stories being my way of working out the aggression.


Standards of Beauty
Everyone has their own concept of beauty, their standard of aesthetic. For me it is a pleasure to the eyes to see a woman with grace and bearing who presents herself naturally. A woman who can smile, show sincerity in her eyes and be herself is always beautiful. Consequently, I don't think much of cosmetic surgery. I have no fondness for extremes in make-up or the arbitrariness of fashion. Some of the stories I've written have satirized standards of beauty. One of my personal favorites shows to what lengths a woman might go to feel beautiful. Another set of stories is involved with having the right face or legs. Two of my stories have solved the age old problem of acne and what to wear. I call these stories satires because they draw some quite exaggerated conclusions.


Sexuality
I'm all for female sexuality. I think there should be more of it. It's an insidious crime how women in some cultures are held in sexual ignorance, taught to believe their pleasures and sensations are a sin, robbed of the decisions that must be theirs to make. Nevertheless, for a man to write about female sexuality, the feelings of sexual awakening, a woman's attraction to the male or the female or herself, is a difficult thing to do. Maybe it can't be done. But I've tried. Five of my attempts might be the following: a story in which girls satisfy their curiosity about boys, a girl discovering her own sensuousness, a girl whose sensuousness is discovered by others and taught to her, the much lauded first time, and a narrative that might be seen as a confrontation with sexual inhibitions. No one, man or woman, should be ashamed of the natural feelings pertaining to one's own body. In fact, one should never be ashamed of feelings. It's what we make of the feelings that counts.


Role Reversal
There's a little known, short-lived German science fiction series called "Raumpatrouille Orion" (Space Patrol Orion) from 1965 - a cool insider's tip today. One of the episodes has Commander McLane journeying to Earth's counterpart on the other side of the sun, a planet where women wield all the power and men are delegated the menial tasks of gardening or science, which suit them best. Trouble is, the women have commanded their scientists to heat up up the sun to provide a more pleasant climate for the gardens to thrive, with the side effect of destroying Earth. McLane is at his wit's end using logic and reason to convince the women to call it off, while they just give him the runaround. It's an entertaining episode and tells much about which gender roles were prominent in 1960's patriarchal Germany.

Several of my stories deal with a reversal of feminine and masculine roles in a similar satirical vein, though the women do not come away as badly as the exaggerated feminists of that TV episode. One story shows how the selection of a suitable mate might be solved if societal norms on women were less restrictive. Another tale explores a woman's choices when she has complete and total control over two men. A future in which men are extinct is a further variation, and two final stories use biblical motifs to explore the idea of a female Goddess of the Universe and a (never tried?) twist to the Adam and Eve theme. I do not think the message of my stories is that women would do things better if they were in charge, but that they would do them differently, and at least no worse than the male has done. Perhaps these stories can also serve to help us reflect over the masculine norms we live with.


Rape
The rape of a woman is a very serious crime and an extremely sensitive subject for a man to talk about, or address in stories. It was not an easy theme for me to write about and all the while I had misgivings about it. I see, in fact, two different concepts: actual physical rape and the fantasy of rape. Rape fantasies, I believe, exist in both sexes to a smaller or greater extent. On the one hand, I think actual rape is an abhorrent crime. On the other hand, I have had, and I think every male has, fantasies of sexual abandon in which he takes a woman he wants by force. I have heard the vehemently stated idea that every man is a potential rapist. The statement is just as impossible to prove as it is to disprove. Because of these fantasies I often wondered about myself, how it would be in a concrete situation where rape was possible - until I was in such a situation and found that I could not do it. I wanted the woman, yes, but I wanted her to want me, too. And that could not be taken by force. The actual act would have been as cheapening and degrading to me morally, as it would have been to her emotionally.

Still, I have encountered in women these fantasies to be taken. Long ago I discussed with a girlfriend what her desires might be, and the spontaneous answer she shot back was, "rape me." As I approached her I saw fear in her face and she stated, "No, I didn't mean it" in a voice betraying a horror that it might have been too late to say no. Years later I had a frank discussion with another woman who told me she had erotic fantasies of being raped, but would be terrified of the real thing.

So I believe these fantasies exist, but that most of us know how to separate fantasy from reality. And the existence of these fantasies in a woman does not weaken the crime that such an act represents. All these thoughts were in my mind as I wrote the following stories. Two of the stories might be seen to demonstrate how titillating these fantasies might be, about a girl at a party and a girl in a bath tub. A final story deals with the real concept, suggesting a fitting retribution for the crime of rape.


Lolita stories
An exploration of femininity must also address the concept of Lolita. I have two such stories. The first of these was meant as an homage to, and perhaps slight continuation of, Nabokov's Lolita, a book which I read and marvelled at for the poetic use of language. That book has been misunderstood as a glorification of paedophilia. I think it is nothing of the kind. The original Humbert Humbert is not to be envied, and neither are the ones I invented.


Homages
As I stated above, women fascinate me. I'm in love with their minds, bodies, hearts and souls. This goes through my mind constantly when I am thinking of stories to write, and makes it no easy task, now, to select three representative homages. The first I share is to a photo showing beauty, pure and natural. The woman in the second picture is more hinted at than seen - that which we cannot see but must fill out with our remaining senses and imagination is often the more erotic. And the final photo is of my own muse, the one who married me, the one I was fortunate enough to marry.


The Male Perspective
Most of the above stories have been presented from the point of view of the feminine characters. A few of my stories have, however, focussed on men. One shows how difficult we men have it, coping with the opposite sex. There's a solution to sex addiction which might not appeal to everyone. Or we see how easy it might be if men had machines to produce their sexual partners. Still another story suggests that deciding between two women is not as easy as it may seem. In a satirical tale we see what might happen if there were ever a man who completely understood women.


Conclusion
I like women, and they are the easiest inspiration for me. A rate of seven stories a week in the beginning, and later five a week, is another explanation as to why pretty, young women are so often represented in my selection of photographs. But I have a trio of stories, a trilogy that may redeem myself among my own sex. In these I show that even women must sometimes pay a price for excesses: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3. After all, if one gender is to get along with the other, there must be some give and take.

----------

Note from Indeterminacy: Did anyone read this far? Amazing. That has got to be the longest post I've ever had here. I read at Alice's blog about this bi-monthly "Carnival of Feminists" thing going on. If Alice links it, that's good enough for me. They collect the best current feminist posts, and I was curious whether my stories might interest them, so for that reason, and just to do something different for a change, I decided to put together a serious, non-story post. If anyone thinks this (or some other post) should be nominated for the next Carnival, just go here.

My warm thanks go to Viruswitch for her valuable advice and feedback on how to prepare this article. You didn't think a guy could do this by himself?

Most of us have read of the tribes of primitive peoples who were terrified to allow their photography because they feared it signified the capture of their soul. They were right, but only if a special camera were involved. Cameras such equipped are rare, and only the combined magic of a morally lapsing Buddhist monk working with an Initiate in the ways of Gypsy mysticism and a fallen Hindu Brahman could bring together the waves of thought necessary to bless a camera in this way. What favors Ariel applied to garner such a camera is not known. But she wandered the streets, towns and nature in search of souls to collect. When she saw one, a smile and her pleasant please sufficed for permission to capture the light she saw in the eyes of her subject, though they knew not what they granted. Like most collectors, she collected and collected, with never an intention of surrendering one of her finds or ever of stopping. But because Ariel had taste and an eye for beauty, the souls she amassed lived quite happily together in their own private heaven.

Story #339

Thank you to Ariel for contributing today's photo.

Lucy didn't think there would be any harm in signing up as part of the test audience for the new interactive cable system, and perhaps there wasn't. The cute boys in the beach scene popped out of the television and joined her on the couch, including her in their conversation, and - she was not entirely certain of this - the one casting furtive glances at her legs whenever she set eyes on the other. But the boys sat back and became politely silent as the infomercial sprang into the center of the room. It was a pretty witch who turned to Lucy smiling and exuding spells from her fingertips. She spoke in a steady, entrancing voice compelling Lucy to think of Ajax Detergent and how magically it cleansed, the idea billowing into her brain like an expanding soap bubble. She was ready to stand up and dash to the supermarket to buy a year's supply of Ajax when suddenly, without warning, the boys, the witch, and the entire program were preempted by a football game stumbling into the room.

Story #338

Oh yes, the announcement about "Something else is going to happen Monday that could cause me to lose the majority of my readership. So enjoy this quiet weekend before the storm..." The announcement is that I've proven that I can drone on with the best of them, even breaking the five minute barrier! (Yes it's my voice, and yes it's a true story). P.S.: This is a photo contribution from Viruswitch!

All your stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Fang Jing posed for pictures on the ice. But the photos were an anti-climax. She appeared mild-mannered and completely harmless. Seconds ago she had been a dynamic fury of action, soaring through the air, battling the water-breathing dinosaur hydras from outer space that had come to Earth to make everything wet. It was an opportunity Fang Jing had waited for all her life. She swallowed an ice cube to activate her superpowers, and - in the twinkling of a snowflake - was transformed into Winter Woman! She bombarded the massive beasts with snowballs formed out of thin air. She breathed sub-zero breaths at them, shot icicles clear through their thick hide. Finally the creatures began to slow down, tremble and succumb. They slipped into the river and Fang Jing froze them over with ice. Once again humanity had been saved from a fate worse than self-annihilation. All in a day's work for Winter Woman!

Story #337

A warm thank you to "Forgetful Anita" - the Chinese blogger brave enough to loan me some of her photos to play with. Anita knows English and German well, and posts (in part) Chinese translations of her favorite poems in these languages. She also posts the original text, so anyone knowing English or German and no Chinese, can still find enjoyment there. Unfortunately, she cannot read any of our blogspot blogs, as these are currently blocked in China.

Attention friends of Dushan and Elli of shtikl.com and soulkin.com. The sites are temporarily offline due to a move to a new provider. Also Elli and Dushan will be on vacation for a couple of weeks in Tunisia! Have a safe and pleasant journey!!

The entire art class brushed in their naive paintings of a forest. When they had completed the task the instructor clapped his hands together and stood by as his students vanished into their newly created worlds. It was the only way to teach them art appreciation. Let them live in their simple perspectives and their scenes without detail or depth. Let them spend a fantasy lifetime there and suffer firsthand the banalities they created. Let them return better artists, more thoughtful of affect, more appreciative of nuance, more feeling for form and composition. It worked for everyone. Except Sven. He had taken care to paint a tractor into his canvas. This he drove to the nearest town and lived the high life until it was time to return. The rest of the class went on to jobs as illustrators, portrait painters, decorative designers, and what not. But no one would take Sven. He went on to a life of poverty and non-appreciation and relative obscurity, though he was later recognized as the most brilliant artist of the era.

Story #336

Lillith and Lioma had the glow. They glowed in curious red and turquoise tints. It was tragic. They had gotten too close to reality. Not the filtered impressions one drinks in through the senses, but the absolute actual thing, direct injection into the brain. Once that happened they were changed. They weren't little girls anymore. They had grown up, inheriting a cosmic sense of humor. Just now someone had told them it was a sin to glow the colors they glowed. It violated the absolute morality layed down by ultimate holy law. That's when they lost themselves in laughter. They could see the absolute morality, and it looked nothing like they'd been told.

Story #335

It was Valentine's Day. I brought down the wall-bed and there she was.

"Who are you?" I asked the girl prone on her back wearing a mini skirt and casual black boots.

"I am the ghost of girlfriends past," she moaned at me the way a ghost would.

"How delightful to see you," I told her, showing her my undivided interest - as I was indeed delighted to see her - or all of them, even if the relationships hadn't lasted all that long. I began to recognize Miriam's eyes, Simone's thighs and Katherine's arm resting demurely below the tautly covered breasts that I knew were Tricia's and Tina's respectively.

She offered me Vickie's hand and I grasped it in mine. Instantly we were out on the town, on a conglomerate of first dates. But it went terribly wrong in a faux pas flurry of slurped soup and stepped on feet and overstepped bounds followed by slaps to my face, and the odd kick below the belt. I returned limping to my room, having lost them all in one night. There on the bed lay another girl.

"I am the spirit of girlfriends present," she stated less eerily, because she wasn't dead.

I recognized all three of my current flirts in one body, which was kind of a touchy situation, as they weren't supposed to know about each other. She sprang up and glared at me with Georgia's fiery eyes and clawed at me with Lina's razor-like fingernails and spat at me with Vera's venomous mouth. It was all I could do to toss the three of them back onto the bed and close it into the wall before she could lunge at me again. She would have scratched my eyes out, I'm sure, and swallowed them for breakfast.

After a long quiet I deemed it safe to open the bed again. "I am the imagination of girlfriends yet to be," announced the dark-haired beauty, her suggestive voice melting the icy fear of the previous visitation. I looked into her eyes and saw a collage of girls I'd had my eye on or stalked. She stared a beaconing gaze at me, then curled up on the bed, as if awaiting my advance. But she began to snigger as I approached, then to laugh outright, louder and fiercer. The love in her eyes turned to wicked mirth the nearer I came, and the laugh full of wrath. I pounced onto the bed to claim her kiss but found my mouth full of chicken feathers spurting from the mattress. After my coughing settled I noticed she was gone, and a note left on the pillow: "I'm leaving you, retroactively."

But the day was still young. I went to the store to buy a new set of Valentine cards.

Story #334

Who needs reality, when there's the beauty and creativity and fascination and imagination and savvy and sensuousness of all these lovely blogging ladies I list below. Believe me, I wanted to write all of you into a story as the ultimate archetypal companion, friend, and lover but even some fantasies can never be put into words, which is why I decided on an anti-Valentine's story instead. But without further ado...

A collective hug and kiss and Happy Valentine's Day to all my favorite femmes:

A Woman, Abby Taylor, Actonbell, Alice, Ally, Ana-ng, Angel, Annush, April, Atomicvelvetsigh, Barbara Shaurette, Bio, Carrie, Carrie, Cheesecakeerian, claudBLOG, Colette, Cori, Courtney, Deb, Diamonelle, Encandescente, Enemy of the Republic, Erika & Gabrielle, Frances Bo Bancess, Fring, G.D., Gabriela, Geekgirl, Girl with a Suitcase, GirlieLezz, Helen, Icy, Illyria, Ingrid / Miranda / Mandy / Spork / Wootton (five girls in one), Jamie Dawn, Jane, Jem Lambert, Jennifer, Jess, Jessie, Johanna, Ju, Kathryn, Kristina, Kvitsh, Laura Carter, Lauren, Little Bar of Soap, LiVEwiRe, Livinia, Liz, Lucy, M.P., Malapert Minx, mD, Milamber, Miss Brightside, Miss Jay, Monika, Mrs. Weirsdo, Nyanda, Ophelia Rallek-Porta, Ostrich, Patricia Jenkins, Peppermint Patty, Pia, Princess Dominique, Rhoda, Riss, River, Roachz, Saheli, Saksak Puso, Samai, Sar, Sarsparilla, SeizeTheNite, Sk8-rn, Soulkin, Still Life, Sylphidine, The Gray One, Tiffany, Tina Dupuy, TwistedNoggin, Virus Witch, Young at Heart in San Diego, Zeitghost and Zielonooka.

Even if some of you are married or taken or lesbian, and even if one of you is married to me!

And thank you to my past love, Girl with a Suitcase, whose recent reappearance reminded me of today's photo...

As the darkness reached its midnight crescendo she sauntered over to him, her wants, her needs driving her. He'd stood there in a giddy daze following the creative exertion, spiritually spent, without a single thought of her, but her shuffling feet alerted him, drew him to awareness after the long weeks of tinkering. The sight of her brought memory. He drew the loaded stapler from his pocket and turned to meet her looking up at him. Amazing how inductive she was, that she knew to come to him. Fortunately it was dark and no one would see. What an odd sight to explain, if anyone did happen to catch a glimpse. The stapler neared her lips and she felt - if she could be assumed to feel anything - a metallic ecstasy. That girl he'd made out of paper clips and plasticine had an insatiable appetite for staples.

Story #333

The story contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Thanks for an entertaining weekend!

In 1869 Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) published something that might be slapped onto the face of blogging. It is a passage from "Innocents Abroad" describing the sea voyage to Europe on the good ship Quaker City:

After prayers the Synagogue shortly took the semblance of a writing school. The like of that picture was never seen in a ship before. Behind the long dining tables on either side of the saloon, and scattered from one end to the other of the latter, some twenty or thirty gentlemen and ladies sat them down under the swaying lamps and for two or three hours wrote diligently in their journals. Alas! that journals so voluminously begun should come to so lame and impotent a conclusion as most of them did! I doubt if there is a single pilgrim of all that host but can show a hundred fair pages of journal concerning the first twenty days' voyaging in the Quaker City, and I am morally certain that not ten of the party can show twenty pages of journal for the succeeding twenty thousand miles of voyaging! At certain periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest. But if he only lives twenty-one days, he will find out that only those rare natures that are made up of pluck, endurance, devotion to duty for duty's sake, and invincible determination may hope to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal and not sustain a shameful defeat.

One of our favorite youths, Jack, a splendid young fellow with a head full of good sense, and a pair of legs that were a wonder to look upon in the way of length and straightness and slimness, used to report progress every morning in the most glowing and spirited way, and say:

"Oh, I'm coming along bully!" (he was a little given to slang in his happier moods.) "I wrote ten pages in my journal last night--and you know I wrote nine the night before and twelve the night before that. Why, it's only fun!"

"What do you find to put in it, Jack?"

"Oh, everything. Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino games I beat and horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon Sundays (because that'll tell at home, you know); and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don't ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always--wonder what is the reason of that?--and how many lies Moult has told--Oh, every thing! I've got everything down. My father told me to keep that journal. Father wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it when I get it done."

"No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars--when you get it done."

"Do you?--no, but do you think it will, though?

"Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars--when you get it done. May be more."

"Well, I about half think so, myself. It ain't no slouch of a journal."

But it shortly became a most lamentable "slouch of a journal." One night in Paris, after a hard day's toil in sightseeing, I said:

"Now I'll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow."

His countenance lost its fire. He said:

"Well, no, you needn't mind. I think I won't run that journal anymore. It is awful tedious. Do you know--I reckon I'm as much as four thousand pages behind hand. I haven't got any France in it at all. First I thought I'd leave France out and start fresh. But that wouldn't do, would it? The governor would say, 'Hello, here--didn't see anything in France?' That cat wouldn't fight, you know. First I thought I'd copy France out of the guide-book, like old Badger in the for'rard cabin, who's writing a book, but there's more than three hundred pages of it. Oh, I don't think a journal's any use--do you? They're only a bother, ain't they?"

"Yes, a journal that is incomplete isn't of much use, but a journal properly kept is worth a thousand dollars--when you've got it done."

"A thousand!--well, I should think so. I wouldn't finish it for a million."

His experience was only the experience of the majority of that industrious night school in the cabin. If you wish to inflict a heartless and malignant punishment upon a young person, pledge him to keep a journal a year.

------------

No, I'm not sick of blogging, even though I've only posted sporadically of late. Work, family and my voluntary Tucholsky translation project have thrown me out of the storywriting equlibrium. I have hopes that the next week will be better. Thank you all for bearing with me. I really do hate to disappoint someone coming here expecting a story and finding none.

I worked on another Tucholsky translation which I'll post next week, and I posted a finished translation at the Tucholsky blog, so I guess I can send you there in lieu of a story here.

Caledonia was one of those girls who made strong demands on her lovers. They had to look nerdy when they pointed those two staring eyes at her. Her body always made eyes stare. She liked their heads to be decorated with a baseball cap, and the back of the neck shaven just the day before, so she could run her fingertips against the prickly fuzz that sprouted there. They must have a timid disposition, for it was her habit to sneak up on them and pounce, usually while their thoughts wandered - she loved the startled reaction. They must be all thumbs and thin-lipped because, honestly, what girl could resist the feel of thumbs all over her? Or thin lips exploring her? The moment she spotted a specimen, the perfection of all her desires, she knew. She held her fingers in the shape of a heart and peered through at him, her way of symbolically declaring him fair game. But it wouldn't last long. After the first few hours the sterility of perfection always began to bore her.

Story #332

Thanks for all the stories you guys/gals wrote. They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. This story is also an answer to River's tag with the perfect lover meme. The first five people who read this are hereby tagged (I've tagged three myself - Bar of Soap, The Devil, and Lula):

1. Come up with 8 different points of my perfect lover.
2. Mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again.

Guess what! The Alien Guy is back again. You have to check this out:

thealienguy.blogspot.com

David Raphael Israel has a story photo flash fiction post up today. I think you all will enjoy it. I've contributed a story, as well.

Roger cruised down Route 66 in his 1967 T-Bird. The motor was music of driving days gone by. The wind shaved past him. The sun on the open road seduced him into ever higher speeds. The landscape whizzed by in a frenzied blur. He was free. But something looked wrong: a blockade in the road ahead. As this loomed larger he saw it was a couple prone on the highway, smiling stupidly as he approached. How dare they!? No way would he stop. He accelerated right into them. No one would ever know he'd done it. Seconds later he was too far ahead on the deserted stretch of road to look back. There hadn't even been a bump. "Oh, wow," he thought to himself, marveling at the surreality of it. Then he saw it again, the blockade that resolved itself into the boy and girl directly before his approaching vehicle. All the while they grinned, as if inviting him to rocket into them. He tried to force the gas pedal through the floor, to get that one spurt of acceleration to bring him over the edge - into what? Now they appeared on every horizon the instant he hurdled into them. He rammed them again and again crazy with the thought of ultimate triumph, sending them into a death from which they could not return. But they always returned. Smiling at him. Laughing. The adrenalin soaked into his psyche until the sweat and the tension caused him to tremble. Then the light flashed "Game Over" and everything stopped.

.
.
.

He turned to leave the booth, then walked enthusiastically to the owner of the establishment.

"That was so cool, especially how those ghosts kept popping up. Really cool."

The proprietor looked at him strangely. "Ghosts? There are no ghosts. You just drive."

Story #331

Thanks to all who contributed! Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies. The next story here will be Wednesday. (This story is no author's cut. I went and reposted the additional ending).

Lila went to visit the friend she made in the pub. He was extremely poor and lived in a garbage can. "Is there room for two of us in there," she asked through the open lid. "Oh yes," the answer, "please enter my world." So she entered the ugly underbelly of existence, and found herself in a loft, vastness defined by distant walls all lined with fascinating colors of artwork. They seated themselves in plush arm chairs that nearly engulfed them, and smiled confidently at each other, enjoying the silent moments when nothing had to be said, only the exchange of glances proclaiming that they'd each found the one they were looking for. She was distracted for a moment as the lid of the container opened, and a sack of garbage emptied into the abode. She saw rotten vegetables and other refuse streaming towards her, but as it fell a transformation occurred. Ivory carvings and crystal vases landed on the tables all around, diamonds and emeralds, shining impeccably, pattered onto the floor. Paintings by a master's hand assumed positions in gaps on the wall. "My world is beautiful," he told her, winking slightly. She left him late into the night, wondering just how many hours it had been in his company, but she couldn't work it out. The next day she returned to see him again, to move in with him, as she knew it must be. But only bare walls greeted her expectant gaze into the dwellings. It was Wednesday. Garbage day.

Story #330

Sorry folks, I didn't get to write a story today. But I've posted a new translation at the Tucholsky blog: kurttucholsky.blogspot.com/2006/01/das-publikum.html

Contrary to popular belief the origins of chess are not Indian, Persian or Chinese. The game was devised on the planet Chaos-IV as a means for the two co-rulers to govern the unmanageable planet. After centuries of fierce and brutal warfare between factions of rigid traditionalism and adherents to radical unorthodoxy, wiser councils in the planet's population prevailed with a shrewd concept to bring both sides together, save the planet, and encourage the spirit of competition. The heads of state, the two ablest minds the respective factions had to offer, would play a game of chess to ascertain ruling decision. If the traditionalist won, the decision would be his. If the unorthodox ruler achieved checkmate, he would make the decision. In the event of a stalemate, a synthesis of both points-of-view established policy. This method provided the balance necessary for the planet to not only survive, but held the drawbacks of each approach in check. In practice it proved to have one limitation. Chess games could be excruciatingly long. If an urgent situation required snap judgment the two venerable leaders dispensed with the chess and flipped a coin.

Story #329

All the stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. And good luck to Viruswitch who's playing against a real grand master of chess in a few days.

Instead of a story, I thought it would be fun to play a little game. Below I've copied in a quotation from Sherlock Holmes in "The Final Problem" (from "Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes" (1893) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle). In it is hidden what I think is the most brilliant advice for good writing that I've come across. But I'm not sure how obvious it is. Please leave a comment telling me what you see, and I'll reveal my solution Friday.

The quotation:

"Oh yes, it is most necessary. Then these are your instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you are now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe. Now listen! You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night. In the morning you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the first nor the second which may present itself. Into this hansom you will jump, and you will drive to the Strand end of the Lowther Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon a slip of paper, with a request that he will not throw it away. Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab stops, dash through the Arcade, timing yourself to reach the other side at a quarter-past nine. You will find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red. Into this you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time for the Continental express."


The Solution (posted Friday):

It's hard for me to write the solution when so many of you wrote it in the comments much better than I was going to. You've added insights that I never thought of. I assumed this would be so obtuse that everyone would write something different, projecting their own ideas of writing onto the quotation. But it turned out to be just plain elemantary, a child's play of induction.

It's just like Mrs. Weirsdo wrote. When writing something, and if you wish it to be original, never take the first idea, nor the second. The third may be safe. So much has been written. Maybe everything has been written. And what do people write? The first thing that comes to mind. In order to stand out, you must do more. This was merely an introspection gained by writing the weekend stories. I find those harder to write, because the picture has been determined, and can't be changed, whereas during the week I can just scan through photos until one catches my eye with an instant inspiration.

There's also much to be said for spontaneous writing and spontaneous inspirations. But they have been rare for me. There've only been a handful of photos for which I sat down, saw them, and immediately wrote out the entire story. The other times, I sent away idea after idea until one arrived that I thought was novel. Interesting that many of the writing instructions tell people to write the first thing that comes to mind. Some of my best stories have resulted from the second or third draft. Perhaps great writing is a rare blend of spontaneity and plan.

You are all hereby bestowed with a diploma granting you the status Doctor of Indeterminacy and Synchronicity. I will be preparing those this weekend.

Late at night when the weary sleep off the day's exhaustion the Nutella nymph flits from house to house searching kitchens and pantries for the tasty glass of ebony creme that makes life sweet. Unseen. Unsuspected. A slight lick and a taste she gives to bless each jar, then moves on to the next house. But as the night wanes her day begins, enveloping her in mundanities. It is the joy of the night and the blessings she dispenses that help her forget that day job, profane in its demands. But what can she do? Man must also live by bread. She must work, and the only place that gave her a job was the peanut butter factory.

Story #328

All of a sudden it became light, physically and metaphorically. The light streaming through his pupil caused the iris to squeeze in around the tiny black opening. Also he remembered. So this was reincarnation. It was like in those "Tales from the Crypt" comics he used to read. He and Angie were madly in love, but her husband stood in the way. They schemed in secret to do away with him, the perfect murder. They would lure him into the basement with the sound of their lovemaking. All he had to do was open the door to the romper room and the bowl of sulphuric acid would spill over him, causing his head to dissolve. Unfortunately Angie's husband did not open the door. He crashed in through the cellar window, rushing at them with an axe. Brad and Angie, overwhelmed by the unexpected variation, scurried frantically to the prepared door. It finished them. The husband did get a few splashes of acid in his face, which ruined his eyes, but he was sped to the clinic, and - in a spectacular operation - given new eyes. One glance in the mirror and it became insightfully clear to Brad. He had been reincarnated as the eye of his intended victim. And what's more, as he looked into the mirror before the survivor's face, he could clearly see the other eye. It was Angie.

Story #327

Thanks to all who contributed stories! They will be moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com in the next days. Any more contributions?

I am Pam

I am Pam
Pam I am

That Pam-she-is !
That Pam-she-is !
I do not like
that Pam-she-is !

Do you like my green friend Liz ?

I do not like her Pam-she-is
I do not like your green friend Liz

Would you like her left or right ?

I would not like her left or right
I would not like her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

Would you like her in a park ?
Would you like her in the dark ?

I will not meet her in a park
I will not touch her in the dark
I will not have her left or right
I will not have her in my sight
I will not like your green friend Liz
I will not like her Pam-she-is

Would you take her by the hand ?
Would you take her in the sand ?

Not by the hand
Not in the sand
Not at a park
Not in the dark
I do not want her left or right
I do not want her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

Would you ? Could you ? In a bar ?
Meet her ! Meet her ! She's a star

I would not
could not
in a bar

You may like her
She won't bite
You may like her
late at night !

I would not could not late at night
Not in a bar ! You are not right
I do not like her by the hand
I do not like her in the sand
I do not like her at a park
I do not like her in the dark
I do not like her left or right
I do not like her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

A bed ! A bed !
A bed ! A bed !
Could you would you
in a bed ?

Not late at night ! Not in a bed !
She's green I tell you ! Toe to head !

Would you kiss her
on the mouth ?

I would not kiss her on the mouth !
I would not kiss her North or South !
I would not could not touch her hand
I could not would not in the sand
I will not see her in the park
I will not see her in the dark
I will not see her left or right
I will not see her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

You do not like her
So you say
Kiss her ! Kiss her !
Then you may
Kiss her then you may I say

Pam !
If you will make her go
I will kiss her
So you know

[.]
[.]
[.]

Say !
I like your green friend Liz !
I do ! I like her Pam-she-is !

Story #326

Note from Indeterminacy: It has its flaws, but that's the best I could make it. My apologies to Dr. Seuss. For those of you who do not know the original "Green Eggs and Ham," go here, go there, go anywhere. This also happens to be one of my first childhood books.

I think that we can now agree that I should not write poetry.

Postscript: I didn't think of this when I wrote the above post, but there really are gals out there called Liz. One of them is right here.

Meditatory remodeling, a most effective means of expanding your horizons within the capsulized realm of four confining walls, a floor and a ceiling. You concentrate on your dwelling place, and yourself inside it, belly flat on the floor, pressing your abdomen onto the surface with each breath - a symbolic effort to become one with the bosom of the building. The cycle of breathing has its own power of hypnosis - soon you find yourself drifting through the honeycombed path of your memories - intense memories attached to the dwelling. After a time, memories lounging in the spirit of the domicile mingle with the familiar memories you contribute, and ever deeper you drift into a unity with the soul of the architecture. May tried it, but she didn't feel at all different, in fact, she was about to break it off. She did not realize that her home had left its foundation to soar high into the heavens.

Story #325

Sorry, I didn't get to write a story today, but I've posted an introduction to the Tucholsky blog, and a short prose translation.

It was slow that evening so they whipped out their eyetops and began counting blogs. The first one to fall asleep would buy the next round. Usually they all fell asleep at the same time, so nobody bought. Those eyetop thingies were a cool rage. You plopped one up against your face and looked into the Internet at whatever you wanted, then clicked it with a blink of the eyes. If you had that chip accessory planted in your brain you could even blog and surf at the same time. You just imagined your rant, and voila! - it was a post. This saved valuable time for parties and socializing and other real-life events, if you could find them. Real-life events had become pretty scarce since the eyetops came around, and if the girls did find a place to meet boys, none ever showed up, because the boys themselves were too busy surfing and blogging, the new eternal cycle of life.

But then the girls had an idea to liven things up. They shot a meme into the Internet, and gazed expectantly through the viewing devices to see what would happen:

1) List your four favorite memes.
2) Add this meme as your fifth favorite.
3) Send these instructions to ten of your friends.
4) Work through the five memes, following each instruction to the letter.

They watched as the Internet imploded. Blog after blog vanished like a vacuum-filled soap bubble. It was so much fun. They would definitely have to blog about this later.

Story #324

Thanks for all the great posts, to be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Hey! Vote for me, and all the other blogs you like!

Special Announcement!

I'll be back writing stories with the weekend photo. Also, this week marks the begin of a new project that I invite you all to follow. David Raphael Israel and I have begun a Kurt Tucholsky project in which I will translate a Tucholsky poem into English, staying as near as possible to the original, while David will work out a further translation or impression based on my version, and the form of the original. In other words, I will translate into English - David will translate into poetry.

Already the German language blogosphere has taken kind notice of our intention, with a report and well-wishes at the Kurt Tucholsky Weblog written by Friedhelm Greis, a member of the board of directors of the official Kurt Tucholsky Society.

I have to do something to get the Christmas post off the top of this blog! I'm still trying to work out a decent story to start with, or indecent, as the case may be. But until that's solved I decided to go with an interlude.

Two significant events occurred in December 2005:
1) Scientists discovered why the Mona Lisa is smiling.
2) The copyright on the German author Kurt Tucholsky expired.

What's the connection? Tucholsky had a poem about Mona Lisa, which I've attempted to translate, with little regard or feeling for poetic form, I'm afraid. But I thought I'd present it here in the hopes that more poetry blogs will link to me:

The Smile of Mona Lisa (1928)
Kurt Tucholsky

I can't turn my eyes from you
the way you hang over your guardian
with softly folded hands,
and grin.

As famous as the Tower of Pisa
your smile stands for irony.
Yes... why is the Mona Lisa smiling?
Is she laughing at us, about us, despite us, with us
against us -
or some other why?

You silently teach us what must be
because your image, Lisa, proves:
one who has seen much of this world
smiles, lays the hands on the abdomen
and is silent.

Tucholsky was a brilliant and prescient satirist of the Weimar Republic era in Germany who saw exactly where the country was going politically and warned against it. He was so on target, to me it's as if he could actually see the future. I'm not the first person to call his work visionary. I intend to translate some of his shorter pieces sometime soon, just to show how accurate they still are. I don't know if I'll present that here, but we'll see.

I hope this poem didn't bore anyone, but I figure if someone gets bored at my blog, it's better if it's not my writing that did it.

Postscript: I originally translated this to send it to David Raphael Israel as it related to his delightful lyric on Mona Lisa. He took my translation and made a real poem out of it, worthy of the original!