Eating My Hat

Cain and Abel came upon each other after Abel’s death. They were walking through the desert, and they recognized each other from afar, since both men were very tall. The two brothers sat on the ground, made a fire, and ate. They sat silently, as weary people do when dusk begins to fall. In the sky, a star glittered, though it had not yet been given a name. In the light of the fire, Cain saw that Abel’s forehead bore the mark of the stone, and he dropped the bread he was about to carry to his mouth, and asked his brother to forgive him.

“Was it you that killed me, or did I kill you ?” Abel answered. “I don’t remember any more; here we are, together, like before.”

“Now I know that you have truly forgiven me,” Cain said, “because forgetting is forgiving. I, too, will try to forget.”

“Yes, said Abel slowly. “So long as remorse lasts, guilt lasts”

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Feels Good Man.

quote:
The very first Red Robin was a biker bar in Seattle with a horrible reputation for drugs and violence. This is the original sign that hangs in the door of that first Red Robin. Notice anything different about our red feathered friend?

Was thinking Obi-Wan Kenobi (still might try Brodi-Wan) am now thinking "Adventures of Young Gandalf"

Since I read this for Dutch Courage and Slammin Salmon I thought I'd bring it back up for you guys:

  Compendium of Ephemera

Motifery: [stone steps, hallways, amusement park rides, dismantled electronics gathering dust, teacups, casually constructed neologisms, closing doors of public transportation vehicles, bridges, water, fallen trees, fingers, protective eyewear, stifled yawns, faintly detectable eye-back-of-head contact, smoldering love letters, insouciant slouching, voicemails marked by rapidly increasing desperation, sudden realization demonstrated with slight changes in eyelid position, culturally encoded flashing lights, bullet-resistant plastics, dusty books of obsolete medical advice, small green manuals detailing techniques for the transmission of thoughts, flail in lidless cardboard boxes, wordless pursing of lips which substitutes for response, movement of feet which symbolizes discomfort or interest, old-fashioned telephones which stop ringing the second before you can pick up the receiver, the rattle of a pill container, the glint of a razor blade in the bathroom's bare bulb, an eagerly adopted patois, shoelaces smeared with mud by a passing tractor, teeth unconsciously bared in aggression, pointedly clearing his throat from the back of the room, misinterpreted hand gestures made through windows onto the sidewalk, unintelligible bureaucratic forms with "sign here" towards the bottom, gifts ineptly homemade, conflicting convictions, putrid tupperware, reel-to-reel tapes rotating carefully, buckles and clasps being activated and deactivated, improperly adapted technical lingo, telltale signs of unconscious prejudice, delicately savored spoonfuls, entire lives underlined by the automatic grammar check, standard-issue early-eighties Volkswagen steering wheel covers, contextually inappropriate couture, spilled foodstuffs, fiercely streamlined for maximum aerodynamic effect, strangely recurrent sightings of persons unknown, vastly different expectations, declaring which is your favorite day of the week to a van filled with elderly dementia sufferers, contagious facial expressions, florescent garbage, vitamin-fluorescent urine, poorly communicated riddles, casually destroyed fantasies, a lone pubic hair which is inexplicably both straight and blond, handfuls of freebies, esoteric candy bar cravings, warmly welcomed outbreaks, the clatter of dishes, the low moan of a dying fish, neglected desktop baubles, nicotine-tainted cubicle walls in an alleyway, well-organized vermin, their view of a meteor shower disrupted by tears of joy, externally consistent logic, best friends with the mailman for a tumultuous week, a deck of cards spotted with sweat deposits, serial conversation interrupters, defiantly customized misspellings, foam in the corner of a raconteur's mouth, conversation contrived as eavesdropping fodder which accidentally reveals non-platonic interplay, fear as a motivational guru, skidding tightly bound stacks of the Wall Street Journal, an overseer blessed with allergies to certain mythical personages, silence which conceals nothing, high-charting pop ditties with controversial literary allusions, muted raw battlefield footage playing in the background of their card game, his hastily cancelled internship teaching children about weltschmerz, the first State of the Union address with a Spanish accent, snapping before the faces of comatose game show hosts, titanium-enhanced travel mugs bouncing across several lines of evacuation traffic, revelatory experiences with ingredient lists, charred dream journals, polo shirts as inaccurately indicating occupation, faint echoes of previous quests which go unheeded, champagne splashing across waterproof hotel furniture, salaciously enjoyed anecdotes related to skullduggery, sardonic congratulations, fossil evidence indicative of a battle between warring tribes of antediluvian ultimate frisbee champions, misappropriated schadenfreude, robot-infested ruins, robot-infested ruins....]

 Theo = The O

Eyes of the beast are painted on every wall
Underground tavern with a fire pit which is a dimensional rift into a low-burning star

Xavier points at the city of Omicron on the map and begins to describe it. David starts to
Imagine myself actually there. Here. Money, death and commitment joined forces to form a supreme height of fear within me. Buzz-in systems on entrances everywhere... and some security guards wherever you look. Private security becomes the number one occupation but is still not unionized. Seen as a bipartisan victory. At least one man acting as guard from each household. These people live 7 or 9 to a medium-sized house.

Their architecture has created a hybrid aesthetic from Francis Bacon and a salvia trip--everything in those false worlds so textural, so intricate and varied. Whorls and whirling.

There are no young people. They live like pigs here. Xavier talks to them the way he used to talk to street people. A society of cringing refugees.

The Omicron could manifest itself in any doorway by tapping into the townsfolk's individual mental frequencies. For all we knew, The Omicron was a renegade god.

The streets are empty. The people traverse in secret or literally underground, if not through the sewers then by door-to-door carriage.

Horse filth and random loose dogs define the city center. Random grizzled old-timers are the only people who brave the streets, as they have nothing to lose by daring "The O"
There was limited reliable anecdotal information available on The O. It streamed as a cloud of wasps through tight spaces and unguarded windows in some stories. Charmed its way through your front door in others. Deep beneath the surface is their town square, where by dim kinetically generated lights they meet to bear group witness to communal fear. Dank labyrinthine passages clogged with muggy, sweat-pouring subterranean hole dwellers.

The old here exceptionally bitter and fragile. Moreso even than in our own world. The few who aren't second butlers changing channels in rich people's living-rooms are paranoid hermits in hoarder's mansion, rooms devoted to booby traps and food stores in a world where other adults sleep in bunkbeds. Stacks of canned goods are being categorized and thirsted over in upstairs bedrooms all over Omicron City tonight.

Of course it didn't used to be called Omicron city. If it was ever called something else I haven't been able to pick up. Frayed refugees in their own town, they have no way to fight back but I'm not sure if they'd take the opportunity if they had it. We decided to investigate this Omicron, considering its quasi-real behavior could give us further insight on dimensional travel.

GOD IS REAL AND HE HATES YOU

We expected at least a few of the stories they told us to be true... instead, they all were. The Omicron could, indeed, see you wherever you were in the city.

The Omicron's eyes were painted on every wall, and uncertain legend held that He could see you through them. Some were simple graffiti-tag style scrawls, and I get the feeling that these ones are intended as some half-hearted attempt at rebellion.

Scenario: David, Masha and Xavier attend a church ceremony where miracles and visitations by the mentioned evil saints of the Omicron are played out there in front of them.

The Omicron's sentinel was a drowsy-faced fat man whose eyes lit with hatred when he brought his gaze up to meet the congregation. A piercing light blue color, they told of his utter control by The O. As he began the enchanted story, they darted from side to side below his angry-cut bangs and then raced back across, sweeping us like a typewriter carriage being slammed. After about 45 minutes of hate filled rhetoric and updated gossip of the Twelve Chosen, a stage appeared on his chest. It was like that of my special helper Xolotl, but turned to darker purpose.

We saw fleeting images of destruction wrought by the Chosen 12 in neighborhoods of the massive township where the Omicron's will had not been obeyed.

Most of it was archival footage: the "guards" at Omicron Summerfest using advanced martial arts techniques on beer garden crowd that turned on them after a musician's concert was forced to end at the then-new 11pm curfew.

They had their own jobs with which they paid their way in society, but each person in O Town also did secret labors for His gratification. Some were his choremasters, others sang songs in converted tunnels for an audience whose attendance was mandatory.

His portrait peeked out of every gallery window. Different forms and aspects of The Omicron were naturally varied from shop to shop, but each time the scene--even if not specifically focusing on The Omicron or one of his exalted minions.

Really nice visit from the Male Artist over the weekend. His pleasing form bent and twisted at my whim and he sang many work songs while we lugged bookshelves down spiral stair's cases and up carpeted new cases. Long ago, it seems, he bit deeply into a dragon's heart and learned the language of birds. So sweetly did he sing, the heaviest oaken armoire seemed weightless, borne aloft on a floating bed of notes. The staff on the sheet music of our move was as the rails of a train, sliding us gently into place.

We also went to a game and shouted and pleaded and begged and waved and came very close to appearing on the jumbotron were it not for the aggressive behavior of an Alpha-Tourist determined to fill the frame. The Artist is wonderful to talk to about projects. Ideas explode from his cave like a cloud of Concept Bats firing their theremin shriek into the chill air. I took him to the train's station as Dagmar drew a hand's kerchief from her ricecooker and waved. We chased the train barking like field-dogs and smiling while he tapped - D-E-A-R-F-R-I-E-N-D-S in Morse's code on the window's pane.

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ravenface loves his friend Crow T. Brobot

I'm so excited to see ravenface and hydrozoa! They are so much fun!

Helga baby damn no