Digiphyte

In the ultimate spirit of stream of conscience I present the new age. The age of blogs, mobile computing, and non-stop 24 hour connection. From brain to keyboard, bytes and pixels. Then beamed out worldwide as a nugget of brain meat for the curious to open their mouths to consume.

Has whimsy been elevated to intention by giving it the keys to the mental car. Able to drive wherever its curious tendrils reach out. Able to bask on the electrical beach of creation. Should it be able to do that? Should we let it run off with us in tow, heedless of the shame our little passing thoughts could bring us.

Being heedless of shame never killed anyone, just led down paths that may not be correct. At least as far as I know. Many times shame has made me feel like I wanted to die.... A curious thing to ponder on this little trek, am I ashamed perhaps?

I guess I am ashamed. Ashamed of my actions and inaction's. Ashamed at once for saying what whimsy has asked me to and what I kept back from whimsy saying. Confrontation is the bane of many existences which is why we may be where I am now.

Is it not easier to behind closed doors(or in my case inside a closed car in a parking lot) to say our innermost thoughts and post them anonymously some far place away hoping but not hoping anyone will see it. Should the same whimsy be allowed greater voice by direct dialog?

Ya know I reread this and think probably not wholly. I start spewing this shit off to most people I know and they'd think I was nuts. I'd probably think someone was nuts for saying it to me. Or is that stoic rationalization we are required to have at our functions at all times?

But I'm using different perspective to illustrate the same point. Maybe newspeak is real. Maybe our words and culture have boxed us in. Blocked all the exits and told us all to sit down and shut up while the movie is rolling. Maybe that brings us back full circle, to the original reason this little bit of mind drivel has started.

In the ultimate spirit of stream of conscienceness I present the new age. An age where we may not be able to get out of the doors we've closed ourselves behind, but if we look out the windows whimsy may just be more entertaining than what's being played out before us. If enough people look out we just might find ourselves no longer blocked in.

I'm naming my dick Gigantor just for its own custom theme song.

For old friends, lets see if they're watching...

The two dice shaking in my fist rattle together in a beat all to familier. As a gambler of life, the castanets of luck have become the setters of tempo in my little dance through reality. How many shakes do I need to make to let the numbers tumble in my favor? What do I need to do to make them fall in my favor?

Rattle, rattle, rattle, and I speculate upon my throw.

I’m always better with cards, why am I not playing cards? Destiny and the future are always cleared up in the jacks and queens. Clubs, spades and hearts can always be better seen as coins, swords, and cups. Then again the payout is less fulfilling if you know you’re going to win. Hell, maybe I’m a bigger gambler than I thought. Playing strange games to see if its me or god that’s really controlling the game.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, when do I make my throw?

Dice are tricky. You know what they are, how many sides, how they work, and how they might land, but they remain hidden and uncertain until you throw them out there to see how they land. You can never be a step ahead of the die. You cant really anticipate the die. You just sit there and play with them until you finally throw them out. Either to land in a snake eyes or fall into a seven. It makes me kinda laugh that despite the fact I usually end up with the Eyes staring me and my money down, I keep throwing the damn things in hopes of that seven. Smart gamblers know to stick with the cards and logic.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, how do I make the throw?

I don’t lose well, at least on big bets. When it comes to the nickel and dime, I’ll throw these fuckers out without a second thought. Unfortunately with each win the dice become more ponderous and harder to throw. Every bet more tempting to cash in on and walk away from. But when you are used to snake eyes staring your luck down, a winning streak is a hard thing to walk away from. I don’t win well either, and that doesn’t help much. Its verification rather than winnings that’ll sometimes keep me going.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, alright lets make this throw.

The grace of god and confidence come in the same package; a clear head and a lack of fear in the outcome. Throwing ego, fear, and your dreams out with those dice are the only true way to win. That way, despite the way they fall, you can always leave the table knowing it was clean and true. Because when all those things come out for everyone to see, that’s when the numbers that are supposed to come up, do.

memories

I just got done looking through all of my old writing in "My Documents" on my computer. A.K.A "Creationary Purgatory". In it's assorted folders and files I found a lot of notes, half finished scrips, pages of text ripped from a very young wikipedia, and some of the first things that got me thinking I could actually write. A roadmap from very different parts of my life and the strange corners I've visited in my head.

Really, a lot of it is really fucking cringe worthy. Seriously, I wouldn't post it even in jest. I watched too much anime and read too many Lovecraft stories. Some of it needs to be grown up though. There are some pieces I wish I hadn't pushed aside and a few I am really happy I have such a good overview made out in notes.

Some of it almost feels like I left it there for me to find as an older person. Not just negligeted due to being too high or girl crazy.

Needless to say its great to see that through all the floppys, zip disks, hard drives, and flash memory. I collected a lot of the various crap that spewed out of my head onto a computer with a hard drive that has been working far longer than I ever imagined it to. Seriously, its only 20gigs, from about the turn of the century and been in three computers.

But enough with the rambling about my digital roadmap. I'm going to post a show; The first comic I ever wrote outside of a Aliens fanfic I scribbled in the back of my science notebook when I was 12 (Actually not quite true, but thats another story). Something from about 2000 or 2001. Must of been right when I had gotten my first "good" computer because thats why I got it in the first place. I was gonna be publishin comics muthafuckers, and me and my stoned homeboys was gonna be rich like Kevin Smith!.......Anyways, here's the 12th Key Promo Opener.

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Scene: Alley behind Humdinger’s. On the far left is the stairwell to Fuzzy’s apartment. Next to it, sitting cross-legged is the Big Guy, intently working on a rubix cube. Entering the scene from the right is Robb and Cory.

Cory: Who the Hell is that?

Robb: Fuzz’s giant, scary, squatter, Duh.

Cory: Explain the suit.

Robb: He’s a giant, scary, squatter penguin?

Cory: Hello is Fuzzy home?(Right in Big Guy’s face)

BG: Looks up from his cube and growls at Cory who is just a little bit taller than him, and he’s standing.

Cory: Tell ya what, I’m just gonna go down and check, okay?

Robb: (under his breath and looking over his shoulder) That’s one scary penguin.
Both go down the stairs and the Big Guy goes back to his cube

Scene: Fuzzy’s Apt., Livingroom, front door. A dead plant on one side of door, a broken coat rack on other. Cory and Robb are walking in. Bael is in far-left recliner; Fuzzy is on the couch next to him playing video games.

Cory: Hey Fuzz.

Robb: Sup hairball.

Fuzzy: Mario eats shrooms…(Staring blankly foreword)
They both sit down

Scene: Fuzzy’s Apt., Livingroom. A couch is sandwiched between two mis-matched armchairs. In front of the couch is a nicer wooden coffee table, littered with magazines, lighters, an ashtray, spare video game controller and a still smoking bong. The obvious basement walls are covered with Horror movie and psychedelic posters. Starting left to right from the first recliner sits Bael, with a skin mag on his lap. Next on the couch is Fuzzy, playing video games and obviously not on the same plane as us. Next on the couch is Robb and in the other recliner is Cory, Both are staring at Bael.

Robb: Fuzz, I’ve always wanted to say this line. I just never thought it would be to you…Who’s the suit?

Fuzz: Fell the wrath of my red plumber’s butt (Crazed look in his eyes and holding the controller too close to his chest)…Bael, Robb and Cory. Robb and Cory, Bael.

Cory: I’m guessing huge, quiet, and scary outside with the rubix cube is with you?

Bael: Yes, He’s my…Associate

Cory: Associate…? (Looking worried at Robb)

Robb: You’re not here about money are you, cause Fuzz knows were good for it, we were just broke and these ladies really wanted…

Bael: I don’t want your worthless copper (Waving Robb and Cory off)

Robb: What do you want?

Bael: Nothing, I’m just a renegade demon collecting souls to aid me in my righteous battle against Hell, Heaven, and anyone else. Fuzzy here is in my service.

Robb: Okay… and let me guess your full name must be Bael-Ze-Vuv.

Bael: Well…Exactly?! Want to join me? (Almost gesturing a unlit “cigarette” in his fingers)

Cory: Do we get anything cool like a football phone or gym bag?

Bael: How about a bag of chips from thin air? (“Cigarette” is now gone)

Cory: I don’t know. Would it be a big one or just a stupid grab bag?

Robb: Sour Cream & Onion…mmmmm (now holding a lit “cigarette”)

Bael: Whatever would please you.

Fuzzy: King Koopa I shall extract vengeance from your wretched hide! (Dramatically jumping up and shaking his fist and sending the video game controller flying)

Fuzzy: Dude, Bael, shows these guys that chip out of thin air thing.

Bael: Moving on, what do you say? (Looking dumbfounded at Fuzzy)

Robb: Free chips? I’m game. (“Cigarette” is now gone)

Cory: Sure Dude, whatever. (Now holding a lit “cigarette”)

Bael:IAI!! (And a bag of chips appears hanging between his fingers)

Cory: Great!…Sign me up!