The Case

J, a dapper looking gentleman in a suit, and S, a bedraggled, smelly man in torn clothes, collide in an alleyway.

J: Do watch where you're going!

S: Oh! Apologies, apologies, forgiveness, good master, forgiveness. I can barely see straight, what with the clouds covered by the moon. Or is the moon covered by the clouds? Ah, does it matter? Apologies again, good sir. I'm not right in my head. Why, just last week I was sitting to myself and thinking about how daughters should marry their fathers, and fathers their daughters, and the sun should explode and burn us all away as we bury the sun! I'm not worth worrying about, truly I'm not. I'll let you get on your way.

J has been listening to all of this with an expression of increasing horror.

J: Say that again...sir. All of that about the clouds, and the moon, and -

S: Clouds cover moon, moon covers clouds, daughters marry fathers, fathers daughters, sun exploding, bury the sun. I'm pretty sure I covered it all. Was anything unclear to you? Should I repeat myself? I would really rather not repeat myself.

His manner and bearing gradually become regal until he stands upright and looks upon J contemptously.

J: Alright. Alright, you needn't make such a fuss about it.

S immediately hunches over, the bedraggled begger once more.

S: Right you are, sir, right you are. So, if that's all that there is, then, I suppose you'll be wanting to hand it over.

J: Just a minute, just a minute. I'm not sure I understand exactly what's going on here. I'm supposed to hand it over to...a fine gentleman...such as yourself? I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation...

He pats his briefcase.

J: This briefcase has passed through the hands of a council that sit on the highest reaches of power in this city. It has been held by men who could kill - or at least, have someone killed - at the blink of an eye. It has been poured over, delivered, transported and locked away by gentleman who could cause wars at a whim, could tear babies from their mothers, could choke the life from schoolchildren, could burn down hospitals and execute nuns -

S: Well they don't sound very much like gentleman to me.

J: Yes, well. Be that as it may, the point I am trying to make to you, sir, is that this briefcase has been in the hands of powerful, incredible men, and now I am expected to hand it over to a smelly peasant! It boggles the mind, it really does. It makes no sense! Why, I should just open it and be done, here and now. Better that then to put it into YOUR hands. You'd probably palm it off for a bottle of cheap hooch!

S: I wouldn't do that if I were you. You don't know where it's been.

J: Yes I do, I told you. In the hands of powerful people.

S: All the more reason not to open it. It's probably swarming with powerful germs. Why, every moment you hold it you could be contaminated! Quickly! Quickly! Power is contagious, and it doesn't come out of clothes! Hand it over for your own safety!

He makes a grab for the briefcase, but J fends him off. He falls back, whimpering.

J: Idiot. If you had any idea who you were laying hands on...

S: Idiot? I'M the idiot? Oh, very polite, yes, very nice. You're the one considering opening the damn thing. You know, there could be anything in there? There could be codes to a nuclear device - or a beacon to one right under our feet. You open that case and you could blow us all sky-high, wha-hey, nuclear holocaust at your fingertips! There's power for you. All of that capability, and what most people need to do is spend all their time stopping it from blowing up in your big ugly face. Of course, it could be a treasure map. Or a deadly neurotoxin. Or full of candy! Or booby-trapped. Did I mention the clouds covering the moon?

J: Yes, yes. And you're right...in a way. I don't dare open it. But to pass it on to you? I'm not so sure.

S: Why? What makes me so different from all of those fine, upstanding gentleman?

J: Well, you're wearing less clothes.

S: And clothes maketh the man?

J: Well, they certainly make him better to look at.

S: And yet he chokes nuns and starts wars. Why make him prettier to look at? Why not, say, smear him with dirt, or let him roll about in the street? That's more suited to his nature. You'll have to do better than that.

J: Well, I don't mean to offend -

S: Oh, you've gone and offended.

J: ...but you smell.

Mock horror from S

J: And you have a certain...unsavoury air to you. Almost...subhuman, really.

S: Subhuman? You wound me, sir. I am the essence of humanity. Do you require proof?

He fumbles with his fly. J averts his gaze.

J: That really won't be required, I'm sure.

S: Well, just so's you know. I'm just as much man as those gentleman you seem to love so much. Probably more, in some ways.

He grasps his crotch.

J: Be that as it may...

S: Look, I don't have all day. I gave the words. I gave them quite well, really. I've done the little monkey dance and I've sat through about as much of your posturing as I can take - and besides, this place isn't exactly secure, you know? I don't know how they do things in your ivory tower, but around here, lingering around looking suspicious is a good way to get knifed.

J: Are you threatening me? You know our instructions are to go unarmed.

S: Sure, sure. And I am. But do you think the locals got those instructions? So hurry it up, hand it over!

J: Just one more thing...

S: There's always something...

J: What do you get out of this? I'm going to go home and look in my bank account and there's going to be a lovely six-figure deposit in there for this. What on earth could you be recieving? I got the distinct impression you'll be taking care of this for longer than I will, and I know that means the reward is greater. What could you possibly be rewarded with?

S: Piss.

J: Piss?!

S: Piss. And perhaps a bag of horse shit for afters.

J: I do not appreciate being made sport of.

S: Sir, look at me. Do I look like I'm kidding? To each man according to his desire, from each man according to our demands. Isn't that the motto?

J: Nobody desires a bag of horse shit.

S: Sure they do. It's all a matter of perspective, people want shit all the time. You've eaten an egg, haven't you?

J: That's an entirely different situation!

S: Whatever helps you sleep at night. What are you going to spend your lovely six figure sum on? Whores? A new house? Caviar? It's all shit in the end. In fact, caviar's practically shit beforehand. I'm just a little more aware of how everything else ends up. I'm well acquainted with shit. You could say I'm the other end of the spectrum. All you fine gentleman, making your vaunted, important choices, starting your wars, buying your whores, dancing that political dance - well, what you've really got is a lot of shit. And I'm the king of shit. So, I suppose you could say I'm the most powerful of the lot!

J: Fascinating. Well, time is ticking on. I really must be off.

S: Off to take a shit, are you?

J: I really wish you'd leave that subject alone.

S: Why? Nobody can, you know. Everybody shits. Everybody eats and everybody shits. Even your powerful friends. Shitters, the lot of them!

J: Look, just take the damn case and be on your way.

S: What's the matter? Getting the shits? I'm not shitting you, you know. Oh well, best be off. The weather looks like it'll turn shitty soon.

J draws himself up.

J: I fervently hope we never meet again.

He exits.

S: And I, sir, fervently await the day that you shits get what's coming to you.

Rusted

What could be gained from the removal of the orgasm? Is it like a hinge, a bolt, or a screw? If you remove it, does the machine of sex cease to work? The act itself will still take place, surely. There are needs that people have that aren’t tied into the climax of their bodies – after all, people need to make more people, right? The human body is just a machine for making other humans, for keeping itself alive just long enough to reproduce, and then collapsing and decaying. Biodegradable! We’re all biodegradable, and eventually we’ll all be recycled. Eyes, hands, legs, feet, the brain, the orgasm – all just parts to a machine, to a factory for making machines and then collapsing. So what could be gained from removing a part?

You always saw more to the machine. What do you see in me, I wonder? You sit in that room and you write plays, of all things. Fucking plays! What purpose does a play serve? Can it reproduce? Is it churned out of a factory, does it serve a purpose and then die? Is a play a person, because the amount of time you spend with them, you’d think it would be! Waste of fucking time. Machines need fuel, and you pour yours into words. Words, words, words! Words are the smog from the smokestacks of humanity, words are the toxic waste from the reactors of the soul – words are the rust that permeates the joints of this machine. Your mind is full of rust, absolutely full of it. There isn’t a synapse, isn’t a single fucking cell in your body that isn’t tainted by it. It fills me with dread – what if it spreads? What if you taint everybody around you? What if you get to me? It pours out of you in a fucking tide!

I’ll never read your fucking play.

Injurious?!

The following was sent to me by a complete stranger. I know not his face, his name, or his circumstances. I kind of like it even so.

Injurious Jason! Most ungrateful man!
Have you conspiered, have you with these contrived,
To bait me with this foul derision?
Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time,
For parting us, -- O, is that all forgot?
All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Jason, like two artifical gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower.
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key,
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds,
Had been incorporate, so we grow together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a union in partition;
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;
So with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
Due but to one and crowned with one crest.
And you will rent our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scorning your poor friend?
It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly;
Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury.

Fuck. That WAS fantastic. I wish I had wrote it. There's a follow-up.

Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Japes, arise!
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These my lips.
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheaks,
Are gone, are gone:
Lovers, make moan:
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word:
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue:

And, farewell, friends;
Thus Thisby ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
Dies.

Whoever wrote this, if by some manner you are stalking me, and if by some manner you see that I am reposting what you sent to me, please know that you have succeeded in literally impressing the pants of me. More please.

Marowaks and Plays

I'm going to post two things this evening. Well, three things, probably. I'll tack a bit of prose on the end of this to satisfy myself. But two things to be going with. It's been a few weeks since my last post, so a big post probably isn't a bad idea at this point.
Let's get started, shall we?
First off, one of my wives made an interesting post about Crobat. For those of you not in the loop (or future me, if by some horrid twist of fate I forget what a Crobat is when alcohol starts to rot my brain) a Crobat is a pokemon. The favourite pokemon of the aforementioned wife. And there were some very well-presented reasons for why Crobat was a favourite. That got me to thinking - there are so many pokemon, and they are so utterly varied - inevitably, the pokemon you choose as your favourite would shed some light on your personality, no? After all, Ben's favourite pokemon is Scyther. Enough said, in my opinion. Thought confirmed.
So, what's my favourite pokemon? Marowak. Let's get a picture.



That is a Marowak. Would you like to know why I love Marowak so much? Well, you're going to find out. First of all, the skull. When Marowak is a Cubone, Cubones wear their skull as a large, bulky item. The skull is the skull of their dead mother, I believe. They wear it and it is tragic, really, a mark of grief and childhood. Adorable, yes, but weak. But when a Cubone evolves into a Marowak, that skull is no longer bulky and external. It is moulded to fit the Marowak and is used for protection and cover. It's a metaphor for grief. At first you're pathetic and you wear it obviously - but over time it shapes itself to fit you, or you shape it to fit you, and you use it, draw upon it. Marowaks have forged strength from weakness. Second, the club. I can't remember the exact expression, but it goes something like "Give me a big enough lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth". Marowak has that lever. Marowak knows that there is a tool for every task, and it has chosen a task and chosen a tool. Marowak has nothing to fear as long as it has that club. There's a lot to be said for the sensibility of this. I can certainly appreciate it. Everything can be sorted if you approach it with the right tools. Third, Marowak is fucking badass. When it throws that club, the club always comes back. In the anime, Marowak meditate under waterfalls. They are fanatically loyal and almost savage in it to boot. They are agile, powerful and dangerous. And that is why I love Marowak.

That was a fun post to write! Let's talk about some real life stuff now.

My name is Jason. I am currently two days away from opening night of "The Witches" my first play with Monash University Student Theatre. I am feeling...grim. Determined, I suppose. In the past few months I have befriended a lot of people, a lot of people I'm reasonably shocked have taken a liking to me. I have met lovely ladies and beautiful men. I have glared at cunts, I have argued with my director, I have performed in the freezing cold and I have forsaken hedonism for bloody-minded survival. I'm fast concluding that hard work is more satisfying than sitting on my butt all day. I may even get a job. My mind changes constantly. I am in flux. It is satisfying.
I am still incapable of romantic feelings. The few people who have stirred something within me in that regard, I have driven off or converted into an affection receptacle (hi, Ollie, you're getting mentioned twice in one post, Sav will be most enraged). I am not creating enough and I am falling slightly behind in assessment.
I am reasonably certain that I want to spend the rest of my life in and around theatres (and in and around actors, hurr hurr sex joke). I feel...right, here. Melbourne is seeping into my bones. I am pleased with this.

Fuck, let's get some prose happening, yes? Two out of three, don't fail it now, Jason.

Where there's a will, is what they'll say.
And put me softly to my bed.
But I'm not sleeping anyway.
For there's a poison in my head.

You turned the lights up and I turned to ash,
The smell of sulpher bright and strong,
The pretty ornaments you smash,
The feel, the scent, I do belong.

And I'm not giving up,
Two in the bush, nothing in hand,
Fair-weather friends will drink from my cup,
But they don't dare understand.

There's no bed to rest this ache,
No respite, no remorse.
This is as much as I can take,
No mercy! No recourse!

Where there's a will, is what they'll say.
And make me take my medicine.
But that's a pill I threw away,
And I won't let them in.

Success.