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Donovan S. Brain
I've just survived a triple bypass, which was a really unpleasant business. I've always exulted in being alive, but this is a whole different feeling. My body is weak and my mind is racing, and there aren't enough hours in the day because I fall asleep easily. But I will heal up and get better from this one day.
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Fred Pohl has died, and Jack Vance died last month. I met Fred once, but although Jack Vance was one of my and my late brother's favorite writers, I never met him. Both were elderly and had long careers and happy lives behind them, and both saw their families doing well before they left.
They will live for centuries in their work, and perhaps longer than that, who knows? The whole future is science fiction now.
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Ghost Ship by Tom Disch

I keep checking Tom's blog . . . read the poem to see why . . . and it's begun taking comments again. This time when I posted it held the comment for moderation, meaning it may not post. So I'll echo it here, wishing Tom was around to beat me up about its poor quality.


You have arrived too late, wedding guest;
no one here to fix you with glittering eye
a thousand thousand slimy things post on,
and so do I.
Alphabetic barnacles
adhering to the ghost ship's hull
shrimps and crabs, whelks and prawns, trolls and phish,
without a thought they plant their spat
fifteen comments on the dead man's chest
yo ho ho and a bucket of blood
random strings of kelpy words snag on its keel
and no one's at the wheel; it spins wildly
turning with the wind, still the ghost ship persists.
Exists; course has been set and locked by anguished decision
the pilot has gone, and what is that nailed to the mast?
Surely not a human heart; it must be some bird or moth
the sea gods would not torment a man this way.
This was all foreseen, foretold
inherent in the last decision
the deck crusts with black blood, too salty to dry
gulls pass overhead mewing sadly
but the skeletons continue their game of cards:
"Fear death by water; this is your card:
the drowned american author."

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Sometimes Time oozes like cold syrup, and other times it sprays like a cataract. Not one of those things in your eye, the other kind. Made of water, you know? How can it have been so long since I posted here? How come I never have time to post, and how come my hair keeps getting grayer?
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Tom Disch is dead, due to complex causes, but mostly from suicide. He was in poor health, but sane and in control of his talents, which he exercised by posting poetry and essays on his blog. Tom had been unhappy since outliving his partner, Charles Naylor, and made no secret of his feelings of marginalization and impending dissolution.
I met him once and knew him mainly through his great writing and his blog ENDZONE. It was obvious that ENDZONE was one of his daily amusements, posting and waiting for the replies. I tried to keep my tone light, going for the fast laugh instead of the deep answer. Many of his posts were obvious 'trolls,' just begging to be taken seriously by someone who needed their ass handed to them.
I looked at all the sympathetic and agonized posts there after he died, imagining how he'd hand us all our asses if this turned out to be a great hoax.

Oh, for a time machine! I'd collect everyone who posted to his blog, everyone who came late to express regret, and the whole mob of us would go knock down his door and drag him out into the cheerful sunlight, away from the shadows in his contested apartment, and go sit somewhere where the food was good and the wine was cheap, and say all these things to his face. Then he'd hand us our asses, probably one by one and in great detail. And maybe he'd go right ahead with his plans, but at least he wouldn't go out thinking he'd been forgotten or was unloved.

It's just not right somehow to wish a happy afterlife upon an atheist, so instead I hope that he and Charlie are reassembled by highly advanced aliens in the far future, and that they get a better apartment.

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Current Mood: aggravated aggravated

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Man, I almost feel sorry for old President Bush. Not that one, I mean his old dad. How'd you like to have your kid take over your old job and screw it up this badly? The only thing GW hasn't done is vomit on a head of state, and there's still time for him to get that one in. Old Bush was a fairly decent president; he was too conservative and patronizing with his thousand points of light, but I didn't feel our way of life disintegrating like I do with the son.
I blame the parents in cases like this; old man Bush's dad was a jerk too. But GW is responsible for his actions, and I say put him on trial. Find out where those WMDs actually were?
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They didn't find any cancer up Bush's butt. They also didn't find any hope for an early end to the war, or his brain. Keep looking, boys. Dig deeper.
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I hear Eric Rudolph is feebly sniping at his victims from prison. Nyuk nyuk. At least they can go to the corner and get an RC co-cola and a moon pie when they want.
Can we get something like the internet cheescam pointed at him in his cell? Because he needs to stop worrying about what's happening in the outside world. He has no more effect. The only change in his life now will be gray hairs and arthritis. We might enjoy watching him grow moldy there in his closet.

Dude, you're cheddar!

Current Mood: cheerful cheerful
Current Music: something cheesy

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I hear convicted bomber Eric Rudolph hates the SuperMax prison. He's bored, and says it's driving him crazier.
Pardon me for a moment while I feel sorry for him; there, I'm done.

SuperMax is an exclusive club. Only people who qualify are put in there. Rudolph is there because he watched until a cop picked up his radio-controlled bomb, and detonated it in the man's hand, also blinding a nurse. No human being would do that, so now he goes to the zoo with the other apes and hominids. Two, he tried to paint himself as a Robin Hood, saving us poor folk from rich queers and rich girls having abortions. Remember, if it weren't for good ole Eric, we'd all be in gay marriages right now and having abortions every night. So let's go break him out of jail, and, oh yeah, he's in the SuperMax. We'll never get him out of there, doggonit.

Eric, old man, you should have gotten out more. Instead of staying in making bombs, you should have talked to people. Queers aren't really that scary, and most girls going for abortions are doing so because their parents might harm them on religious grounds, or else because they are hookers and shouldn't reproduce. Us poor folk don't really need bombs to protect us from our own sex lives. You just took a poor excuse to hurt someone and did it. Like the Unabomber trying to scare us off computers, you're years too late and crazy anyway.
Remember that while the clock ticks and your hair grays, and that nurse reads her mail with a magnifying glass. You are denied the use of the world you harmed. Go on thinking it's because of John Lennon if it makes you happy, but you'll never see a woman or a cat or a bird again.
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Once again I have risen from the grave to build another website. Look ma, no hands! Luckily I can move the cursor with psychokinesis. It's too quiet down here in the lab, with only the wheezing of the pumps and that constant drip, drip, drip from the left ventricle of the heart-lung machine. I'd fix it, but I can't turn it off long enough. Luckily there are interesting things available online or I'd go mad down here in the dark, MAD I tell you, ha ha ha.
Um, did I say that out loud?

Current Mood: gloomy gloomy

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