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Sunday, January 06, 2002
Purple Pose.From a notebook : 10.12.91 Ignance Retz slumped over his congealed cappucino. The thing was taking hours to drink. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the window, and noted his own ghastly visage still staring back at him with quiet despair. Where have I been, he wondered. The answer rose torpidly to the forefront of his conciousness, like a bubble of methane forcing its way through thick and fetid ichor. London. Oh, God, Allah, Kdapt and Finagle. London and the pits, no not the pits. I kept myself alive there. Remember Jan Craputino the inept boatsman? Oh, hell, keeping your head above water. That's all they could do for themselves, all they had in common. Craputino lived twenty - two hours a day in the shadow and aftermath of the disaster that constituted the other two. Ignance had not known disaster until two years ago. "I am destroyed", he muttered to himself. Yet within him a small spirit stirred, looked around, and vomitted. Why listen to this crap? Why think this way? What way? He sighed, deaf to the demands of reality 0 Comments: |
The Journal
A miscellany of topics that intersest me: deaf culture, game design, politics as soap opera, the cyborg condition and the experience of learning to hear again. Other topics presented are speculative fiction and imaginary cities. There are appearences of snippets of work in progress, public rants, pointless posts and Mish the Mouse. The Writer
A lower middle class cyborg living an innocous life in a suburban village near Newcastle On Tyne, in the United Kingdom. Mostly autobiographical and creative notes posts and musings on the topic du jour. Archives
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