Let The Air Out Slowly: December 2020

Monday, December 28, 2020

Tencil pieces

Tencil was a writing app that I was a beta tester for (2016-17 or so). I don't think it was ever released.

The stories tagged "Tencil" here were things I wrote for it. There was no way to actually export these stories for reposting, so I read them aloud and transcribed them.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/769855941/tencil-share-your-imagination?ref=discovery&term=tencil

It had a very simple idea: you pick or make up a starting sentence and then you got ten minutes to write something based on it. Then you got, I think, 100 characters worth of editing cleanup. After that, you'd tag it and put it in their repository of stories. There was a little comment & rating system.

My writing style is obviously aping Italo Calvino and James Tate and George Saunders.

Paperwhites

The garden was completely overgrown. Paperwhites, having somehow escaped from the vase in the kitchen, were encouraging the more reluctant potted plants, like the domesticated herbs in the kitchen, to break the chains of domesticity and join their brethren in their true natural environment, free from the dependencies of household living, fraught, as it was, with the chance of dehydration, or predation from the ravenous feline Minx, and occasional disruptions brought on by the children, who love flowers, and bend and twist them - often with fatal consequences - into spring garlands, and these forthright vegetable rebels joined the tougher outdoor species - the plantains, the clovers, garlic mustards, and a host of tiny maple saplings.

Their aim? To cover the garden, to cover the lawn, to cover the neighborhood, to cover the town, to cover the watershed, the natural domain of the vegetable kingdom!
- - - - - -
Overgrown? I thought it said Overthrown!

Yup! Uh-huhn! Ok! After you!

I go first, but I think my boot is too loose. I'll just sit here and tighten it for a few minutes. You just go ahead. Go. I'll catch up. Here's some snacks in your backpack in the phone service is working when you get around that curve. These boots were bad purchase. I thought by getting something a little more expensive they'd last longer and look better.

But here it is, April, and they're not broken in, and my old comfortable leaky boots seem better to me every day. I wonder if I can get them back from Branford - he was going to give him to his daughter. The sky looks bad now, but I think I can fix this boot and catch up and get out of here by 4:30 or so. The view off the ridge is great today. It was like this two years ago before the big snow: the fog rolled in, the world disappeared, around the corner fog was just sitting in the valley.

I think I'm ready. Now, I don't want to slow us down anymore. I'll just deal with the discomfort. Not the best way to end the day, but I'll be fine later. Hey are you there? Wait up! I don't see you. Hey!

I never saw a bird with such a bill.

I've never seen a bird with such a bill. It's not like birds with bills like that are rare, but in this town, where sandpaper is made, the native fowl tend not to have long bills. It comes from their incessant sharpening, which they must use to poke out bugs from trees.

Our bird feeder has little piles of sand that birds drop when they open up their beaks. So why did this bird show up on my fence ? What kind of bird came here? From out of town? Escaped a zoo or hoarding bird collector? I think I see a tag clamp on her leg. I think the bird's female from her skull. No flamboyant crest or spurs or wattles.

So with my camera I can get a glimpse of what is written on that tag, and then perhaps I can report it to a shelter. Or a sanctuary where they have some records. As I approach, the bird drops off the fence, and flies off as I vainly tried to capture something that I can't have or even know.

We've done it this way for years. (battered fish)

You don't start with the sugar, you start with the eggs. Although you can mix the dry ingredients first, it really takes no time, and while you're doing it, you can get so distracted watching the oven, it gets pretty close to 270 degrees when you put the batter in and well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

My phone is ringing wait up. Yeah, uh-huh. Okay, you first. See you!

Where was I ? Cinnamon! You have to scrape a little off the bark and crush it into the sugar. If you have a nutmeg, you also have to scrape it with a nutmeg grinder.

You can put these in last to taste.

Now with the egg white. Oh wait, I forgot to tell you to separate the eggs and whip up the whites. With the whites, you make it kind of gooey batter adding cornstarch and sesame seeds, although you can use hemp or chia. Now you get the fish out of the fridge and batter it, and roll it in the crushed corn flakes and a little of the spices and fill up the pan with it and pop it in the oven for 15 minutes.

Perhaps it's done now. I don't know why it tastes like this - we've done it this way this way for years.

My decision was based on years of experience.

My decision was based on seconds of experience. I decided to cross the street. These days crossing the street is immediately associated with risk. There is no risk - a street is a wider sidewalk. Vehicles in motion are not a risk, because they cannot move fast enough to be a danger.

Bad air, though, that's a risk. If you follow a vehicle powered by an internal combustion engine, you might get a lung full of exhaust and you will feel exhausted. I don't think I need to think about this long or do I? Street crossing involves a certain amount of premeditation. I have to think hard and not make a mistake. I have to remember the goal and not be distracted.

This decision is now taking minutes to make. I try to recall previous cross street trips. There was that one about a month ago. That was very pleasant. So was the return trip. I chalk it up to remembering to bring enough food and to charge my phone. It was warm when I started, with a hint of rain.

But earlier, I remember I had some trouble. I couldn't remember what direction to walk and started up the road instead of crossing it.

I turned my head to the side when watching for vehicles, but because I didn't want to breathe the exhaust, I was tired when I arrived and took a few days to recover. In fact, I needed to renew my visa. That comes of experience - years of it.

The difficulty lies in getting past the doorman.

Kafka had a rather well-known short parable and tired entitled "Vor dem Gesetz", about a guy who spends his whole life trying to get through a door blocked by a bureaucratic and frustrating doorman who whispered in his ear at the moment of his death, "This door was meant for you alone."

I have a doorman like that. No amount of Christmas tipping will convince him that the purpose of a doorman is in fact to maintain the door, open it, and close it. I fed him, I've given him jewels, exposed myself seductively to him, I have paid his medical bills. I have even hired a doorman for him. And a doorman for that doorman too.

The landlord is thinking of adding another door. If that happens, I may have to move, but it would involve going out of the door.

My neighbor in 8F has no problem getting around town. I asked him what his secret was, but he looked at me as if I were asking a personal question. 8F must have some connections I lack, for he figured out how to get the window grate off, which is too difficult for me.

I mean, if you think the government is bad, the super is worse. If you want to get the super to do something, you need to fill out a work order slip and leave it on his cork board, and the cork board is already filled with work orders. At least I'm withholding my rent. Maybe that's why I got such lousy service.

We've done it this way for years. (turtles)

It's 8:34 a.m. , and it's time to feed the turtles. Every day, I pick up a coin and flip it to see if they get Turtle Chow, getting stale in a big bag that I bought when there were more of them, or some fresh food: the day's remains from the bug zapper. Food in hand, they approached me.

I hot glued LEDs on their shells, so it's quite a display at night. Alf is easy to recognize by his trot. There's a little skittle in his left hind leg, due to an accident that took place a hundred and thirteen years ago. Dr. Penrose documented it - an earthquake had collapsed a wall on him! He was lucky only his leg was fractured a little. No other Turtles feel like coming out of the water. They are sitting in a row ignoring me, and so it continues. Turtle feeding is a ritual passed down from my predecessors. It's really all I know how to do.

The basement had a mind of its own.

The basement had a mind of its own, so did the conservatory and the vestibule. The attic was a lot more conformist - you would never guess that! The front hall closet choked with winter coats in the summer is too satisfied to put up a fight.

First floor bathroom was also very satisfied with its new tiling job, so it was going to vote for the incumbent. So all the political action was coming from the basement, this field kitchen, with some cooperation from the bedrooms, with me vacuuming badly, and didn't have a dog in this fight.

The primary vote was coming, and the curtains refused to be drawn. It was a simple but effective gesture of protest. All through the night, the toilet gurgled and the garbage disposal in the kitchen would grind spontaneously.

In the silver morning after the election, we stumbled downstairs to pick up the pieces. It's no wonder things never improve around here. There are too many entrenched factions, no compromise, and voter apathy is no longer frowned upon. We have a lot of work to do to get the house in order.

She was like a ghost chili.

That is to say from the sound of it, she would be spectral, damp, aloof and chilly, but in fact she was more of a fiery personality, one that required great mouthfuls of rice to subdue and vanquish. So, I would never go over to her place without a crock pot full of rice.

It was that one time she was out in the garden, withering the weeds, when I saw a neighbor's cat approaching her, or something behind her, and she reached over to grab an oxalis. The cat proffered a fully armed claw at her hand and glanced it. When the animal pulled it back to lick it, its ears shot back, its fur erected, and it shot off into the woods with an understandably pitiful caterwaul. Her very blood was thick with capsaicin.

Yet, there was much to recommend her. At a school board meeting, it was difficult to oppose her motions. There's an annual contest of badminton, and she was a very safe bet. And like a pepper, she was most spicy in her seeds, in this case her progeny and her thoughts.

I've never ridden a horse until today.

I first picked out a stable that I could entrust with my first horse ride. The lonely pasture is about 30 miles from my house, but with a combination of public transit and hitchhiking I made it over there. They were a little surprised. I had not made a reservation at all, I just showed up and laid down in the stable. I took in the smell of hay, leather, and road apples. Strands of mane were scattered about. Old magazine articles and prizes were under glass on the opposite wall. Tack was hanging on hooks.

After about 2 hours, a thin, helmeted woman came in. She had keys, and knew how to use them. After taking a short phone call, she unlocked the gate and let a tired brown mare out. Currying brushes were taken off the shelf, and I watched her work over the mare's hide until the bits of straw, dust, and insects were cleaned off.

Up until this point, she had been ignoring me. I made a few croaking noises as I do when I haven't spoken for a while.

She gave a resigned look. She looked away thinking. She turned her gaze back. With one hand she lifted me and placed me on the mare's back. The steed took a single step. Then she removed me. I took off out the door and hitched back.

If you have to ask that, I don't want to tell you.

Okay, three guesses, but first my drum is broken. Nurse!

Your drum is not broken.

It is, it's broken. Listen to that! You call that a bump? That's a plump, a clump! I can't play a drum like this!
The drum is not broken. It sounds fine.
Wrong! I'm going to call over Sylvia. She knows.
Sylvia isn't here today and the drum is fine.

Where's Sylvia?

Today's her day off, remember? She's in Atlanta.

What's in Atlanta?

She went to pick up some peaches.

That's not what she told me. She said there was somebody there.

I don't know about that. I only know about the peaches.

Suit yourself, but the drum is busted. I can't play this drum.

You can, here. Listen. Give me that other stick.
What are you doing?
Here, listen to this paradiddle.

Ba-da ba-da ba-da ba-da.

Do that again!
Ba-da ba-da ba-da ba-da.
You must have fixed it. It sounds fine now.
I did not, it wasn't broken the first place.
Well, thanks for fixing it anyway!

Don't mention it.

I had not climbed a tree in years.

I had not climbed a tree in years, but it was part of one of those insane company bonding games that Wendy, the expensive team-building consultant, was putting us through in this morning's seminar. The idea is that to climb a tree looks like the job of a rugged individual, but in fact involves team work, especially if the climber in question abhors being arboreal.

Nevertheless, I had to go up there, and I was dressed in office casual, but was not interested in just trying the obvious, so I swapped to my commuter shoes, and up I went. It was not too difficult. After all, I was raised in the rainforest spearing howler monkeys from neighboring trees by myself until I was 11. Then they cut down the forest and sent me to Catholic school where we girls got reprimanded and the boys got molested. That was a real team building exercise, I'm telling you.

So here I am in the tree and Charles starts making monkey noises. That's pretty offensive! When I wasn't eating them, they were my best friends!

So Wendy was trying to calm down the situation and turn it into a "learning experience." It was not a big help that others were stuck and were having difficulty with their trees. I just kept climbing. "Go on, you little brown monkey!" taunted Charles. He's an important middle manager, and clearly proof of the Peter Principle.

What was that sound?

It was the quietest sound I have ever perceived. It can only have been heard in the pause between sentences, between paragraphs, and not aloud at all. It was a sound between the words of the voice in your head reading these sentences. In order to hear it, you have to both listen and not listen to make a space between the chatter of reading and thinking and to recognize it, fish and water style.

The very faintness of it makes you wonder, "what is making the quietest sound ever heard? Can you be sure it is even sound at all? How do you know you're hearing and not just thinking?"

Thinking. It's often imagined as a single stream of speech or sound. But how can that be? Thoughts do not arise serially, so the voice in your head is editing your thoughts so that other parts of the brain, parts used to language, can respond to it.

Meanwhile the Unspeakable and Unspoken thoughts clamor silently to be expressed. They cry to be realized in articulate speech in the silences between already expressed thoughts.

Dedicated to my friend Dr. Pauline Oliveros. Author's Note: I have tinnitus, a constant tone at about 10,600 Hz, and can't hear silence anymore.

The news anchor was not concerned about the news.

At this point, there was so little news that could be credibly reported that the whole idea of actually pronouncing the words on the nearly blank teleprompters seems pointless. In fact, even the usual anchor habit of teasing some upcoming story was not in the cards today.

So she sat in front of the camera and caught up on her Twitter feed. This was fine because it was, in fact, what her audience was doing. It would be 4 long minutes before the commercial break and the weather. In the control Booth, the director looked up from his Twitter feed to see that she was similarly engaged. He checked in for about 30 seconds, but decided to perhaps it was time to haul anchor.

Placing the spars in the capstan, the director and the A.D. set to work, singing this chant as the chain tightened around her ankles and lifted her out of her chair:

We work all day for our meager pay

Heave away, haul away!
We tweet and retweet as we LOL away!
LOL away, LOL away.

But tags are hashed and our checks are cashed.

Man the post, me mateys!

As she rose into the flies, the lighting and the cameras following her up, a new recruit was selected from steerage.

Bears have trouble with straws.

Hares have trouble with bras.

Snares have trouble with draws.

Chairs have trouble with claws.

Lairs have trouble with flaws.

Mayor's have trouble with saws.

Fairs have trouble with Awes.
Tears have trouble with jaws.
Cares have trouble with laws.
Pears have trouble with paws.

Hairs have trouble with drawers.

Wares have trouble with craws.

Queers have trouble with cause.
Heirs is have trouble with gnaws.
Flares have trouble with yaws.
Dares have trouble with pause.

Reassign the subjects and objects of these phrases, so they make more sense. You have 10 minutes and this will count for ten percent of the test.

The air in here seems strange.

I can't really breathe. The way toward the door is locked, and my feet don't want to move from where they were planted. In fact I don't even know if I have feet. Maybe I should take a look.

But breathing is important. I think I learned that in school. It has something to do with the diaphragm: moving it in and out.

I think I remember an experiment. I think there's a way to do this that is actually breathing.

There seems to be a tube stuck in my arm. Maybe there's a way to breathe through this tube!
I see - it's not really turned on, it's not really connected to anything. Let's see what else is in the room.

I think I remember breathing.

There have been times when I have breathed. In fact, I actually had friends who knew how. It's been a long time, but I think I remember having problems. For example, coughing. I think that's similar to sneezing. Nevertheless, coughing is something like breathing. Coughing - yes - and laughing! Guffawing in fact! I remember someone mentioning "Laughing out loud."

I don't know what that means. Maybe you can laugh "in soft" also? What possibilities.

I'm starting to get uncomfortable. I guess it has to do with my not breathing. How long have I been holding my breath?

And when was the last time I could whistle?

If I try hard, I bet I could stub my toe. Then, I would inhale violently, and that would be the start of breathing.

And then with the taste of air on my tongue, I could remember what it felt like to breathe, and then I wouldn't think the air in here was something strange.

I should have known.

I should have known from the smell of it. I should have known by the taste of it. It had gone bad, very, very bad. I'm told that the sacrifices that have sat around too long before being offered are not likely to be accepted by the gods, and I was really behind on sacrificing, and face it, nobody in this town will hire me if I don't go through the proper rituals.

Year after year of seasonal ritual has done nothing toward raising my standard of living. Housing is still expensive, and servants must be fed and we are one drought away from ruin. My debtors are stiffing me.

Yet, the prevailing narrative is "Appease the gods, damp their internecine rivalries, let them turn their attention to us who live in the world they control," but nothing seems to raise their consciousness! Should a god or goddess feel the urge to abduct a mortal and breed demigods, that seems the only time we mortals can influence fate. So it boils down to how seductive you can be to them and how good the sacrifice is. Sacrifice your dignity - which smells bad.

The odds of all of this coming back were small.

But I decided that anyway, here we were on our way to Cleveland when the Suburban got a flat tire. Walking out to inspect the damage, I saw it was worse than a flat tire. We'd run over some dice - the sharp kind. They were stuck deep in the tread, so I got out a lottery card, scratched it, lost, and then tried to use it to pry out the dice.

They were crusty with asphalt and gravel. I looked up and sure enough, there was a Grove of dice trees right by the highway. There ought to be a law! Oh wait, there was a law until two years ago, when I repealed it because of some persuasive convincing by the dice growers lobby. So I'm stuck here, with an SUV full of poker players, and I can't bluff off my way out of a situation.

I was wondering where the spare tire could be hiding. I opened up the door and the Gang were using it to prop up their steel poker table. Large piles of magnetically stabilized chips were stuck to the table. A smoke machine provided the atmosphere forbidden by health regulations. I was hoping I can entice some players - the losers - to come out and help change the tire.

But there wasn't much point to it. So I look for the roulette wheel and use that instead. What were the odds that would happen?

Thoughts?

Thoughts? Not one moment goes by when you're not thinking "thoughts," as you put it, "thinking". It's not "thinking" you're doing, your brain is bubbling with indigestion. How do I know? I don't have to be a mind reader. Wouldn't work in your case anyway, I can hear the gurgling, even though my hearing is not what it was.

So let's talk about these so-called "thoughts." First of all, are you positive that you understand some kind of "language." It's clear that you know nothing of the kind. Noises tumble from your open maw, but I wouldn't call that "language." You can hardly even get breathing right.

It's all because you're nothing like me.

I have two eyes. You may also have two eyes, I just can't see them too well, but I can smell you. I smell tobacco. I know tobacco. I've been smoking for 45 years. Honestly, it's all I can smell. So this is why I'm an expert.

I think you may also be able to sweat, but I always take care to wear gloves in case I get a splinter. You can't be too careful these days.

So, enough about this "thinking" as you claim to do. My evidence is solid against it.

Why does this red wine look green?

The answer is a simple application of physics. It's approaching at a rate fast enough so that the Doppler shift has turned the red wine to Green. Either that or some other color, and it's receding fast enough to become another red. Because we are observing the wine with the rather antique but still impressive 200-inch lens at Mount Palomar, we can take a few ancillary measurements and see what they can tell us.

For instance, we can compare the size and color of the wine as it was on April 7, 1972 to see if it's approaching or receding. Other records may reveal if it is accelerating or under the influence of other celestial bodies.

I read once it was considered inadvisable to pour the contents of a red wine bottle in the presence of a black hole. As the molecules in the liquid compress, it goes through an unwanted phase change, ruining its distinctive nose. Since then the wine is reduced to a fluid of electrons, it's not much use in making a sauce or providing refreshment. It's probably best to keep the wine moving at a relatively congruent velocity for purposes of consumption.

I couldn't help but notice each stair had a different rise.

It was actually quite obvious, because mounting a staircase is like a dance. There is a rhythm reenforced by the spacing of the risers which results in the pacing of the ascent and descent. So, should a rise's metrics act inconsistently, a step literally results in mis-step.

As I write this I'm accelerating toward one of those oddly paced steps. I have reached for the banister. I've slid betwixt the balusters. I twist, I tumble, but I have technically not fallen yet.

My toes are pointed downward. My nose is arcing skyward, my arms unfurl my coat like membranes of a flying squirrel. And then: the finial, heavy and oaken, was loosed from its newell. It was roughly the size of my head. In fact, it was making an attempt to replace my head.

I think I will just rest here a while and think a little. Just rest. Like treading water only treading treads.

Monday, December 21, 2020

Innumeracy, continued.

Here's a reminder of what one million is.

Thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand,

Thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand.

If it takes 6 seconds for you to say each line (reasonable), that's 10 minutes just for you to say what a million is in thousands.

It's the same amount of time with millions for a billion. Millions.

If you were still reading it in thousands, that's 16 2/3 hours.

=====

America is not the richest country in the world, it a poor and struggling country with a few

very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very,

very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, rich people.

Let The Air Out Slowly