Refracted Neurons

The interview didn’t go very well. Well, that was almost a misstatement of facts. The interview didn’t even happen. Alys sat for over an hour in a vacant cube, wondering if he had been forgotten. Certain that something was amiss, he again approached the front desk, “Excuse me, but-“ The front door opened with a bang, “I’m late,” gasped the woman in a skirt and matching blazer. She frantically glanced at her phone, then scurried down the hall. The receptionist watched the woman go, shaking her head in dismay, “I would reschedule you, but the same thing will happen.” “Was that Jessica White?” Alys followed her with his eyes. She had dark, fluffy hair and a strange little hopping jog to her step. He had but the merest impression of her face, anxiety etching it into rabbit-like nervousness. “Yes, and if you want to work here, you better follow her.” Alys felt sure that someone would stop and question him as he wound his way through the building, searching for Jessica’s...

One of the books I finished recently was Exploding the Phone by Phil Lapsley . It’s a book about phone phreaks, a topic I got interested in when I was toodling around a website on defunct computers. I learned some things I didn’t know; like how a large number of phreaks were blind, and how the first switchboard operators were teenage boys. But the thing that surprised me the most was that it’s very likely I’ve never used an analogue phone. By the time I was old enough to remember talking on the phone, all the systems had been converted to digital. I know I’ve complained before, maybe even ranted, possibly even on this blog about how digital sound differs from voice. Sometimes I worry that society as a whole has forgotten what people actually sound like when they sing. It’s different, right? I’m not the only one who’s noticed this, yes? Listen to someone singing in a cathedral or what the heck, pull out your record player. My point is that the sound, the undigitized sound...

Well, it's finally happened; my house has been tagged. Check out this nonsense: It looks vaguely like a Minion. The perpetrator of this crime had his charcoal confiscated.  Charcoal, which I may have brought home from the beach after demonstrating how to use it.  Possibly. ~/~ In spite of the longer days, summer has somehow seemed busier than its sleepy cousins.  I mean, there's sprinklers and bounce houses around every corner.  Who the heck can write while being sprayed with water or dragged into an inflatable castle.  I really didn't think they allowed adults in those things, but apparently if your child is terrified enough, they let you in.  I would try to be a little more reassuring about the bouncy-castle thing, but they are actually unsafe.  Most accidents involve the the bounce house blowing away like some modern Wizard of Oz.  I'm not entirely sure if you could squash a witch with one, but you might be able to suffocate ...

You say that glass, unbroken never glitters, that shorelines would stand empty, wont for sand. But my love is brittle, as pure as soda-lime, solid as the breakers that glisten on the sea. ************************************************** Now that the weather is sort of nice-ish again, I've been sneaking down to the beach whenever I can.  I don't know if I can even call it sneaking, since I'm carrying a bag of sand toys and cajoling two toddlers across a train-trestle/bridge thing (if you've been to Carkeek Park, you know what I'm talking about).  We actually ran into a traffic jam last time, with a row of twenty toddlers all trying to go down those see-through steps at once.  I've started working on a sort of sequel to Egregious .  So if you enjoyed the original, or you like sci-fi/fantasy mash-ups with a dash of horse carriages, check it out.   I am really working on making my writing more focused, and not being concerned about ...

I’ve always been entertained by people who have a last name that sounds like a first name.  My absolute favorite though, is people who have the same first and last name, like the poet William Carlos Williams.  I can imagine exactly how that sort of thing happens.  I had to fill out paperwork right after giving birth, and let me tell you, my children came really close to being named Dill Dill. Anyway, speaking of William Carlos Williams, I heard a story about him that’s too good not to repeat.  I’ve never seen this story written anywhere and I can’t remember who told it to me.  To be clear: I’m about to spread gossip about a dead guy. William Carlos Williams was not the sort of poet who spent his life locked in a room writing poetry.  No, dude had a day job.  He was a doctor, and apparently worked as one until his death.  This should be pretty familiar to anyone who is creative; we live a sort of dual existence.  Perhaps Bill Bill (if I m...

When Petro was young, there had been a rope, anchored to a iron bar near the sill of his window.  When he grew bored, he would climb down the rope and play in the forest. As he grew older, he stayed outside of the tower longer, wandering under the canopy of trees, following the specks of light as they swayed on the forest floor.  Each time they led him farther, until he found himself standing at a clearing, facing what he assumed to be a massive stone tower. With a sense of awe, he approached it, resting his hand on its rough face. The stone was warm under the midday sun, and he leaned against it, pressing his face to the rock.  He was so enchanted, that he didn’t see the soldier approaching him. “Who goes there?” the soldier called out. Petro jumped away from the wall, “I meant no harm.  I was just admiring your tower.” “Tower?” the soldier’s face was bemused, his right hand grasping the haft of his sword. Petro pointed at the stones.  They seem...

At first Eloy didn’t know what he’d found. It was behind the set of risers he was helping to move, a square box of a machine with a viewing screen and a wheel of sorts on its front. He knew it was old because it was covered in dust and the metal was painted a peculiar avocado green. Elita, his twin found him wiping the front of it with his sleeve. “You’re in trouble again,” she lit into him without preamble, her dark eyes darting around the dim storage room, “Mr. Samael was asking where you were and saying you would get a zero for the day.” “It says ‘Microforms Reader,’” Eloy sneezed, then looked up at Elita, “Like tiny forms? Or like micro phone? Like some early sound equipment?” “There’s no way anyone will believe that you were sitting here all class staring at a Microfilm Machine,” Elita poked her finger inside a cardboard box, “Hey, I think this is the tapes that go in it.” She opened the box and removed a reel of tape, a quarter of the size of an old-fashioned theater...