Jazz, sardines, and tummy cramps.
That's right, listen to Miles Davis long enough and this happens.
Un Shimmer Sung
November 4, 2004
you want to hunt, then goddamn it, hunt
no pussyfooting here, toying with ideals
nor stepping up no program
nary a plan, nor method to your action
nor hunt without objective, every hunt a kill
be it body on the table or money in the till
and better be it still to never hunt at all
and ever be a-hunting
neutral recognition, recog in the action
smile deeper still for never needing hunting
taking instead fill from simply never needing
like the waterfall's lush motion
bending into pattern's veil, every spinning tale
of quotient to your breathing
rest within striation, catalogued in vision
no need to hunt, nor goddamned in the passion
pleasure in creation knowing when need comes
you've all along been hunting
Steel this and I'll jazz you up with trumpet.
Some indeterminate time later, when I've begun to think the above threat should have read, "Steel this and I'll jazz you up the trumpet," and am rolling other variations around in my head, I choke at dinner. Nothing in my mouth nor down me neck - instead I've suddenly caught one of the puns that unmitigated bastard Spider Robinson put in one of his Callahan books. For the most part I'm not one to curse while reading, but I find myself cussing out Spider with increasing regularity, and the choking *urk* is synonymous with my not blurting out something irreparable into my dinner, trachea or verbiage - it's a close call.
Trying to explain this to my folks is difficult since I'm currently fighting tense reversed peristalsis of the esophagus. *Urk* is clearly about as well as I'm going to do when I realize that the pun is in fact comprised of two elements. I am one of those people who in times of stress, will put food in my mouth. Thus it is I proceed to eject salmon-potato mash from my nose and stab myself in the eye with my ginger ale.
The key when projecting food is to constrain the disaster in as collected a manner as possible and then to say something dry and witty. I eye the remainders of my ginger ale, now contaminated most horribly with light pink potato and think, if I drink this immediately, perhaps no-one will notice. I do. I am mistaken. In the future I will remember my mom's friends are perceptive and trained EMTs.
There is no recourse now but to delicately wipe ginger ale from my eye and pretend that nothing at all has happened. And the damn pun has three parts. There's just no fairness to be had. In the end, I'm just happy I didn't put food anywhere other than in the glass, or create a noise louder than an *urk.* I deserve fabulous prizes. Instead, I'm now chain reading the rest of Spider's work because the pain can't possibly get any worse. Can it?
Forget that. Wren Din Din indeed. I'm in heaven, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
Un Shimmer Sung
November 4, 2004
you want to hunt, then goddamn it, hunt
no pussyfooting here, toying with ideals
nor stepping up no program
nary a plan, nor method to your action
nor hunt without objective, every hunt a kill
be it body on the table or money in the till
and better be it still to never hunt at all
and ever be a-hunting
neutral recognition, recog in the action
smile deeper still for never needing hunting
taking instead fill from simply never needing
like the waterfall's lush motion
bending into pattern's veil, every spinning tale
of quotient to your breathing
rest within striation, catalogued in vision
no need to hunt, nor goddamned in the passion
pleasure in creation knowing when need comes
you've all along been hunting
Steel this and I'll jazz you up with trumpet.
Some indeterminate time later, when I've begun to think the above threat should have read, "Steel this and I'll jazz you up the trumpet," and am rolling other variations around in my head, I choke at dinner. Nothing in my mouth nor down me neck - instead I've suddenly caught one of the puns that unmitigated bastard Spider Robinson put in one of his Callahan books. For the most part I'm not one to curse while reading, but I find myself cussing out Spider with increasing regularity, and the choking *urk* is synonymous with my not blurting out something irreparable into my dinner, trachea or verbiage - it's a close call.
Trying to explain this to my folks is difficult since I'm currently fighting tense reversed peristalsis of the esophagus. *Urk* is clearly about as well as I'm going to do when I realize that the pun is in fact comprised of two elements. I am one of those people who in times of stress, will put food in my mouth. Thus it is I proceed to eject salmon-potato mash from my nose and stab myself in the eye with my ginger ale.
The key when projecting food is to constrain the disaster in as collected a manner as possible and then to say something dry and witty. I eye the remainders of my ginger ale, now contaminated most horribly with light pink potato and think, if I drink this immediately, perhaps no-one will notice. I do. I am mistaken. In the future I will remember my mom's friends are perceptive and trained EMTs.
There is no recourse now but to delicately wipe ginger ale from my eye and pretend that nothing at all has happened. And the damn pun has three parts. There's just no fairness to be had. In the end, I'm just happy I didn't put food anywhere other than in the glass, or create a noise louder than an *urk.* I deserve fabulous prizes. Instead, I'm now chain reading the rest of Spider's work because the pain can't possibly get any worse. Can it?
Forget that. Wren Din Din indeed. I'm in heaven, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.