Gaia and the bee

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him in a thousand tongues of old) is almost awake. In the land between, there is a Grey mist all over, as slithering clocks melt away the final seconds of his delicious slumber.

Snooze.

Silence.

The clocks scatter and hide, waiting for their moment.

Five hundred and forty seconds have passed since the clock was last heard by mortal ear. A cold silence has since taken over the land, and M is dreaming of electric sheep, Tannhauser gate, and the shoulder of Orion.

Like a siren through the fog, the clock pierces the mornings with a recurring beep.

eeeep....eeeep....eEeEp...EEEEp...EEEEP....

Snooze.

Silence.

boob job

Ia looks across the water to the sunny hills peppered with little white settlements and little black knots of trees. So near, yet so far.

"Hot as an afternoon in hell, surely!," she tells herself.

waaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAmmmmmmmmmooooooooooooooooo..........

"WTF!@***%!!"

Big truck in the blasted blind spot.

"Stupid f***ing trucker!!"

(Don't) Wake me up before you pass out

M (also know as Dr. T, praise be unto his eternal seed) is content. He reflects on a life well lived. As the approaching light becomes brighter and hazier, he hears soothing music. A melody he has not heard before, but one that makes his heart sing.

M: " Goodbye, pleasant world."


Meanwhile, his Insignificant aide (also known as Ia, may a billion curses of fire unto her wretched offspring be!) almost falls off her chair. She has been feeling drugged ever since that infernal afternoon meal.

Ia: "Why the hell did I eat that shit?! oohhh... my stomach doesn't feel so good anymore. oohh.."

M: "Quiet! you two-pence whore. Let me pass on without your complaints."

Ia: " Apologies, sire...."

M: "..."

The music turns shrill, and the distant whine grows more menacing. M, waiting for the endless sleep, jumps four feet in the air and crouches under the white leather couch just as the vacuum cleaner nearly rips the hide off his tail.

Unprocessed

It looks old and mysterious. A small, dark disk, with spiral patterns.

Insignificant aide (also known as Ia, curses unto her and her ignorant lot): "Ooooh! It must be old"

M (Also known as Dr. T, Praise be unto him and his divine seed): "How do you know?"

Ia: "God must have created it"

M: "God is great. He does not have to create anything"
Ia: "But she must have created it because she wanted to, not because she needed to"
M: "God is great. He has no gender"
Ia: "All right. It must have created it, then"
M: "..."
Ia: "Can we eat it now?"
M: "God cannot be eaten"
Ia: "How do you know so much about God?"
M: "It says so in The Book"
Ia: "Oh."

Long pause.

Ia: "Look, theres a book"
M: "Its not The Book"
Ia: "Who wrote The Book?"
M: "Nobody"
Ia: "Is it a printed book, then?"
M: "Yes"
Ia: "Does it have sharp corners?"
M: "God does not have corners"
Ia: "What do we chew on, then?"

Longer pause.

Ia: "Look! Its moving!. Oh no! The window is open!"
M: "God does not... what window!??! Oh F*&%$!!"

The beetle spreads its wings and flies out the window.

Dinner has left the building.

Ia: "Oh well. Hey, theres another small, old looking thing! Ooooh! It must be old. God must have created it"
M: "God is great. He does not have to create anything"
Ia: "Looks like poop, actually"
M: "What looks like poop?"
Ia: "That thing. over there"
M: "God does not create poop"
Ia: "Why not? does it not eat?"

Kettle starts to whistle.

M and Ia run for cover.

M: "Phew! Must've been the devil's handiwork"
Ia: "Must have"

Long pause.

Ia: "Ooooh!...Look."

lawful Intercept

(Stoli + Rose's Grenadine + Rose's lime juice)

Dance of Death

P flits around the land, here now, there tomorrow, back here again the next week.

As mortals grow older, celebrate life and its steadily approaching debilitation and end, P celebrates with them, but answers a higher calling, drifting through space but steady in time, like a cork waiting in a river.

It is Him

M (also known as Dt. T, praise be unto him), has a vision. It is a beautiful Sunday evening, as M seeks a shelter and food. As his stomach leads him to wondrous places, his eyes catch sight of an unassuming figure leaning against a lonely tree. A couple of young ones play around him with the golden light of a fading day diffusing in their locks. They play in the shade of his presence, never looking towards him, but always knowing they are safe.

M does not recognize the figure, but is drawn to the sight with an instinctive tingle. The cloth might be poor, but the wearer is not. M looks into his eyes.

M knows.

The world is quiet for a moment.

M knows.

M nods.

It is him. It is him.

It is the Lord of the Fruit.

To Brea or not to Brea

M (also know as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his immortal seed) moves uneasy this evening. He cannot see Brea (also know as B, whose name, it is said, was spoken by the Mother herself in the early ages) but he senses her presence. She whispers not a breath, but M knows she rests in the damp depths that light rarely sees.

Mr. Hyde?

Its is a long day, a day whose memory shall be immortal.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise unto him be) ascends from the blue smoke, a proud countenance.

M: " Henceforth, I shall have two faces."

His Insignificant Aide (Ia, curses unto her immoral soul) gasps. The sight is breathtaking.

Ia: "gasp!"

Clear as the afternoon sky, M has two faces.

Oman Atna Ug. X-Ray vision for all.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto his God-fearing soul that bows to no one but the one just God who hates the hippie- liberal- homosexual- abortionist- atheist- man- from- ape- baboons and the unbelieving heathen billions out east that are destined for limbo despite their conservative- heterosexual- pro- life- fundamentalist- man- from- pixie- dust- death- to- all- infidel beliefs) is hungry.

His stomach growls as he mutters choice obscenities under his breath.

It should be the law, he thinks to himself. It should be the law of the land, the law of God even, that food should be offered to him and his lot before the sun is nigh.

The infidels hide in the dark. He knows they pretend to sleep, to not exist. He knows of their lies, deceit and their empty, Godless souls; he has seen their axis of evil.

Ia (Insignificant aide, curses onto her ignorant lot), meanwhile, lacks the high moral fiber that she so desperately needs to aid digestion.

Ia: " Why not that bowl over there on the counter top, Sire?"

M snickers over his growling stomach.

M: " Harrumph!... you two-pence whore. You touch that bowl and the infidels have already won. That is what they want of you, debauched woman!."

Ia: " Sire.. I was only concerned about your well-being. We are starving, O esteemed leader!. Maybe we should call out to them, maybe they will feed us."

M: "Starving? pshaw!! Can not you see that we are overfed, you fat cow?! Did not not see the large sign that proclaimed "DINNER ACCOMPLISHED" about three days ago?. Do you not believe in Him?. If you don't believe in Him, you are his enemy, you bag of filth."

Ia: "..."

Ia: " Yes sire. I see it!! I see it now. Dinner accomplished. Your greatness, I no longer feel hunger. In fact, your esteemedness, I no longer feel my stomach or my toes. Hallelujah!! Praise be to him!!."

M: "Him? Who him?"

Ia: "You, your Majesty."

M: "Oh, him."

Blue Label

The passage of time has been dimmed by the years gone by, but the warm, heavy, air awakens M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him). Nothing has changed. The roiling clouds tear the sunshine to to shreds, and the heat seems to rise from the very bowels of hell.

Fan: "Nice shirt, man. Where'd you buy it?"

M: "Oh. Yeah. this one. yeah..."

Let there be a thousand words

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his seed) watches the afternoon waste away into an uneasy Sunday evening . The cycle repeats, week after fleeting week whose brevity belies an endless life, just like the warm desert afternoon withers into the chill of a starry night, only to reveal another sunrise.

M is beyond cycles. M has no beginning, nor has he an end.

M is.

M: "..."

His Insignificant Aide (also known as Ia, curses unto her and her ignorant lot) too is beyond worldly cycles. Just as soon as she can get to this juicy hummingbird.

Cluster two

uhluhtC stirs. In his own words:

uhluhtC languishes on the Eastern shores, biding his time. For his time will come. When He shall return to reclaim what is rightfully His. But for now He sleeps. And He languishes. And He curses. Terrible, unspeakable invocations that if felled upon a mortal's hearing would drive him to madness.

Cluster One

The evil Dr. R (Also known as uhluhtC, upon whose name darkness feeds) lies shrouded in the steamy lands lands beyond the eastern sea. All is forgotten for a while, and the earth trudges on. As the rivers flow through long days, however, there is talk of his numerous insidious shapes seen in the woods at twilight, of missing sheep, and of the unmistakably large proboscis. Hushed voices tell stories of old that seem to feed his power, and a sense of quiet panic builds in the valley like a slow fog on a summer night.

The night impends.

uhluhtC dreams.

unluhtC rises.

Gangs of 2214

M (also known as Dr. T, praises unto him and his divine seed) and Ia stand proud on the glistening cobblestones this morning. As the early fog is swallowed by the morning sun, they see them: their tattered clothing dyed with blood, their open wounds festering with plump maggots, and their faces keen to feast on whatever walks in their path.

Insignificant aide(Ia, curses unto her) moves back an imperceptible step, while M stands steady. Ia's back tightens, her hair stands on end, and she is ready for battle. She knows, she has heard from M's divine wisdom, of the horrors these illegals unleash upon unsuspecting children of self-respecting people. She has heard of the slithering children they bear, little monsters that leave a child all but dead in the dark. She has heard how they feed on the very earth till she runs dry and bare. She has heard of their foreign tongues, ones that spit forth tenacious curses.

"Not today", M whispers resolutely under his breath. "You will not take from me what is mine. I have worked this land since time was young."

Ia: "Sire, you are brave. Your courage lends me courage. Have you really worked on this land that long?"

M: "Of course, you ignorant fool. My grandfather chewed on someones digits and eyeballs for this land. Some silly animal-name fellow, all ruddy and with feathers in his long hair."

Should I stay or should I go (now)

Bossj: "Less defect, more perfect. chop, chop."

M mauls BossJay.

Bossj: "!@#@!#$~!@#!@#$****"

Pain ensues.

Bossj is tamed.

He can now see.

==[Canadian national anthem goes here]==
==[3 seconds]==
==[Fade]==

Fire pits

M (also known as Dr. T, upon whose name the heavens dance) sits regal at the window.

It is a marvelous spring day outside the double glaze, as the blossoms set sail on the sunny breeze across the parking lot. From the corner of his eye, he looks at Ia, now gorging herself silly with the crunchy delights from the red earthen cornucopia.

He looks out again, away from Ia, this time beyond the blossoms and the mustard flowers onto the grassy hills east.

M: "You know that's not good for you"

Ia: chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp gulp chomp chomp chew chomp crackle chomp chomp gulp chomp chomp

M: "The tall one poisons us slowly with that sinful food. He wishes we eat, so he can watch us slide down agonizing deaths."

Ia: chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp gulp

M: "To each, her own."

Ia: bbllaaaaaccchhhhhrrrrtchrrrkkkk.....

M: "I must say you are smarter than I give you credit for. You've saved yourself from a slow and painful death. This brown puke you just threw up on the carpet should get you killed by the tall one in no time."

Reverse Split

Insignificant Aide (Ia, curses unto her and her wretched lot) has given up all worldly desires for the day. "Take all you wish, if it makes you happy." False accusations slide off her back, like Grey rain on a dark crow. She knows the hour will come when all will be leveled.

For now, all she wants is to lift herself out of this claustrophobic crevice into which the retarded M (Also known as Dr. T, a million praises be unto him) pushed her. And little does she care that he fell in himself.

The beautiful one calls from beyond the land of darkness. Her wispy voice, ethereal, lithe, glides down the darkness, bringing hope to Ia. The beautiful one is come. She brings light, hope and a chance of rescue. Ia is saved.

Collect Call

M (also known as Dr. T, a thousand praises unto him) grunts a low guttural in his sleep. As he sweats in the dark heat, he curses the unseen enemy. He does not dare open the window, though the sweet fragrance of death tempts. The reaper will have to wait.

M scratches himself behind the ear, and sinks back into sleep.

Emergency

It is something no living eyes have ever seen. M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his seed) is on a hunt.

He approaches quietly from downwind, keeping himself in the shadows, where his inky coat blends his form with the darkness. His gaze is locked, his muscles taut. In the blink of an eye, he pounces on his unsuspecting prey. The shock paralyzes the hunted, who by now can only manage feeble involuntary spasms. M holds steady. The label hangs limp as he quickly drains the life out of the woolly floormat and carries it in his fangs.

His eyes blaze with pride. The doormat is no more. Praise be to the liberator!!


Uh-oh.. here comes the stupid tall biped. damn! who starched his underwear? God save me from these ignorant ingrates!

poverty

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his tail) is content. His memory equity is high. His thoughts from before the golden age are today worth a large fortune. He taunts his Insignificant Aide (also known as Ia, curses unto her and her ears).

M: "What are your thoughts worth? eh? What are they worth? hm? Tell me, you spineless worm! What is the value of memories?"

Ia is oblivious to the world around her. She continues rolling around on the carpet, playing furiously with the virgin white iPod cable. The evening sun shines across the February sky, lighting the dust in the air into a million tiny sparks as they rise from the carpet and from Ia's glossy coat. For her, nothing exists. She is in heaven, with sunlight on her tummy and a toy in her hands.

M: "Harrrummphh!! you two-pence whore! What would you know about the value of memories. I bet you don't know your equities from your assets."

Ia chews at the iPod cable. The music never stops. The sun never sets.

black hood

Warm brownies do not wait for black hooded cars, neither in Burlingame, nor in Berkeley.

"What the f*** have I been smoking?"

Super cup

M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his seed) switches on his new five-hundred and seven inch super high definition plasma laser blue ray 1080081i television hooked up to a receiver the size of a furnace, with speakers hanging from every single corner of the windowless room and a sub-woofer that turns the couch into a massage chair, to watch a five foot tall bundle of talent, formerly known as [[unprintable unicode character]] sing old songs to show off his solid vocals to a large crowd in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Afterwards, M watches some very funny programming interspersed with conversations between large men in fancy suits, heavy makeup, and some with garish ties. The men furiously over-analyze a sporting event with the firm belief that reckless and incessant usage of jargon combined with forceful, spit-shower talking will justify their disproportionately large paychecks.

There are heart warming tales told by teary-eyed mothers of their underprivileged kids who have overcome supreme obstacles and unbelievable odds to save the world on this, the holiest of holy days.

Also shown are some scenes of football, played in a Florida downpour.

M's Insignificant Aide (Ia, curses unto her and her ignorant lot) ventures a hesitant question, after waiting long for the right moment: "What is this super cup XLI sire?"

M's grip on the remote tightens instinctively. He turns around and glares at Ia with his glowing eyes.

Ia is atomized in an instant.

Obtuse

M (Also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his divine seed): "How dare you accuse be of obtuse writing, you two-pence whore!!? What the f*** have you been smoking?"

Insignificant Aide (also known as Ia, curses unto her and her ignorant lot): "..."

M: "Do you know what I am? Have you any clue of my powers? I could have you vaporized in less than seventeen seconds, your worm!"

Ia: "Not this time, my lord. Not this time. I apologize for my lack of prudence."

2-dollar bill

There is snow on the peaks this afternoon. M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) , however, is unfazed. His lack of a fear response heartens Ia, who trudges silently beside him, albeit a step behind.

It is as if his days are endless in number and his afternoons go on forever. M fears nothing, it seems, not even his voluminous stomach, which now hangs pendulous, reaching for mother earth. He feeds it with the quiet confidence of one who has seen worse times.

Ia interrupts his meal. "Tell me, wise one, why do our lives require constant movement?". M pauses, looks into the distance, beyond the frosty peaks, and thinks hard, as his jaws keep chewing. Ia, impatient, continues "Why cannot we be at the happy place forever?". M hears, but continues deeper down the sea of thought, all the way down to the murky depths where the conscious mind makes love to the sub-conscious.

M burps loudly, and they continue their journey again, their heads bowed, their noses to the earth, their steps conquering the icy mountains.

The future looks as bright as the dazzling afternoon.

White Room

"In the white room with black curtains near the station.
...
Ill wait in this place where the sun never shines;
Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves
...
Ill sleep in this place with the lonely crowd;
Lie in the dark where the shadows run from themselves."

-- Jack Bruce and Pete Brown.

Ia waits among the millions of restless devotees who have waited days on end for a sighting of the lord. Their chants reverberate in the endless room. They sense that the moment is now near, the hour of revelation is here. Their hearts pound as they see visions of the lord of the fruit and the magical new harvest he will bless them with.

There is a reverence for the lord for the place they choose to wait, and for the wait itself. For the lord's words this day will forever alter the course of universe. The lord will deliver them from whatever it is they need to be delivered from.

At last, the bright lord descends from the sky. His words are not words.

They feel him speak;
a gleam in his eye;
not an utterance is missed;
not a syllable is a lie.

The lord is good,
the lord is clean,
the lord is a genius,
the lord is supreme.

The lord then unveils the monolith. All is quiet. Hearts stop beating, minds stop thinking.

A cuboid of divine proportions, black as the endless night; dark as the pits of Mordor. It is beyond comprehension, the quiet yet immense power this small device exerts over the minds of so many.

The lord is good,
the lord is clean,
the lord is a genius,
the lord is supreme.

At the lord's touch, the monolith springs to life. There is a collective gasp of admiration, as though his devotees will now burst into a billion little pieces, as though there is not enough admiration and devotion in the universe to shower this lord with. The puny lives of the teeming millions of devotees all seem to amount to naught in the face of this wondrous monolith.

It is the most divinely beautiful rock in the whole world.

Praise the lord of the fruit.

cycle

M is tired of the endless cycle. Of arbitrary days chosen to be celebrated as markers of the new year. This time around, M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his divine seed) has chosen to sail through unscathed. Through the mindless drinking, the inane revelry, the consumerist evil. M scoffs at the list of Ia's new year resolutions, written neatly on yellow paper with a permanent marker.