DC's Writers Workshop #8: Nick Brook's 'faces pushed against the glass' (Day 2, of two)

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Nick Brook: 'What I would love from the days is some questions I can reflect on in both terms of the style and the story. I really want this work to challenge me as much as the reader.'

faces pushed against the glass.

words Nick Brooke artwork by flit.

(continued from yesterday)


Every son wants to be just like his Father when he is younger; LIFE CHANGES; Then the son does not even like his Father. LIFE CHANGES. A hatred for his very being and existence burns inside and fuels raging furies; but that lies ahead, it is not for now. The father looks towards his son; his son smiles at him; there is a light in his eyes when he smiles, a light of admiration and love. LIFE will CHANGE.

One day that light will die before the Father’s eyes; LIFES CHANGES;

-------------‘what happened to me, happened a long time ago and there’s nothing I can do about it now’. thinks the Father;

I AM NOT SPARTICUS

-------------------------I AM NOT SPARTICUS

-----------------------------------------I AM NOT SPARTICUS

I AM NOT SPARTICUS

--------------------------I AM NOT SPARTICUS

-----------------------------------------I AM NOT SPARTICUS

-------------------I AM NOT SPARTICUS

-----------------------------------------I AM NOT SPARTICUS

At this thought tears form in the Father’s eyes and run down his cheeks.

‘I am alone, a coward’ the Father mutters; ‘alone’

‘I am here now’ say’s his son taking his Father’s hand in his.

I AM NOT ME thinks the Father as he cries

I AM NOT ME

I AM NOT ME

This is not me

I NEVER WAS

YOU CREATED THIS

In wheat fields all across Northern France POPPIES GROW AND BLOOM IN THE golden fields of wheat; The golden wheat waves in the winds, forming swirling patterns, patterns that give hope to the living; In movement there is life and life contains hope. The poppies red push through to remind of the blood soldiers slaughtered left as battles raged around them. The POPPIES scream ‘remember us’.

The dead colour our lives, they push through among the living, the dead do not die they form and misshape the living.

The Father watches as his son pushes out his lips with his breath and blows the flowers petals, they scatter against the force, blown by the force of his breath they travel up and then caught on a breeze to fly before falling to the ground. Everything falls in its own time, thinks the Father.

The road they had walked today had been rubble, sand and cement ground down, to a dust and powder, its surface uneven their passage uncertain. Shells of houses stood, walls blown away, their rooms exposed, bed linen, toys, books and clothes the only reminder that once this had been a place like any other place. Laughter, tears, hope, abandonment, love, hate, boredom were all here once. Now all is just a shell to indifference, intolerance and greed;

The son pulls another flower from the ground, his red lips blow and again the petals are blown, by his force, his violence, away from the flowers stem and again they rise on the breeze before falling. Is this how we learn violence thinks the father?

Does violence start as a game?

Again his son pulls a flower from the ground, his Father focuses intently on his sons lips;

Industrial landscapes serve to abuse; to re-define our emotional states, they overwhelm and remind us all of how small and insignificant we are;

LEAST WE ACT;

LEAST WE ACT;

There is a constant need to communicate externally, we ignore the internal, too painful the past, immediacy is the new drug, it dulls thoughts and senses, lives lived in the future;

Red, Full, Moist a place of future pleasures, a kiss, kissing, a bite, biting, a chew and chewing, a suck and sucking, a lick and licking, all to come for his sons lips, a future maybe, a sign of hope; PLEASURE is a PRINCIPAL PERHAPS; Bodies as yet unknown, people, boys, girls all unknown who will feel the touch of those lips, the caress of them, the love, hate, passion and violence that will be communicated through them. Who will feel their desire? WHO?

When the traffic starts to merge into one it is time to take another path, walk another road, the father takes his sons hand and guides him away from the path they are on, the traffic less now;

‘Kiss me’ the father say’s to his son and his son stands and walks towards him. Lips placed on his cheek he feels the pressure and pleasure of his sons kiss.



The force of the explosion knocked me from my feet, when I again stood my eyes were bleeding, every vein burst, I cried tears of blood; FOR DAYS I WEPT, AS IF I KNEW;

A wife; left; beautiful and young, to protect my son I left beauty and then beauty died as all does.

As we left and walked away from our house a butterfly flew along behind us and at our shoulders, does it remember I wonder how heavily we left, our hearts remaining in that house, does the butterfly remember my son pulling against our direction of travel, the direction of safety, does the butterfly remember how we both cried as we walked, does it remember, does beauty ever remember or does it flit from one thing to another , distracted?

Was its beauty sullied by our tears, was the butterfly less beautiful to be burdened?

Did the butterfly die along with my love?

Contamination complete; Animals only exist in songs now;

--my son sings as we walk;

‘with a woof, woof here

and a woof, woof there;

here a woof

there a woof

everywhere a

Woof woof;

Sing Daddy sing ’ he shouts as he dance in front of me;

So we sing and slowly the beat starts to move through our bodies and we move as to dance, then we dance, holding hands we ring a ring roses in a circle, faster and faster we sing and faster and faster we turn

--until we fall

He laughing

Me crying;

There should be no music here;

He crawls over to my side and wraps his arm over my body; he gets onto all fours ‘Woof, woof’ he barks and pants like a dog;

‘Do you remember our dog’, he asks; as he lays his head on my chest

And I do remember the dog and a kitchen table laid for tea and bacon slices with fresh eggs and holding bacon in one hand for the dog to eat, while with my other hand covering my mouth to communicate to my son;

Sssshhhhhhhh...Don’t tell, our secret;

Our secret now a bruise;

We disappear inside secrets;

There is no solace in them;

No comfort

In secrets we run from the truth, we kill it, we run from the lies, lies presented as truths to make the secret safe, all is secret, we run from the truths presented as lies to preserve the power of the secret, all is secret, all is lost.

INNOCENCE AND LOVE WERE KILLED now there is only this moment and the next and the next forever......a loveless existence, a hope that time will dull and remove the pain, secrets past walk with us along our future paths and roads, unseen, they whisper in our ear, ‘remember me’.




The Father and Son sleep under a tree shaded from the sun;

The Father sleeps;

His Son sleeps;

DO THEIR DREAMS MERGE?

AS ONE;

Do the dead remember us, is that the grief in death that we are forgotten.

‘Don’t like the life, these gardens of the night, consume and kill the soul and body’ the adolescent angel had said to him before the Father pushed his cock into the angel’s ass.

A body vulnerable, young, still developing, still growing, bent, a sheen of sweat and desire covering him, he fucked the angel with a distain and malevolent violence leaving the angel battered and bruised, cut from the rope tied around his neck.

The angel’s body his domain, a kingdom to command, his will; Dark

Driven by desire and longing and hatred and keen to be cruel as cruel as his captures, hands around neck as orgasms burst shook the last oxygen from his body until blackout, the pit to fall into, down until piss revived him, warm, sweet smelling piss, his saviour, he awakes to see the officer stood over him, naked, hard again, the look of desirous death in his eyes.

Dragged to wall and chained;

Arms tied above his head he hangs naked

Muscles burn against the constraint and ache;

There is no respite against his own weight the officers bayonet traces and travels across his body, outlining each rib down finally the bayonet tip pieces skin his blood runs down his stomach onto cock, sucked hard to erection by officer who gulps as the blood mixes with come;

His head hangs down defeated by the pain to muscles

Erection defiant as bayonet is pushed into his ass, alive and hard he defies the death the officer cannot bring himself to administer.

in death are we forgotten.

‘my body is yours to own and

RUIN’

The officer pushes bayonet further inside, the blood flows down legs, a knife cuts between toes, and the blood merges;

My body your domain

Decays from

Sorrows sullied memory

‘don’t like the life’ the angel had said

This life, that life, then had been my saviour;

I honour it, it kept me alive;

The Father dreams, the Son dreams, under the tree shaded from the sun.

DO THEIR DREAMS MERGE?

My son?

A hostage?

To my mis-fortune?

Do we merge?

As One?

There is no colour.




Breathless from the whip, on my knees, naked, back bleeding with fresh cuts bleeding the blood seeps and runs, the officer pulls my hair to force my head, there will be no submission, my eyes look into his;

There is no defiance only LOVE.

‘you may not get out of here alive, if so you will be one of the lucky ones’ he says; ‘but if you do live you will be one of the unlucky ones, for you a lifetime of memories miserable that the dead will not be forced to confront and feel, for the dead there will be only the rot of the flesh for those who live; A deeper rot, a rot of the spirit and soul, until you force yourself to say ‘so what’, and then all will be lost to you, you will have become one of us’.

He pushes his weight backwards and brings his leather heeled boot to my face; he grinds its heel into my chin before crashing it into my face.

I FALL

I FALL

INTO

Fantasies where everybody cries;

Fantasies where children bleed and cry there is no hold of love that could ever comfort them again, they are completely destroyed, of babies in cribs covered in come, baby’s used to rub against erect hard spurting cocks, their small eyes sting, they are blinded from the semen squirt spilt, girls with legs spread apart, the knife carves a wider, longer vagina for a party of five, young boys, small genitals burnt, naked made to lay along dining tables for the use as an ashtray, cigarette and cigar burns trace the evening progress on the pale smooth skins along with the oozing lines of dried semen.

The children have dark circles under their eyes, there is no peace;

The sick child inside me directs this cruelty with a crystal precision;

IT’S A WILD WILD RIDE

DEATH RATTLE RIDE RUMBLE

CONTAMINATION

COMPLETE

I ROT AS I LIVE


CIVILISATION IS IREDEEMABLE.

No actions can avail the things the Father has seen, the things he has witnessed, the things done unto him, the forcible taking of his body and mind too far the wounded child inside screams for a justice undeliverable.

the wounded child screams;

‘so what’.






The Father and Son sit opposite each other at a table, simple food laid before them, it steams and has a sweet fragrance; They have been quietly waiting it’s service, as the last bowl is placed on the table the son looks deep into his Father eyes and asks;

‘Why do we have eyes’?


‘to cry with son’,


‘Why do we cry Daddy’?


‘Because there s always sorrow and sorrow makes the devil enter into our blood and through our blood he flows, he pulses, he runs through us, he lives in our hearts and he’s right when he say’s; The wise blood flows, wasted, the blind do not see, the lame do not walk and the dead stay that way, dead, The Church of Our Lord is a Lie son, The Lord has no gaze upon us. Remember always beware the false prophets who come to you in sheep’s clothing, for inwardly they are ravening wolves, what I am about to receive for saying that son, make myself truly thankful.

Amen.


One last thing’


‘Yes Dad’


‘Be yourself, Find yourself. Listen to your heart. Listen to your inner voice. Follow your nature and never be afraid to encounter your unknown self because that is where you truly dwell, my son that is where you truly dwell’.

And than they return to silence and eat.

And as they eat the Father thinks of the night still ahead;

The bathing of his son, hands soapy washing the day from his sons skin, to clean and renew for the day to come tomorrow, for his son there is a tomorrow;

Settling him for sleep where, what?

Watching over him as he falls to a place where he will encounter his unconscious unknown;


Only the weak survive the night for they truly lack nights dark inspirational passions, night feeds on dark souls gilded bright by sin and decadences past and future, sin so dark, exquisite in all its forms, sharp, driven, clear, a pure force of will and imagination, a perfect harmony of met and unmet desires, my commitment to desire, to the night is strong, my commitment is total, take me.

The Father shuts his eyes as he eats, chewing he remembers mouths and tongues and teeth, flesh and fluids, saliva running from greedy mouths, desirous mouths, hateful and loving mouths, always with the mouths it started, lips thin, lips full, he remembers and hardens as he does; his son eats, chews his mouth for now innocent;

flesh for food to appease appetites corrupt, the longing never stopped;

flesh like food, food never like flesh; there is no substitute;

the moment future still when appetite will command desire unknown for now but the knowledge still that appetites are always appeased.

THERE IS A HUNGER DEEP;

EYES TO CRY AND MOUTHS TO SEDUCE AND LIE AND TASTE DARK DESIRES A SON SHOULD ALWAYS HONOUR HIS Father.

Men act, women meet the needs, children obey to learn to become men and women there is pain.

through pain we learn a downward spiral of escalating desires;

forget, forget, forget, forget, regret, forget, regret.

‘don’t like the life’ the angel calls from across time;

‘don’t like the life’.

I drag the weight of twenty dead boys behind me, they are forever there; The Father thinks as he watches his son play at the river’s edge, hands tucked into his arm pits to make the shape of wings, he flaps his arm/wings and runs in the shallow water throwing back his head, a human boy goose he plays.

I played once thinks the Father, I did play;

the weight of twenty dead boys bares down upon him

I am never alone as my son is now, in a world of his own creation; I am never more than my own flesh;

Does abuse and evil communicate itself across generations?’

Does it;

Shout

Scream

Cut

Bite

Batter

And

Fuck

It’s way into our very core until we become abuse until we become evil;

The father turns away unable to watch his son play any longer; Images from a perhaps future too hard to bare;

He see’s fields of grass and then some houses;

Belongings are more important than belonging he shuts his eyes to remember, remember when he learnt and understood his place as a belonging;

When he understood his place and value in one moment in time;

Naked he stands in a gymnasium; at its very centre, vulnerable and alone; he covers his genitals;

FROM WHAT?

The officer leads in another boy, naked, and stands him against the wall at the far end and summons him to stand next to the boy;

Naked he walks, hearing his footsteps against the wooden floor; an echo calls back to him as he walks;

We stand together but are not together the cost here of together is too high; We stand alone together.

The deeper the Father thinks the more hallucagenic he becomes.

WITH ONE HAND THE OFFICERS FEELS my BODY, my NAKED SKIN, HE PINCHES MY NIPPLES HARD, I SCREAM AND HEAR ANOTHER SCREAM RETURN, THE OTHER BOY, THE OFFICER HAS PUSHED THREE FINGERS INSIDE HIS ASS, NOW MY ASS, I PUSH AGAINST THE PAIN TO MAKE MY SURVIVAL SWEETER, THE OFFICERS FINGERS TWIST INSIDE ME, I HARDEN AGAINST HIS CRUELTY; PAIN WITHDRAWN HE WALKS IN FRONT OF US AND INSPECTS, TWO BOYS BREATHING HARD TRYING TO PUSH DOWN DEEP INSIDE THE FEAR, TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY. WITH HIS CANE HE SLAPS BOTH OUR HARD COCKS, A RED MARK/LINE APPEARS, WE SCREAM, SCREAM TO SURVIVE, HE WITHDRAWS HIS PISTOL FROM HIS BELT AND LOOKS AT ME;

‘who lives’ he asks me;

‘me’ I mutter; MY HEAD BOWED ASHAMED AND AROUSED.

He walks behind the other boy, THE PISTOL FIRED the boy falls forward, the pistol shot from nape of neck upwards has removed the top of the boys head, blood flows, SKIN AND BONE TRACE A LINE TO WHERE THE BODY OF THE BOY LAYS....’I AM HERE’ HE SAYS there is no life;

The officer walks from the gymnasium and returns, nineteen boys, hands tied behind their backs with rope, feet shuffle from metal manacles that cut into flesh, the flesh bruised and bleeding;

When you have RIDEN your demons and survived them all that is left is guilt. A deep hole of guilt, why me, why me? There is no pleasure in life; a death escaped, only deep, dark guilt for your own survival remains. Whatever good, whatever you create, whoever you serve, you cannot escape the fact that now all that exists is the guilt from your very survival, from here, from now you will steal every breath you take.

Every breath contains the blood of others;

The Father calls his son to him; his son runs from the shallow water and stands in front of him, the Father shields his eyes from the sun;

‘here’ the Father says and his son lays beside him, wet from the river’s edge water and sweat from the sun, the Father wraps his arms around his son’s body and feels his chest rising and deflating, he feels his sons life, alive.

‘so what, so what’ the angel from the garden of the night;

‘so what’.

once you start that internal/infernal fight within yourself;

You defeat yourself;

Forever;

Then;

They

Control you;

You oppressor has won;

Self oppression is death;

The oppressor seeks you out;

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There’s a moment in your childhood from which you will never escape, a scar left, it itches and aches, if you are lucky it will not kill you.

we crave it’s return to stop the itch of ages; the Father’s wrist held over steaming pan, the burn from pink to red to purple before blister.

CRAVE THE RETURN;

‘ARE YOU NEARING DEATH’ THE ANGEL FROM THE GARDEN OF THE NIGHT ASKS;

‘ARE YOU even CLOSE yet?’

‘HOW CLOSE DO YOU COME TO ME EACH DAY, DO YOU DENY ME’

‘too tender the bruise, the Father turns away from his thoughts, everything has its own end, there is no end, no turning away, razor blade dragged across pale skin, slices, it’s bright sharp edge cuts deep against rib bone, alive, in LOVE and DEVOTION and CONTROL. The addicted are always SLAVES to desires beyond control. Let’s pretend we are dead, the dead do NOT AGE, they do not grow old to DIASAPPOINT, manipulate your way to another day, you do not hope here, hope kills but before then it maims, scars do not decay they burn bright against the scratch against the itch, this the sweetest of decay, an internal corruption.

there is a hand gripping my neck at all times, it pushes from behind me, I cannot resist it’s power and pleasure, it forces my face against an unseen glass, my face pushed against glass, I see through it, a pathway to life for me and my son.

‘You can never get back that part of you that you gave up so easily’ says the angel from the garden of the night.

no longer can you offer your soul to Christ; you gave it freely to Satan, you brokered a deal, Christ cannot save you, Satan WILL NOT save you, he laughs as he watches you.

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

THE DEVIL IS LIVE AND ONLINE NOW;

Colour me;

Pope PURPLE

‘Hæc quotiescúmque fecéritis, in mei memóriam faciétis’.

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*

p.s. Hey. So, there you have the concluding half of Nick Brook's piece and, thus, everything you need to give the work your attention and then relay your impressions, thoughts, questions, advice, and whatever else back to Nick. Please do, and thanks so much your time and for your help. If I didn't already say so in the instruction-y thing atop yesterday's post, and I think I did, I'll be posting my comments on Nick's piece at the end of the weekend Paris time. Also, know that Nick aka 'Stoopid Slapped Puppies' posted some initial clarifications and answers at the bottom of yesterday's comments arena if you missed them. ** Postitbreakup, I assume the FB Chuck is Chuck, but I don't know. I know when people friend me, they often ask if I'm the real deal or just a fan, and even though Chuck is a zillion times more famous and all that than I am, he's just a writer, and writers sit at their computers a whole lot, and dipping in and out of Facebook is as good a way as any to distract yourself. Well, I'm both sorry that 'MLT' upset you and, well, glad its effect was that powerful. Mm, talking about the behind the scenes stuff re: a novel interests me and seems okay because I'm revealing things that aren't necessarily supposed to impact a reader's experience in a literal way, but I'm not so into clarifying what, say, the characters really meant or felt because, one, that stuff is already as clear as I want it to be, and, two, like I've said, my characters aren't real or people-like to me. They're just figurative components of the prose that do particular things on behalf of the overall novel to my mind, so they have no personal life or personal secrets, motivations, or whatever, just obligations to the novel's choreography or whatever. But was the back story worked out in my head beforehand? The basics and certain rules, yeah, but 'MLT' was also an experiment for me in writing in a linear way, which I almost never do, and in letting the story accumulate and shift gears and stances accordingly. So, yes and no. Thanks for being interested and so open, kind. ** Pilgarlic, 'Fables' was always my favorite REM album, but I should listen to again to see what happens because I haven't spun it in a long time. I'm one of those types whose interest in the band really waned after 'Document'. When they stopped sort of confounding me in some way, I stopped wanting to explore them, I guess. On the other hand, I even like the Steely Dan reunion albums. Or the first one anyway. ** David Ehrenstein, Hey, thanks, David. The Christophe Honore film world premieres tonight at Locarno, and I'm weirdly anxious for a guy who's only in the film for maybe three minutes if I'm lucky. Excellent FaBlog post on Judge Walker and the scuttlebutt. The Dickens quote is an inspired and gorgeous touch. ** Misanthrope, Oh, I thought you wrote Thursday, but my mind's not solid evidence. In any case, Wednesday's better. Lindsay Lohan, yeah. I'm trying to remember when it was that wanting to be famous became like wanting to go hiking in Iran. ** Mark Gluth, Hey. Well, vagueness has never been an impediment for my imagination, and au contraire. And 'less accessible' are bywords for yum in my book. Broken ribs are like the little train engine that could from hell. Yes, the hug-related break happened since I've been here. Weirdest thing. Yury hugged me and ... crack, crack. I upped my calcium intake after that. ** _Black_Acrylic, Thanks much for your initial thoughts on Nick's piece. And for the Christian homophobic comic. Pretty astute stuff, ha ha. ** Patrick deWitt, Oh, I thought maybe your new one was coming out over here around then or something. You've never been to Paris, wow, cool. I hope I am here 'cos my love for this joint is purportedly infectious. Keep me up your dates when you have them so I can try to make sure I'm around. ** Nick Hudson, Yeah, the same thing happened here. I mean a cool venue got shut down here not long ago due to a single's neighbor's reason or, uh, unreason. But I think said neighbor stressed himself out into a fatal heart attack a few months later and it reopened. The intern thing sounds most cool and useful. Thanks for the link to Dan's work. I'll check it out once I'm out of here. I think I should be here in December. I might do an LA Xmas though, I'm not sure, but chances are. If the trip gets more cemented, let me know the dates so I can do my best. Oh, hm, okay, I'll wait for the fully packaged version since I'm trying as hard as I can not to distract myself from the novel, and the extra time will buy me one less burning need. ** Shane Le Vein, Lovely, thank you from the sidelines, man. ** JW Veldhoen, And sex forms one hell of a utopia. ** Jesse Hudson, Hey, J. What fantastic thoughts on Nick's thing! Thank you so much. They helped me as Nick's reader and impending responder too. ** Paul Curran, You too, i.e. wonderful thinking re: Nick's work. Thank you for that and for the kind words. ** 張黃柏亞武茜, How about one in English for old time's sake? ** The Dreadful Flying Glove, Thanks for speaking so finely to Nick's work. I agree with you about the momentariness. When a sparkling new thing does live lengthily and wisely, it always seems to be a thing whose significance is grounded in the introduction or fresh deployment of a particular instrument or grouping of them. The electric guitar, the synthesizer, the computer, the turntable, etc. That seems to be enough to create the bigger picture evolution requires. So, ugh, intelligent techno was a ripple whereas noise and hiphop were roomy. Or I don't know. I liked the culture that electronic music and concurrent new drugs inspired and intersected with in the late 80s and early 90s. I think American music is pretty firey these days. A lot of promise there. England's recent slump has lasted a weirdly long time. Any day now, I guess? I'm not sure I agree with you about Underworld's ongoing work of interest. I've only heard slight modulations in the same old thing for quite a while, but I'll try them again. Your words and thoughts are lustrous and generous, my friend. ** Steevee, I saw a thing about that Coulter/gay Republicans thing. It just seemed like a desperate attempt on her part to get the spotlight back from Beck, et. al. I mean, if it even happens, it's going to be her and maybe 100 weird guys sitting in some hotel conference room if she's lucky. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, I say keep your novel on the front of your back burner at the very least. No, my headache was a one day thing. Pollen-related maybe. Yury's headphones were, like, 140 dollar headphones, which I guess makes them sort of expensive. They're still hiding. I haven't read the last, gosh, four or even five of Chuck's novels. I took a break, and suddenly there was this whole new pile of them. I should pick one up. Yikes, on the meds and nausea and shakiness. That's not good unless it's like the hour of paranoia you sometimes get at first when you do mushrooms. Oh, Dogboy asked you a question about that, if you didn't see it by chance. I'll have to check out those Italian Vogue photos. Obscene? Seems extremely unlikely, although I'm sure Vogue wishes. 'Toxic Avenger 5'?! Oh, I remember that neighbor from your last story. There's something quite likable about him. Anyway, I hope the nausea has fucked off. My day: not much yet again. I blame my novel. It's requiring most of my hours at the moment. So, I did that, and it went okay. I didn't finish the interview or blurb, but I will this weekend. Kiddiepunk and I had a coffee at this new (to me) cafe down the street. My espresso was good, and his hot chocolate was special. They bring out a cup of warm milk and a little pot of hot fudge, and you make the drink yourself. We talked about this and that. I told him I'm jonesing for nachos of late, which, while very true, was also me fishing to see if I could coerce him into a dinner at Hard Rock Cafe, and he took the bait, happily for me, and I think we'll be treking over to that godforsaken, nachos-serving place this evening. My 'SiH' book got a very nice review in Blackbook, and that made me happy. That mysterious, irritating person who keeps calling me day and night and never leaving a voice mail called a few times. When Yury got home from work, I decided for some reason to ask him about a bunch of fashion designers/ houses whose names I knew for some reason but whom I never hear him talk about. So, I did, and he updated me on the status of these current designers in his opinion. So, like, the reason he never mentions Viktor & Rolf is because their stuff is totally out of fashion nowadays. Same with Vivienne Westwood. And others. So, that explained that. Then I guess I worked on my novel some more, and I did some Facebook exploring and blog post-related hunting or something. Ate, of course. I guess I'll leave it there for now. Tell me all about your weekend, if you would be so kind. ** Creative Massacre, Yeah, I see. I remember dealing with that kind of shit back in my brief college days, ugh. Did you track down your advisor before the weekend presumably hid him from you for a couple of days? Yeah, when things like tarot or, oh, astrology are accurate, the temptation to sort of start believing in that kind of stuff is very trippy too. Have an excellent weekend. ** Syreearmwellion, Hey, man. Thanks a lot for chiming in on the piece. ** Dogboy, Ditto ... I mean, thanks for the thoughts on Nick's work. Really interesting. ** Colin, Superb, detailed feedback, thank you so much! You're making Helsinki very tempting. I love Scandinavia in general even though I've only been to Sweden once and briefly. And your crushes are utterly understandable to me, let's say, since Sweden gave my heart whiplash. 'Jerk' is going to play in Helsinki. Maybe I can miraculously glom myself on to that trip. Anyway, it all sounds most splendid, and enjoy the minutiae, man. ** 'Stoopid Slapped Puppies', Nick, hey! So far so good, no? I'm very proud that my white space has been given this privilege. More from me sometime tomorrow. Much love to you, sir. ** Okay, you guys know what to do. I look forward to seeing what you guys do and to putting in my own two cents. Take care, thank you all again, and I'll see you again in a bit.