GUEST POST // Interlude by Gordon Flanders

I didn’t smoke weed, and I didn’t drink, but under the fluorescent lights of Canal Street Station I feel like a thing that slithers. Somehow my fingernails got dirty. I was walking with the girl who I was formerly obsessed with, and I was telling her what I thought was a very interesting story. What I know was an interesting story, in fact, from her gasps every time we hit a pivotal point. And then, in the middle, we ran into some old friends of hers she hadn’t seen in a while. She’s from here and she’s popular, so this happens a lot. There were eight of them. Normally I would just smile and shake everyone’s hand and all that, but I just couldn’t give a fuck about these people and how they knew each other and anything like that, so I stood off to the side and waited for her to ask for her bag so she could go with them. I enjoyed the breeze and I checked my phone. Finally she called me over and her friends were like wtf why are you just standing over there! Meanwhile she had just asked minutes ago why I never do what I want. So that was the thing I wanted, to not talk to these people. I was really fine with her leaving with them, very convenient escape for me, but I did not want to meet them all for no reason. But I did anyway because what kind of asshole would I have to be to hand her her bag and say goodbye and nothing else. So I shook hands with every single one of them. There were people she didn’t even know and I shook hands with them, too. One guy said now repeat our names back to us. I said, I value you guys as people but I don’t have a memory like that. Everyone thought that was funny. You had to be there. So now I look awesome. From weirdo to awesome in sixty seconds. After five excruciating minutes where everyone tried to pretend that we could have an inclusive conversation, they ask what’s up next. I hand my friend her bag and say goodbye, shaking hands with enthusiasm and warmth and real kindness in my eyes. Eight people I will never see again, now they all have a piece of my soul. The train just won’t seem to arrive.

by GORDON FLANDERS
© All rights reserved 2017

GUEST POST // To A Blog by Raycabiro

Dear Blog,
Are you a log
Within which I write a journal?

Or Blog,
Are you a log
Floating in a sea of troubles?

But Blog,
Are you a log
Upon which I rest my laurels?

Dear Blog,
You are a log
With whom I will not ever quarrel.

 

by RAYCABIRO
© All rights reserved 2014

a Fractal

I am pressing Ctrl+S…

Now my last photo looks slightly gruff, but I wanted something like this. This shot was really good, without unnecessary guff. A hot summer day. An empty dusty road. A ramshackle road sign. A lonely cyclist under the scorching sun.

I am smoking and twisting a leaflet in my hands. I found it near my door this morning.

++++++++++[>+++++++>++++++++++>+++>+<<<<-]>++.>+.+++++++
..+++.>++.<<+++++++++++++++.>.+++.——.——–.>+.>.

Young Rewired Wave – Festival of esoteric and nefarious programming languages, San Antonio Fall 2014

 

I am pressing pedals…

I refused the car and now I feel like a coot. I am not a glamper. I prefer to use the achievements of civilization. And now I will be more careful with the term “an adjacent town”. And also, I prefer to use cutlery when I eat.

So, when I noticed a small, shabby looking bar I was very glad. By the way, it looked quite picturesque and I made some photos for my diary. The old door was wonky and needed lubricant. But inside the bar was cute. I ordered enchiladas and beer.

I am waiting for my beer and absently reading leaflets on the table.

++++++++++[>+++++++>++++++++++>+++>+<<<<-]>++.>+.+++++++
..+++.>++.<<+++++++++++++++.>.+++.——.——–.>+.>.

Young Rewired Wave – Festival of esoteric and nefarious programming languages, San Antonio Fall 2014 (to be continued)

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2014