hieroglyphs
Friday, August 10, 2007
A Series of Picture Writings
...or pictographs, or asemic writing, or pictograms, or petroglyphs or hieroglyphs....
The Builder
The Builder
Tim Inrim was convinced humankind was well on its way to self-termination and was responding as any might in his situation — by living on credit. If he needed something he bought it regardless of his financial situation because franky his situation was so dire it was laughable. Banks kept sending him new credit card offers which he gratefully received. They didn’t seem too concerned and they, well they were the experts. His credit was good. He always paid the minimum on time. He had built for himself a wondrous temple to debt. He considered himself an architect of the Virtual. In the surfaces and walls of his being were reflected his responsible handling of materials. He liked the cracked and pitted nature of his brickwork and would lovingly carress the twilight mood of his own irresponsibility. The thing was he was a saint of sorts. He deeply pittied those of his friends whose credit was poor and made up for it by inviting them in to his carefully maintained home, a home entirely built of plastic and feeding them until their stomachs were full.
Tim Inrim was convinced humankind was well on its way to self-termination and was responding as any might in his situation — by living on credit. If he needed something he bought it regardless of his financial situation because franky his situation was so dire it was laughable. Banks kept sending him new credit card offers which he gratefully received. They didn’t seem too concerned and they, well they were the experts. His credit was good. He always paid the minimum on time. He had built for himself a wondrous temple to debt. He considered himself an architect of the Virtual. In the surfaces and walls of his being were reflected his responsible handling of materials. He liked the cracked and pitted nature of his brickwork and would lovingly carress the twilight mood of his own irresponsibility. The thing was he was a saint of sorts. He deeply pittied those of his friends whose credit was poor and made up for it by inviting them in to his carefully maintained home, a home entirely built of plastic and feeding them until their stomachs were full.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
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Monday, August 6, 2007
Albion's Rug
Albion Rug’s solution to his hair problem was quite unique. The hair wasn’t coming back anymore. He’d resigned himself to the fact. But he refused to go the polishing route. One day seeding his garden he was struck by inspiration. Surely the soil of the scalp was as rich in nutrients as any. He could grow plain old grass or perhaps even flowers. He’d add miracle grow if necessary—why not? It couldn’t, after all, be any worse than some of the products he’d already tried. And so he proceeded to grow a garden on his head. These days a certain peace has descended on Albion. He exudes that quietude that comes to those with happy green fingers and some of his old bald friends have begun to tentatively knock on his door as they seek his sage advice.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
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