MicroFiction: Fable

1. Deep in the forest, his bow quivering with unspent energy, his stone things sharp as ever, he heard a strange voice behind the trees urge him to to to to to... GO!  

All he could see were tall, tall trees -- swaying in an eerie sort of windy circumstance. That made his head go round. 

Go round the trees though he stood still, his arrows restless to, to, to go. Go after a certain, unsettling, radiant heat-source. A certain heartbeat, as he thought might be it. At one tree, a spot in its trunk flattened as by a clever hand, and colourful. And he could see strange faces and hear unknown voices and noise there on that carved flatness. Say -- GO! 

Which could neither see nor hear. Him! Nor them! Selves!

Yet all that was so long ago one wondered if one wasn't moving in forbidden spirals and into rogue Black(er) Holes, thru which 1 (one) might yet crack int O and out O the big and bigger egg's (s)hell. The universe's. The one verse! And see more than was meant to be seen in all those pixels. And, so, lose all hope(fulness).

Then, in slow suddenness, he was on his way home, at last. Over theeeeere, in the mist. Oba! Oba! Beyond the hump-free. Which he'd known for so brief a moment one wondered where home could really be, if it could. Really was. Still. Past all the distance runners, and all that! Nay, all distance! Way, way past Time. As if all of a sudden, again! As if all of Time, again, was past. Past that very same Cygnus, alas, and toward that fabulous, some-time dimming, light he'd had sometin to say about when he couldn't remember now!

And he was not at all happy. Happy at the thought. At all at the thought he might not remember the strange words he'd heard. From them strange strangers he might not remember, and who might never ever recall talking to him as, and, they had no clue what language(s) he spoke either, anyways.

And remember whom to tell, ev'n. Things he'd seen them undo. Where seeing defies all belief, and belief defies all seeing, and undoing comes before all doing. And why. Things he thinks he'd seen he himself see.

Remember for all those uh waiting in despair and true, true sadness. Waiting for his fabled return, which might never happen. Because it happened, if it happened, already; before he was born, too.

All those waiting who might be long, long, long ago gone, in any case, and by all reckoning, before the waiting, of all waiting, could begin.

Gone after all these 10 centuries no one has yet heard of. Nay, millennia. Yes, millennia of millennia. Sure, before anyone's time that anyone knows or remembers. Of his sojourn on the other, the other, side of of of -- the ether -- of Time!

And he wouldn't let his arrows KO!

The moral of the story awaits its ending.

[Nairobi: Apr 23, 2010 - Oct 20, 2015]

Wildebeest's Theorem

1. "If you don't follow the crowd, you will not survive, as you will perish," says the wildebeest, who invests in The Crowd, the one and only.
2. "To succeed, don't follow the crowd," proclaims the Investment Guru, whose wisdom lumpsum, high-net-worth, individuals swear by [Read more].
3. "When we, all, stop following the crowd, we still will," muses the wilderbeest.
4. Fair point, though, is that, typically, not all will not follow. Wildebeest will acknowledge that, for sure.
5. Moral of the story, then? Never follow and never not follow the crowd on an impulse -- injudiciously; which is something else that's more important than Bill Bartman's trying to say here with his four rules, and in particular with his notion of the "instrument rated" pilot.

The Moral of the Story

The moral of the story is: a book you can burn is not so easy...

Saga of the Lame Duck Who Could Duck Shoes and Stuff

Click here to start the saga of Bush's improbably moral virtual unbungled unfinal parallel journey>> Saga starts

Noooo! I didn't see that! Did you see that? Is he that quick?

X-ray vision?

Tell me this wasn't real, but too real. It was all a concoction to make Bush thrilled, a sort of farewell party.

How could the journalist have plotted all that when he didn't know Bush was coming in the first place -- to that place? If he didn't know, how would he have known he would be invited? Allright, there had been a rumour. They're all invited? How dumb! All of them? Then this was coming all along! Then why didn't Bush just stay home? After all, it'll be all over on January 20.

That's the whole point?

And shoes? Allright, heavy duty disposable good for nothing dime a dozen made in america maybe ready to go sandals. OK, he didn't know the guy was coming and that's why he didn't have stones in his pocket.

It was all an act, and that wasn't really Bush. Couldn't you tell? It was all hollywood, like the moon-landing! Bush wasn't really in I-Raq. It was all Laura's prank, really. Or Jena's. Something to laugh about at Christmas, now that Thanksgiving's over. The joke's on us!

The real Bush was in Dallas, not Baghdad (too much Saddam there right now), clearing up some stuff about his new pad. So, what would he say?

Was the man's aim as bad as that or is Bush, the impersonator, that good? Were the man's venom-weighted words as off-target as his shoes, or did they get the impersonated, untranslated, Bush more than we know? I mean, all that stuff about orphans and widows -- from a man too small for his shoes! Mr. President, only you can tell us.

That wasn't a duck, in that water. That wasn't even water.

And, yes, that was a hawk! Hawkeye Bush. Bushie Hawkeye. I swear I could see the adrenalin pump, as only cowboys can pump. Did you see Bush's thrill at the first miss? Did you see the boxer in him -- the subtle left-right bob? Like, bring it on, buddy. Like, float like a butterfly. Hold that sting!

I swear I saw a touch of Ali. Like, is that all you got?

And to see that, after all Bush has done, Al Maliki couldn't wouldn't didn't take a hit for him -- not even one miserable hit! Just stood there dumbfounded, with a half-stretched hand. A case of Maliki see, Maliki Doolittle, if you ask me. And yet: damned if he does, and damned if he don't.

I bet the shoes are destined for the I-Raqi MOMA (Art, Antiquity, whatever) now. There'll be occasional borrowings by the Bush Presidential Library, you betcha. Worth a million now. A million more tomorrow.

Who says the duck's lame when the duck's so nimble? But all's well that ends well.

They must be cheering all over Texas, right now. In all the gyms. All the talk shows.

Allovamerika. As Bush loves America.

They had forgotten that he is that kind of man, and that he had it in him. Those eye-crossing chads, which he collected more of in 2000 than Al, they were not all a fluke.

Shame on all the presidents and premiers who cannot float -- who cannot duck a vituperative, leave alone a missile. Shame on on all their houses! Take a leaf from Dubya.

Noooo! I don't believe any of that. None of that American fiction!

Moral of the Story: All I know now, from all this, is that, as long as you're alive (and the longer you're alive the more so), you'll never see enough! Abridged Story of the Moral: You aint seen what you aint seen!