I suspected the woodmaker was not truly a woodmaker, but a spy. The way he watched me when I fumbled around his shop, running my hand over the wooden toys- the horses and dogs and houses built in miniature- he seemed to be plotting my demise. His left eye(more) twitched and the corner of his upper lip disappeared into the bush of his mustache.
"Can I help you, little girl?"
"Where are your parents? I don't allow stray kids into my shop."
"Then how do you expect to sell anything?"
"Parents buy toys, not orphaned children."
They always assumed I was an orphan. I had a perfectly good set of parents back home. I just choose to leave them there for the day while I snuck off on my adventures. It would mean a good throttling when I got back, but it I didn't care. Scrubbing the floors and airing the linens was dreadfully boring and a spanking only stung for a little while.
"What's this?" I asked, picking up a chunky piece of wood. It was not smooth like the others, but all splintery.
"You put that down. It's not finished yet."
"Can you make a dragon?"
"Then why don't you? I don't see one here."
"Give me that." The woodmaker grabbed the block from me, causing a splinter to lodge itself in my middle finger.
"Ouch!" I held my finger out for inspection. Just as I suspected, the woodmaker really was out for my demise.
He grabbed me by my upper arm and lead me out the door. "Don't come back unless you have an adult who wants to buy something."
I showed him the tip of my finger. "You can't wound me so easy, sir. I shall not die from a splinter!"
His mustache twitched.(less)
the pencil was under the table, the pencil which Baby Bear put up his nose. It rolled between the chair legs.
"are you going to get that?"
(more) Baby Bear reached for his most recent piece of art, a booger fresh from the cave of his nose. He brought it out onto the gallery of his fingers. A smile stretched across his face.
I reached for the hand sanitizer because eventually the things he touched I would touch. The state test, the pencil.
"I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger." Baby bear was always hungry, always pining for the same things. Pizza, cheeseburger, fries.
"Finish the state test first. Do you best."
"But I'm hungry."
Baby Bear was not deprived. He was a thick and soft boy who always had his hand in a bag which left his hands caked in atomic orange. Still, it was hard to resist his goofy smile, the threat of his hand reaching below the waist band of his boxers (what? I was itching).
"I don't have a cheeseburger, but I have this," I extended a mint to him.
He took it like the baby bear that he was and continued with some success working on his state test. Every few minutes, Baby Bear wanted to pretend to fart or Baby Bear wanted to show his classmate how soft his belly was. I said in a calm and low voice, Not here Baby Bear, Not here.
Fragmented fractal radiance hints at the holographic whole. An intelligence is evident in the spiraling implications of any sliver. Pattern recognition extrapolates an integrity, “future pixels in factories far away.” Not a solid, but a super cooled liquid, giving the impression of particularity where a wave ripples th(more)rough.
Text versus talking. Ones and zeros. Building up versus breaking down. Taking it apart. Staying away to break away. An idea. A foundation. A founder. Simmering for years. Something to say. Nothing to say. A lot to say, none of it particularly interesting. Subjective. Existential. Squandered potential. Words for retards.
A wound festering for hours/days/weeks/months/years. At the office, in the thick of it, talking. Listening to those used to being listened to. Their decadence is using too many words. Transmitter on mute I tell them to shut up. This isn’t a social call. Must every conference use so much time for so little gain? Always paragraphs when a sentence will suffice. My response is to repeat concise snippets. Iffy absorption. Slow comprehension. Actual uptake on the 3rd or 8th time around? Entropy’s a bitch.
Cyclic redundancy check is what the machines do. Combing through the ones and zeros, counting, auditing, rectifying. We are not machines but compete to maintain the fantasy of our ever shrinking relevance. Is your income hardened against code and drones? Whittling away crumbs from massive deposits made before the invention of time. How long can one survive gambling in the global pyramid scheme?
And so it goes, evenings and weekends spent depositing masses of monkey typed characters into a graphic user interface, pouring it through a mind sieve, prospecting for a decent combination of symbolic meaning nuggets to cling to.
In abstract absolution, the man sat in silence. A plethora of sycophantic similes bounce in and around his mind. Whispering words full of acidic intentions corrode this mans mind.
Can he free himself?
From a splinter, from a crack, this man shows his desperation in trembling eyelids. This m(more)an shows his hope with smiling wrists.
Can he free himself? (less)