n. infantile pattern of suckle-swallow movement in which the tongue is placed between incisor teeth or between alveolar ridges during initial stage of swallowing (if persistent can lead to various dental abnormalities) v. [content removed due to Bush campaign to clean up the internet] n. act of nyah-nyah v. pursuing with relentless abandon the need to masticate and thrust the world into every bodily incarnation in order to transform it, via the act of salivation, into nutritive agency

Sunday, November 11, 2007

some work from d'thesiodish

my favorite character.


May 25th, 20- -

Dear Evil Arch Icelandic Nemesis—

How do your whiskers grow? Do they lengthen and curl? Do you wax them to a tip?

Incidentally, the demon-seed planted by your brother has taken full residence. I can feel it climbing around in there, possibly using ice picks to scale the craggy walls. It motors around, clinging and rappelling, causing a great deal of rearrangement that would be hard to imagine were it not for the very real evidences that my innards are revolving around some new center of the universe.

The Demon Spawn wants it all. It wants every iota of my interior for its toys—its forklift and ice picks, its bouncy balls and trampoline. My shell simply a cavern for its antics, I become a hovel under new management, every moment of my free time taken for hiking the hill to the Outhouse, that other domicile, in order to expel all items extraneous to its existence.


I thought hard re: your nomer. “Evil Icelandic Arch-Nemesis” was another potentiality, but I thought to not imply that you were an Arch-Nemesis who happened to be in Iceland, but rather one who is a nemesis in cahoots with location. In your expert evil opinion, does the arrangement make sense? That is… to my thinking, your nemesisian tendencies have something to do with the sulfuric cauldrons boiling under the surface of your new abode, seeping vapors though your radiators and expelling the sadistic lusts of a particular land. An inclination I happen to understand.

And I suspect you’d agree. I suspect you spend much time indoors sniffing the odors and self-congratulating on having positioned yourself within a neighborhood permeated with the intense waft of your original home (i.e. the underworld).

Anyhow, at night, it’s especially hard to convince myself to cover the distance for the Demon Spawn. I stumble along through the dew and long reeds, heading towards the top of a cliff, which by mischance I might step off. I’d like to claim that I’m learning valuable lessons under the pressure to evolve into a solid structure of architecture built to the design of an evil creator. But the wisdom I’ve so far garnered is that outhouse plywood carries all kinds of moisture to attract Slugs.

I’ve gained new fears re: the falling of slugs from outhouse ceilings. That they might fall on me, in my hair, down my boots or within my pajamas, has become a major preoccupation, and one, I might add, not entirely fortified by imagination.

The other night, I finally made it back to bed after a half-hour’s fret in the dampness, and crawled miserably under the covers, making sure to kick awake your stupid brother and remind him of how little sleep I get. Ah, the will of the inane, for I was awake yet another half-hour as he slept and the yipping ferret grumbled around, trying to refind her position under the covers. She’s taken to arranging J and myself so she can steal the maximum amount of heat from us both. But before she can determine the specific latitude and longitude of global warming, she must sniff the entire bed with a low murmur in the back of her throat.

Well, the other night, she grumbled for longer than normal and slunk between my legs and back again. When she finally gave a high-pitched yelp, I noticed that she had actually been licking and chewing rather than projecting her normal disgruntlement, so I felt her muzzle and noticed that her lolling tongue was sticky and nearly supine. Not only curious, but also seriously deranged due to aforementioned bodily reshufflings, I turned the light back on and dragged her out of the covers. I can only guess where she got it from, but as it turned out, her own insomnia was generated in a much similar fashion as mine, and her small nippers were nearly sealed in place by a poorly masticated specimen of the genus Slug. My guess as to where it came from would only further fuel my night tremors, so I will leave it to your rotting meditations to determine which part of my body the outhouse ceiling bombed as I prepared my next day’s flesh for the diversions of the Demon Spawn.

All I can say is that I hope to never again scrape my dog’s mouth with a miniature spatula in the middle of the night.

Oh yes, you are probably now chomping at the bit re: getting all the news about “the real stuff,” as you would likely put it, once again discarding my concerns as the impertinent demonstrations of feminine incomprehensibility.

You masochistic pig. You dire and repugnant flicker of locution. Fine. I can play your game.

Your brother, Demon Spawn, the yipping ferret and I all arrived about a week ago, and already I’m all in an uproar about whether I made any kind of wise choice by coming here. Your brother is, of course, perfectly satisfied by the grubby cabin, the dawn to dusk lifestyle, the net-mending, and the violent ejaculations of pornographic humor from our boss. The ferret is pissed by the nearness of water and looks at us from the corner of her eyes at all moments to ward us from throwing her in; she remains perfectly convinced that the only reason we could possibly have relocated to this god-awful place would be to give her the swimming lessons we have attempted throughout her feeble life. Demon Spawn, knowing nothing but its own diabolical plans, seems fine with the arrangement, and I, on the other hand, feel pretty horrible most of the time, and seek to replenish my good humor by boning up on the Bay Gossip, sticking my nose into anything that might be considered not mine to sniff.

Ah so, vast unexplored mines of the stuff, gold indeed unrefined, just waiting for the sieve.

This year, we are on the Other Side. The Side With Actual Fish, or maybe that is the cynic in me. Can I even begin to mention how glad I am to not be working for Esther, who has made a name for herself this year by having an outboard with no gears but reverse? At all times, I feel the weight of having worked for incapacity incarnate. And despite being full of Demon Spawn, I’m driven by the desire to prove myself to those who believe that anyone working for morons must be moronic themselves. It’s an odd position to find myself in, but truthfully, I sling fish extremely rapid for having such considerations to consider…

And as yet, I find myself a machine. A fish-picking/throwing machine. A hovel and a fish-picking/throwing machine. Also: an emotion carried through via machine. Every time I lift my arm, it’s to make a point. Admission: I am bitter to have been born within this, to discover it as part of the genetic makeup of memory.

Your wicked seed-spawning brother seems to understand the drive, and pats my back during the inopportune pukings—much less, I think, to express sympathy for my pregnancy than to assure me of my worth and place in this, the frontier that formed my formative formations during those, the forming years. And while I find myself radically sympathetic to the lack radiating from Crescent Cove, I also understand the ways in which I have been shaped by people with little attachment to real difficulties.

May I tell you, Evil Arch Icelandic Nemesis, how this fills me with both estranged anger and an intangible motion?

Oh, sure sure, here you are saying: You and your abstractions. Fine, I will cease. I will talk about pertinent motions, gossip, hip-flicks, bad jokes, romantic notions, so forth so forth, all to your desire.

Have you found a boyfriend yet? I mean, you’re pretty sexy for an evil, spectacles-laden nerdboy. Oh, that reminds me: I have made what I think to be a new friend. And I will get around to that, but first, let me describe in sum. What fun.

I’m on the Other Side (laden with Demon Spawn), which is composed of seven sites. In order to express it to someone completely bogged down by the civil wordology of Icelandic urban life: seven sites, meaning, seven groups of people fishing within coves next door, at various length, to each other. On the Far Side, are three sites, including the one I grew up on, from the age of ten, and learned all I have thitherto known about what it means to make a living from the sea.

I’m going to take a few moments of your vacuous time to contemplate what that phrase means: Make a Living from the Sea. It will be very brief.

All that it means, Evil Arch Icelandic Nemesis, is that there are one thousand and a billion different experiences of life, and this is one. It has to do with loving water, but love, if you were to ask me, is primarily about accepting both the depth of the water and the imminence of death underneath that acceptance. It’s not about suicide or being stupid, nor about being the hero who overcomes that underneathness, nor about being rustically awkward, about using short words, about tale-telling or killing alive things, nor yet about finding the landscape a heinous reflection of everything I feel. But then again, it’s not exactly a repudiation of all that. What I want to say is: it’s not romantic nor ante-romantic. It’s not sweet or cruel or full of unregulated swagger.

Rather, to get to my point, I’d most like to claim that it’s about the human projection known as risk. Jigging in, making a trench to resemble a bastion. Replacing time for Time, and let me say, right now, full of Spawn or not, that I will take on in a fair fight, with great glory and love/presence, any person who thinks they can find an inch more in the way of meaning than what I find here. hey. hey, in case you didn't notice. in case, this is me, noticing. I am. and now that this has happened, I will convene; no doubt all else will be determined, and far in the way towards paradise. Or, against my greatest inclination: any less.

I dare you to submit that to a dictionary. Go on, I dare you. I’ll knock any chip you choose to poise on your extremely refined and metropolitan queerboy slopes.

Okay, and now that I’ve defined and won said imaginary battle, let me tell you what I see:

Oh shit, I’m supposed to be out on the boat in 2 seconds, so I’m running, yeah runni…


Your Evil Arch Alaskan Nemesis,


hey. hey, in case you didn't notice. in case, this is me, noticing. I am. and now that this has happened, I will convene; no doubt all else will be determined, and far in the way towards paradise.

i still think i'm going insane.

because this section wasn't in the piece i copied and pasted from Word.

either i'm going insane or i had a very strange hacker. maybe insane.
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