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WEEK 1
Feb 4, 2019 23:01:34 GMT
Post by carol on Feb 4, 2019 23:01:34 GMT
[Carol thumbs the Bose, Prince's My Name Is Prince explodes from the speakers hanging from the rafters. Carol backs her ass around the dance floor, stomping on the glass tiles, making green tiles pop and then red tiles beam and then white hot light beams up at the mirrorball. She stomps and shakes her head, and she twirls, and she hops hops hops across the Floor, her lips tight, her eyes half-lidded. She comes across DePlancher's desk, leans in and gives DeP a kiss on the mouth, and then she turns and waltzes over to the Cherrywood. Kinski's "A Nap Is a Slice of The World" takes over the Bose speaker. Carol twirls and twirls. Most folks who work at literary venues, magazines, bars, coffee shops, don't dance very well. They don't have a beat. Carol dances really fucking good. She hops and then shifts her hips and wags her ass, purses her lips, squints her eyes, twirls her fingertips, nods her sweaty head. She settles herself behind the Cherrywood, lowering her ass into the pilot's chair, snuggling down into it, wagging her head to the beat of Kinski, and she spreads her fingers and lands them on the desktop with a bang! Kinski fades out. She spreads out the current capital, John Hanna' s Bucket of Bolts. She wags her ass in the pilot's chair as she examines page 1. She hums some tune, something from Van Halen 2. Sounds like Bottoms Up. Outside, the deluge has gone all snow, balls of it]
Wow. I just examined the worst opening paragragh ever. "Franklin was taking a walk in the forest with command in his step. He had a purpose visiting the old citadel now just a mile distant. His elders didn’t approve saying they preferred him to be pulling duty in the village but once a year of so he was compelled to subject himself to the queasy heights of the artifact." I'm guessing the VC does not speak English easily. This guy most probs is from Russia or somewheres. I mean, what the fuck? Why would this god awful bullshit get through to the bottom of the bottoms, the dog is done. I'm tossing this dredge to the storm, folks.
[Carol walks over to the Porthole and rips the window open. She tosses the current capital out the window, and it zooms and whirls...]
[The view out the Porthole is awesome. A snow storm has piled humps of cotton along the streets, dirty with soot and dirty footprints. If a crime'd been committed, you could follow the culprit to his apartment real easy and slap him around and laugh and play the records he has arranged on bookshelves. Carol turns from the Porthole, and she stomps back to the Cherrywood]
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WEEK 1
Feb 16, 2019 2:15:45 GMT
Post by carol on Feb 16, 2019 2:15:45 GMT
[Carol gets up close to the Cherrywood, and she sees what's laid out. Fresh cap. She begins to examine Jack Freehoff's Entangled Interests. She goes through a lot of expressions, some aha, some "you're fucking punking my ass right now", but from the start she had her lips twisted, and her brow crinkled]
Um. This cap is godawful. We will compost this. Only because capital must bust our nose, make us bleed. Make us bleed, make us bleed. Make us fucking bleed!
[She tosses the capital to the rafters, and everything goes slow motion. She moves center tiles and twirls]
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WEEK 1
Feb 23, 2019 1:26:01 GMT
Post by carol on Feb 23, 2019 1:26:01 GMT
[The Floor is quiet. DePlancher is spitting sunflower husks over her desk, and Carol is finishing up her latest examination. Carol leans back in the pilot's chair and she exhales some dank smoke from her lungs. She coughs, and she coughs, and tears stream from her eyes. She leans forward and gathers the current capital]
So...
[She coughs up a lung]
So, we won't be shoving Derek Spohn's The Four Spirits of Unity upward.
[Carol achingly lifts her ass from the chair and carries the capital over to the Porthole. She tosses it out into the blizzard, the icy rain, the malcontent streets and alleys and blinking street lamps and piss-pooled curbs. She watches as the pages flutter and whirl and dart, like a flock of badshit birds going south]
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WEEK 1
Feb 28, 2019 2:43:58 GMT
Post by carol on Feb 28, 2019 2:43:58 GMT
[Carol is back at her Cherrywood, looking over the newest capital, Margaret Karmazin's The Top of the Food Chain. She hovers over the cap, swaying side to side, examining, ogling, twisting her pasted red lips]
God damn, I need a tumbler of amber.
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WEEK 1
Mar 3, 2019 2:15:12 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 3, 2019 2:15:12 GMT
[Carol is on her knees, and she digs around in the bottom drawer of the Cherrywood, tossing Pez dispensers and fire crackers to the glass tiles, she searches through some back issues of Gams and Penthouse, and she comes up with a bottle of amber and a dirty tumbler]
Fuck yes.
[She stands and slams the bottle and glass on the desktop. Across the desktop is strewn Karmazin's capital. She plops her ass into the pilot's chair, swivels and then pulls up close to the desk's edge. She pours herself a good one]
The Top of the Food Chain is okay. But we need better than okay, savvy? I'm gonna drink this fine bourbon, and then I'm gonna walk over to that vacuous Porthole and I'm gonna toss this capital into the deluge.
[She leans back and sips at the amber. She looks up at the mirrorball, looks over DePlacher's desk, sans DePlancher. The mirrorball throws glittering specks of hot white across DePlacher's desktop. The wardrobe behind Carol sighs. Carol sips from the tumblerful of amber. She closes her eyes]
We've made a good world here. A place to come and relax, and vet. A place to shout and whisper encouragements.
[Carol opens her eyes. She downs what's left in the tumbler and leans forward. She slams the empty tumbler to the desktop and grabs up the current capital. She stands and walks to the Porthole]
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WEEK 1
Mar 7, 2019 2:08:06 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 7, 2019 2:08:06 GMT
[Carol spreads out some fresh capital on the Cherrywood's desktop. It's Timothy Kay's A Poor Player. She pulls a Scooby Gang paper from the desk drawer, and she dumps a pile of Midsummer Dream onto it, and she rolls herself a joint, licks it shut. She puts it between her lips and grabs one of Boligard's discarded Swan Vesta matchboxes and scrapes out some fire. She lights the tip of the joint and inhales, and inhales. Her free hand pours herself another tumbler of amber. She exhales and coughs one quick bark, and she closes her eyes and shakes her head. She opens her eyes and waves the lit joint over the current capital]
Gods please let this be something worth examination. Please.
[She leans in]
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WEEK 1
Mar 9, 2019 1:41:09 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 9, 2019 1:41:09 GMT
[Carol spits her joint dead. She twists her lips and pockets the blunt. She plants her palms on the edge of the desktop, and she leans in. She wavers. She tilts. She breathes, and she proclaims]
A Poor Player has gone south, cousins.
[Carol pulls the blunt from her pocket and offers it up to the elephant god, and then she pockets it, and she walks over to the Porthole. She shoves the current capital out the window, and she watches it whip and whirl and flip and twirl and gush with the breeze and violence. Outside, shit has gone fucking wild, the sidewalks are heavy with monsters]
Fuck me.
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WEEK 1
Mar 9, 2019 2:15:27 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 9, 2019 2:15:27 GMT
[Carol shakes her head, not liking much all the chaos outside. The monsters are crawling all over the ruins outside, and they're scratching at the door to the Floor]
Fuckers are getting wild, cousins.
[She spreads out a fresh batch of capital, Maximum Background Normalcy by Jared Linder. She grabs up the bottle of amber and pours herself a nice couple of fingers]
Weirdness deserves drops of goodness, right?
[Carol slams the amber. She slams the empty tumbler to the desktop. She breathes. And she examines the capital spread out before her]
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WEEK 1
Mar 19, 2019 1:09:19 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 19, 2019 1:09:19 GMT
[Carol wads up the capital spread out on the Cherrywood desktop, she compresses it between her palms, compresses, handles the semi-ball of prose, turns it this way and that, figuring where the bumps and humps and concavities and warps and twisted ridges are. She rolls the capital under her left palm along the desktop, making it a perfect sphere. She grabs up the ball, tosses it heavenward a few feet, catches it]
We are tossing Jared's "Maximum Background Normalcy" up to the Terminal.
[Carol takes a stance, pulls her throwing arm back, and then she launches the capital up into the rafters. She looks after the launched capital, she watches the dark shadows up there, the spinning mirrorball offering no clue if the capital rose to the Terminal or if it got stuck in one of the rafter joints. She looks, and she raises her eyebrows. She tilts her head. She breathes deep, exhales]
Okay.
[Carol grabs up the topmost capital off the stack that has been growing at the corner of the Cherrywood. She tosses it to the desktop and spreads it out]
Bob Stephenson's "Colored Pencils". Well okay then.
[She leans in and starts her examination]
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WEEK 1
Mar 28, 2019 0:48:09 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 28, 2019 0:48:09 GMT
[Carol leans back into the pilot's chair, and she pulls a cigarette from her jacket pocket, and she twirls it and then places it to her glossed lips, and she strikes a swan vesta, nurses the flame with her palm, and she makes the tip of her cigarette glow, and she sucks and makes it more fiery, rolling her eyes, shifting her ass in the pilot's chair. She sucks in some sweet smoke and she blows out the flame at the eroding tip of the swan vesta. She tosses the spent match to the Floor. She, once again, leans back into the pilot's chair. She exhales]
Bob Stephenson's "Colored Pencils" is fucking goodstuff, fuckers.
[Carol leans forward, and she shreds the pages of the capital with her fingernails, making a mulch, a pile of really nice prose, and then she gets her swan vestas out and lights the pile up good and gone. The smoke of the capital rises, and Carol watches it]
There it goes, you bastards. Straight upward to the worthless bastards above us, those damn Terminali.
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WEEK 1
Mar 30, 2019 0:23:02 GMT
Post by carol on Mar 30, 2019 0:23:02 GMT
[Carol leans back in the pilot's chair. She slaps a doobie to her lips and fires it up with a Swan Vesta. Before her, laid out on the desktop of the Cherrywood, is Goldman's Killing Miss Pope. On the pages are a few burn marks, some gravy smears. She puffs on the joint, holds the smoke in her lungs, holds it, holds it, holds it, and she exhales. She looks around the Floor, wanting whiskey]
This fucker, Ken Goldman, is going up to the Terminal.
[Carol stands, a little wobbly, and she staggers over to the Porthole. She opens the window and looks out on the deluge. Trees are whipping left to right, garbage reigns and rats wave their tails. Carol turns from that hole and staggers over to DePlancher's desk]
Fuck. I. Am. Stoned.
[Carol bends and grabs the bottom edge of DePlancher's desk and she tips it over, revealing the underside. She kicks aside the catbox and she places the current capital into the blackhole that makes up the entire underside of DePlancher's desk. The capital gets sucked in, and it disappears. Goes otherwhere. Goes Terminal. Carol steps back, marveling at the weirdness of life on the Floor]
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