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WK 29
Nov 12, 2021 18:38:50 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Nov 12, 2021 18:38:50 GMT
[The Rorschalk walks through the devastation of what once was the haunted disco but is now a gutted and ghostly Rockefeller Central Station. Newspapers, years...perhaps decades...old, swirl in mini whirlwinds as the weather infiltrates the unseen cracks and maze-like intercession that butterfly effect this dank environ from the outside world]
It is not ours to wonder why, my good fellow, hail and well met and tippacanoe to take my life, please!
[The Rorschalk comes to a familiar landmark, the giant wardrobe by which he might slipstream realities and end up in Narnia on the wide front lawn of the palace of Cair Paravel to dine with lions and kings, or cut throats and brigands. So stopping before its oaken doors, pregnant with probability that sometimes does not seem possible, he takes the pile of cap he's been carrying in both his hands and leaves it on the doorstep, so to say, as one desperate conceptualizing but ne'er accepting responsible of that particular lifelong avocation would place their newborn on the step of Saint Steven's Church in latter days]
Let the dead bury the dead!
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WK 29
Nov 13, 2021 2:16:51 GMT
Post by deplancher on Nov 13, 2021 2:16:51 GMT
[DeP steps out of the wardrobe, stretches and bites into an unwashed peach. She appears disheveled but what can you expect from a time traveler stunted by invisible restrictions and having to navigate barefooted a landscape strewn with the debris of half melted trumpets, fragments of disco mirror balls and Clint Eastwood cigars?]
Ayeesh, drama llama, deer Teddy. I am not disappeared, I am merely lame. Even dancers get sore feet from time to time.
Who's burying who did you say? Is it I playing dead or you?
I had a dog once. He was faithful as the wind. But every thing must change..
Sit. What is the source of your Friday woe?
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WK 29
Nov 15, 2021 2:43:23 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Nov 15, 2021 2:43:23 GMT
[the rorschalk falls back a step and clutches at his heart like Fred Sanford used to do when he was struck by an unexpected blow, or simply, a surprise]
How now milady, you've given me a fright like the ghost of Hamlet's father striding the ramparts of rotten Denmark's castle insinuating murder most foul.
[the showman pulls a skull out of his hat and stares deeply into its black sockets]
Alas poor Deplancher, I knew her well.
[He sighs then looks from the skull to the lost and found bon vivant sucking on a peach seed in his presence]
How can you... [he points at her and then to the skull of his recent contemplation] be here? When the funeral meats are not yet cold.
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WK 29
Nov 15, 2021 19:07:13 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Nov 15, 2021 19:07:13 GMT
We'll all play dead someday. But not a day sooner. (And I could say nothing in even fewer words if I tried.)
Suspending disbelief is becoming harder for me. I'm not even sure I believe existence anymore, at least as perceived, or made up, or explained, or whatever. Too many plot holes. Too totally not possible. Which is maybe why I'm getting a little bored with it. Â
At first I thought this drones-gone-wild novelette was mocking the encroaching technological singularity, that happy day our machines, already more intelligent than we are, attain sentience and supplant us atop evolution's heap of consciousness. It's funny in a subdued, sort of Douglas Adams way. But then it seemed to me, more and more, like it was taking itself seriously. And, even though well written, I started to lose interest. It's not so much poking fun at this trope as pretending to think it through, as in presenting an actual "What if?" I'm pretty sure when our tools take over for us, it won't be like that. Maybe they even already have, and we just haven't noticed. Though I'm not sure why they'd need or want to, kind of like how no one seems to want Afghanistan or the Middle East.
As always, it's mostly a matter of taste and circumstance. This cap would surely find a home in the 3000 to 4000 word range. But to crack nigh impossible to crack TQR, it'd need to be more blatantly nonsensical and therethrough acquire some metaphorical depth, a sense of irony and premonishment.
Well edited narrative flows generously from this VC. Only saw one nit in the 40 or so pages:
a battery ram.
battering
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WK 29
Nov 17, 2021 3:19:15 GMT
Post by deplancher on Nov 17, 2021 3:19:15 GMT
Long live old cold cream
Be wary of Ovaltine...
How can you speak of 'meat', Captain Teddy, when you know I'm a committed vegetarian? Please don't bury me, John Prine said that and I sang harmony with him in Nashville when we both had other names and matching cowgirl hats. Give me some wine and a string bean and clear this debris and sad wilted fleurs from my desk.
And you, Roxxifier, suspension of disbelief is the essence of our existence, n'est-ce pas? Mais oui, drag one foot, preferably the one with the longest toenails, but believe believe in the snarl of the cap. It's out there somewhere barking at the triple stars of Orion.
I've a mending needle and a turntable. It's not much but it's an end to Act 17 and therefore a beginning to something yet unwritten. Flip this record over. Press Start, then sit and read the liner notes. Memorize them. Stand and raise your hand when you're ready to recite.
Where is the script to that Korean film I watched on the spirit boat? Now that was something to dance for, with or without proper tap or ballet or high heel sneakers (who wears those these days anyway but senior hookers and trans people at costume party time?) What about reorganization? Reorganics.
Sounds like a shop not quite sure what it's selling yet.
I woke up this morning to the sound of Buena Vista Social Club. My eyes need clearing, then I will commence reading a cap that's gathering moss in a sack which I've misplaced but not lost.
Please. Don't. Plan. My. Funeral. For I have planned it myself and it is not yet time for such morosity. Merci beaucoup.
Who is next for the Interview?
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WK 29
Nov 17, 2021 14:41:02 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Nov 17, 2021 14:41:02 GMT
[The rorschalk puts on his bowler hat, cocks it at a jaunty angle on his blue dreadlocked head and, with swinging elbows, saunters forward...]
It seems fair to ask mademoiselle, what is a reasonable expectation for your rate of capital return? When I send you a venture these days, I'm not certain that you've received it let alone reddit. I need some clarity and some reassurance so that we can come to terms.
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WK 29
Nov 18, 2021 17:16:29 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Nov 18, 2021 17:16:29 GMT
"Even dancers get sore feet from time to time." Especially dancers, I would imagine. Dep, this reminded me of a quote I read long ago, something to the effect that, in the end, we all dance on coals in iron boots. But in googling the source, all I could find were references to Snow White's wicked step mother, who was made to dance to her death in red-hot iron shoes. What is it about stepmothers, I wonder. And whatever happened to Cinderella's? I'm so easily distracted of late. Which reminds me, I should take another 100 mg of Fisetin. That or eat four pounds of strawberries. It's said to prevent dementia, cancer, diabetes. Even covid, because, like Ivermectin and Pfizermectin, it too is a protease inhibitor, and an antioxidant to boot. I bought some through Amazon, then some more through a dropmail outfit linked to China. I wonder how it tastes... let me open a cap... not horrible... like stale pollen maybe... much, much better than Mandrake root or Placidyl. You can buy telomere extenders now for less than 400 dollars a bottle, if you really must live forever. But that's not why I'm a vegetarian, a pescatarian actually, though I try to avoid farmed fish, farmed anything. I just don't want to suffer. Animals neither. Where was I? Where am I? Or, more to the point, Why?
I have just finished reading Costales' Birds. It's an ambitious piece. I think maybe its reach exceeds its grasp. So many threads. So many metaphors, possibly hiding, possibly not there at all. Perhaps it is only my own grasp that's exceeded. It was nice to read something not fantasy or science fiction for a change. Something real. Something not genre. I did feel so strongly that it should've been written in present tense that I actually sort of converted it on the fly. And the ending was perhaps a little unsatisfactory, might have been better left to the reader to decide, as in The Lady and the Tiger. I, myself, would have probably returned to the slutty wife, whom I rather liked. There is perhaps a slight looseness or laziness to the prose, but I did not skim. And still I saw only one typo in, "My wife pull away from my grip."
I'm curious what my upstairs colleagues will have to say about it. It will require better formatting. But yes, it ascends.
​
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WK 29
Nov 19, 2021 17:17:25 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Nov 19, 2021 17:17:25 GMT
In most venues, including this one, the higher the word count, the better the story has to be. Because this Cards and Humanity cap weighs in at just over TQR's suggested upper word count of 12000, I set the expectations bar pretty high. To be honest, because I am lazy, I was hoping for something riddled with grammatical errors and having a weak voice that would allow me to rationalize stopping reading after a paragraph or two. But such was not the case. Livakovik can write, and seems to have something to say. Therefore I was well into page seven (of forty) when I decided to throw in the towel. So it is entirely possible I missed out on some fine, possibly even redeeming, ideas and text. I'm sure Livakovik will feel that I did, just as I would were our roles reversed.
The problem for me was a preponderance of dialog and what seemed to be an objective point of view. I have never liked this fly-on-the wall POV that is neither omniscient nor character focused. The philosophical musings exchanged in the context of table talk among the narrative's seven poker players are not totally uninteresting. I especially like Sidney, who always folds, whose ante is only the price of comradery. But the chit chat, however clever at times perhaps, is not enough. There needs to be some hook, some promise, some overarching conflict or question, to entice the reader into and then guide her through this long-ish tunnel of words. Also, seven characters with no clear MC or POV makes it even harder to get involved, to wit, to care. But then I've never enjoyed parties. Also, not being a poker player probably didn't help. I guess I'd say it was tactically okay, not super voicey or anything, but failed strategically, at least so far as I got. A tractor-pull springs to mind as a metaphor.
Sometimes, to appease my guilt for not loving something enough, for perhaps not having given it the fairest of shots, I skip to the final sentence in order to rationalize closure: "I mean, seriously, it’s just fucking poker." Even though I suspect the statement is ironic, I whisper to myself, Exactly!
Dep, are you able to help me drag this tome to the Porthole? I helped my youngest move the other week and am still feeling it in my intercostal muscles. Will you also say some kind words for the departed? I suspect you are a very fine eulogist. I am told I have a knack for this genre of public speaking where there is never any applause.
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WK 29
Nov 20, 2021 3:06:17 GMT
Post by deplancher on Nov 20, 2021 3:06:17 GMT
Dear Rocks,
Of course I will assist. Don't strain your recovering muscles. We can drag two for the effort, for I've one to accompany yours. Can we do it in darkness though, s'il vous plaît? I feel some guilt for my derelict work ethic over the past several [no time line detectable as DeP lowers her voice to the barely audible here].
Public apology to JaneVC who waited, probably forgot she even sent us that Bishop Bob, only to be portholed with not so much as a dress up ceremony. Desolé, madame. Such is life.
~~~
As for kind words, oui, I know a few and for a blue spotlight I've delivered a eulogy or two. [She reaches for a kind of water drum with only a small leak but a really resonant bass tone that is comforting and ceremonial] Hmmmm, maybe we can just say this room is occupied by well meaning albeit weary souls who collectively have probably read too much and tolerated too little. It may be your capital is faulty. Probably it is. All but the sloppiest of the slop contains some redeeming character though. You, every one of you VCs, must believe this while sharpening your wit and knowing well your intent and figuring out how best to execute it or at least convince us of same. Sometime somewhere it will be recognized.
We're the best and the worst. Just by being here, you've rung some kind of melodious bell. Take that knowledge with you as you feel us punt you out through the velvet lined Porthole, as you drift with courage downward toward the great masses gathered in The Deluge. You shall never be alone again. Amen.
~~~
Can we ask that VCs brave enough to submit here shave closely the desire to describe every mundane thought and wrinkle of clothing and irrelevant-to-the-essence event that occurs within the parameters of whatever linear block of plot building milkshake they depend upon when composing the most awesome capital venture we've ever been graced with in this meatless former dancehall where neither even the Ghost of Bukowski nor the formerly famous Janitor Jesús now lurks?
[She sits hard upon her hammock, temporarily ignoring Sir Ted's query for commitment is to DeP a word and concept akin to another word and concept: submission. And she is, for reasons known only to Rimbaud, wary of both.]
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WK 29
Nov 22, 2021 15:08:50 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Nov 22, 2021 15:08:50 GMT
[Frozen, statue-like in his elbow swinging pose, the Rorschalk stands pat, then goes all limpy]
You drive a hard no bargain, mademoiselle. It is enough to know you are here to grant Rockefeller the odd chance to catch his breath, oui?
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WK 29
Nov 23, 2021 16:26:40 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Nov 23, 2021 16:26:40 GMT
Wow, am I ever super ambivalent about Willem's wrongful termination cap. I'm not just straddling the fence here, but have 100 kg weights attached to each of my ankles. If it weren't for all the Kegels, I'd probably be split down the middle. On one hand (and arm and leg), it reads like this VC knows of what he speaks. I'd almost be surprised if he weren't a lawyer with title law experience. Aside from some tense awkwardness around the past perfect, it read pretty clean and clear, and I never skipped or skimmed. But as a sci-fi, I found it bad to the point of being funny.
For the first page and a half, no indication is given that it's set centuries in the future and that the characters are all hundreds of years old. Could be just another day in any law firm. But then, maybe 10 paragraphs in, this gets dropped: "Over 334 years of life, Tom had a lot of bosses like Chris. (Also an example of mishandled past perfect, it should read, "Tom had had a lot of bosses like Chris." So, suddenly (narrative-wise), the year's like 2455, then explained on page 3 by a "vaccine" that prevents aging having been invented way back in 2021. (So, being this is now November of 2021, Big Pharma still has about 6 weeks to come up with it. But given the speed at which they develop shit now, and basically skip those pesky clinical trials, maybe isn't that unfeasible. It's not clear if twice-yearly boosters are needed, but one would assume so or there'd've been no financial motivation to manufacture and market it.)
This cap reads like the whole dystopian future aspect was an afterthought. Technology hasn't advanced much, if at all. CNN's still around, and, even more unbelievably, Bitcoin too. (Given the last one was mined hundreds of years ago, I was sure they'd all have been lost by now.) A three-bedroom house in Memphis still costs only 2.5 million, and a family of four still only needs about 10 million to live off the interest (which rates have clearly also not changed). It's not clear why birthrates are so low that deliveries make national news (or at what age people are given the vaccine to prevent further aging). It's never said what the world population is, but, since most people do not die of old age, I'd think pretty low.
I guess, for all its unique quirkiness and credible lawyering, the almost complete lack of a big picture, of any serious worldbuilding, forces me to condemn it to the Porthole. In other words, WTF? Dude! You cannot leap three and a half centuries into the future and not look around a little.
Dep, this one is lighter by half, and so I could lug it alone to the deluge, even if I am not allowed to rest along the way. Commitment and submission, I suppose have their place. Being mildly OCD, I become enslaved by habit somewhat too easily. I will try not to make one of asking that you accompany me on this sad sojourn to fleeting ignominy, if only in spirit. Is it not sometimes better to labor alone? Why do paper cuts hurt the most? Pain is given to advise, not punish.
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WK 29
Nov 30, 2021 2:03:29 GMT
Post by carol on Nov 30, 2021 2:03:29 GMT
[Carol leans back, places her boot heels, clunk, clunk. on the cherrywood desktop. She inhales, a serious joint, thick and kind of sappy, juices coming through the paper]
We examined Jason Coldenscafield's My Corpse Has Been Shoved Up Your Mother's Ass and It's Become a Scented Candle", and well, we are sort of upset. The prose offended not only us but it also offended the normal folks. That one line, "...seen numerous babies stappled to walls, but i've never seen babies drowned..." I mean, god damn it, you are a horrible person, crafting this stuff. We are giving this an assertive no. And might I add, you, sir, are an asshole.
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WK 29
Nov 30, 2021 22:21:08 GMT
Post by bulldust on Nov 30, 2021 22:21:08 GMT
The Bullmeister almost wants to read this crapital. Anything more offensive that the Bulldog has to be some top shelf shit!
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WK 29
Dec 9, 2021 15:41:40 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Dec 9, 2021 15:41:40 GMT
Never saw Carol's latest victim, that scented candle thing, on our "big board of capital ventures." This, her spoonerizing Holden Caulfield in the VC's surname, and the totally awesome title that made me think of Bukowski (really so great that, even unaccompanied by any subsequent narrative, I'd have probably sent it up) leads me to believe she made that shit up. So finish it, and sub it under an alias. I want it. Please.
Finally got around to reading Honovich's offering yesterday. For the whole first section, I was pretty sure I'd send it up. Clever similes. Tight prose. Yeah, I didn't really know what was going on or why, but, maybe because I work in a diner, I bought into it. But then, when the mysterious Caleb launches into long dialogs that might better have been straight up 1st person narrative (but wasn't quite) relating to his abusive dad and creepy priest (both of whom he whacks) I started to have second thoughts. Now it was like the actual narrator was just an unnecessary pretext for the real story.
I never really skimmed, even read the ending a couple times to try to make sense of the burns on Grace's hand and the threat Caleb posed to local bad folk. I also wondered how a pot flimsy enough to be dented (I'm thinking cheap aluminum) when smacked against a man's head by a boy would cause much injury. Maybe my brain was spongy from losing too many games against Stockfish level-5 on Lichess.org. Maybe I'm not sharp enough to begin with, or just didn't try hard enough. But in the end I'm left mainly with doubt and suspicion. So my next instinct was to toss it into the deluge with Carol's fictitious "Mother's Ass" thing. But then today I remembered that Rats in the Root Cellar, the last cap I was on the fence about and sent up, made it all the way to fame and $ here, which almost never happens. So wtf do I know? I think this Keloid thing might at least deserve a closer look. I know you guys are busy upstairs, with lives and jobs and your own writing and publications. But fair is fair. This cap ascends, if only for further abuse.
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