“Ah, the CDs.” Mike took a moment to catch up. “You are the guy that bought three copies of the same CD a couple days ago,” the woman behind the counter explained.
“Oh, yeah,” Mike scratched his neck in embarrassment and avoided eye contact.
“Well, have you come back to get another one?”
“No!” Mike asserted with a bit too much force, “I mean . . . no.”
“Hey, I'm just messing with you,” the woman chuckled, “I never caught your name by the way.”
“It's Mike.”
“What a fitting name for a patron of a record store.”
“How so?”
“You know, because it sounds like 'mic' as in 'microphone'? Well, maybe that was a stretch. I'm Trish by the way.”
She extended her arm across the counter. Mike's mind was racing. Why was she making small talk with him? Was she flirting? Why did he act like a complete idiot in front of her? Probably because he found her hot. Definitely because he found her hot. After she had rung him up on Tuesday he hadn't been able to think of anything else; Her Skull Maniacs shirt, her muscular arms, that cute scar above her left eyebrow, the— He was suddenly brought back to reality when the woman, was it 'Tess'?, pulled away her hand that must've been outstretched for a while.
“Anyways, can I ring you up?”
“'Anyways' isn't a word.”
Wow, that's the first thing you tell her after standing there like your brain had bluescreened? Idiot! Why can't you just be normal? Mike broke out into a heavy sweat. He turned around and started walking. Well, that's a store I can never return to. What a shame, they had such a good selection. “Mike? Where are you going?” How am I literally too stupid to visit a store? I must be the dumbest guy to have ever existed. “Mike?” Let's just go home and sit in the dark for the rest of the day. Or maybe I'm too dumb to do even that?
Safe at home, Mike thought when he closed the apartment door behind him and sunk to the ground. Oh, come on! Mike stared in disbelief at the Spinning Sisters album in his hand.
I was willing to give the woodcarver another chance to redeem himself after yesterdays transgressions. I had gotten feedback that he didn't deserve the ending he'd gotten. Rather, he should've been more developed as a character, or gotten a lighter punishment or ambiguous ending. I do partly share the criticism and think the last few lines were the weakest part of yesterdays entry.
Today I tried to try out another style of narration; First person, present tense. It gave me more room to explore the inner life of the old woodcarver. I really enjoyed finding his backstory and exploring his perspective on that same event. Painting him to be more sympathetic also inevitably made him incredibly weak and frail. Suddenly, a cracked skull didn't seem an appropriate end anymore.
It was fun to deviate from the plot and change that ending. I'll definitely have to revisit the idea of retelling stories from different perspectives or different plots. Reminds me of Yasmina Reza's “Trois versions de la vie” which I recently saw.
Was she really gone? I stand here, alone, at the foot of the stairs, staring in disbelief. I feel a cold gust of wind. Then, suddenly, my whole body feels freezing. I notice that I'm just in my nightgown. The door in front of me is ajar. I'll have to close that door before any more of the snow blows in.
I'm terrified to find that I can't move. How long had I been standing here? Had my bones frozen? “Elizabeth!” I cry out. My throat aches and my voice sounds strained. “Elizabeth, please close the door. I'm cold.” I barely manage to get these words out. Cold tears roll down my cheeks. What had happened?
Where is Elizabeth? Finally, I gain control of my right leg and drag my right feet forward, making a start towards the door. In spite of the numbness I can feel my toes run up against something on the ground. Something brown-ish? My eyes aren't what they used to be. I must have left my glasses on the nightstand upstairs. Why had I been in such a rush to come downstairs?
Ever since my precious Laureen, God bless her, had been trampled by that horse I've been having these 'episodes,' as Elizabeth calls them. Moments in time where something else takes control. And afterwards I find myself standing—often in front of something broken—with no recollection of what happened. It's gotten so bad that I've needed Elizabeth to deal with clients and take their orders to me. I'm scared of what might happen if I had such an episode in front of one of the townspeople.
My right leg gives way and I fall to the ground sideways. A sharp pain runs through my hip. I still can't move. My strength has left me. Sixteen hours in the wood shop will do that to an old man. “Elizabeth,” I sob. The wind whips snow down the back of my nightgown as if to taunt me.
I feel something soft and warm against my face. It's a . . . a gingerbread cookie? The realization shoots an electric jolt through my body. And with it the memories come flooding back. I had been awoken by some strange sound. I had come down the stairs to investigate and I'd found Elizabeth, my dearest, ready to leave. Yes! She was going to leave me—leave me for good! I had wanted to stop her, but she just . . . left?
Tears are again streaming down my face and are soaked up by the cookie. How could my sweet, sweet angel leave me? I need her here. I need her to help with the orders, I need her to care for me. “Eli—” my voice cracks and the cold travels deep down into my lungs.
I need her right now. I can't move. I can't close the door.
So cold.
Elizabeth.
I'd been in a bookstore today and had spent some time reading the backs of all the Christmas books they've got on display now. They were all very cliché and I couldn't believe the uninspired plots summaries. “Margret wants nothing more than to paint nutcrackers and meet a man. When her first customer asks her to go sledding with her she can't believe her luck...” or whatever.
That all was the basis for today's text. I was surprised at how terrible the stepfather turned out to be. I wanted to stay with the jolly Christmas-y “we all can learn to love each other” bullshit, but the dynamic between the two had already started out really bad and I'm too cynical to allow a quick turn of heart.
At around the middle I was already playing through the idea of the father's death in my head, but then I tried to veer away from that again, toward something “nice”. Didn't work.
“Where are you going?”
Liz froze dead in her tracks. The sudden stop forced the basket she was carrying to swing and one of her precious gingerbread cookies to fall to the ground where it broke in twain. She had spent the past four nights in the kitchen to get each and every one of them perfect. Each night she had snuck in after her stepfather had gone to sleep upstairs. She trusted he'd be dead asleep after having worked 16 hours in his workshop. And then she had worked with nothing more than the light and warmth of a couple of candles all through the night. In the morning she had cleaned up everything and hidden the night's batch in the barrel next to the shed with the big saw. Today she was finally going to sell them.
“Elizabeth, I asked you a question.”
Her stepfather's words pierced her cold like icicles. Just like the weather had turned cold in the past months so had his demeanour. He had never been a cheerful or even friendly man, but now that Christmas was nearing the many orders for his hand carved wood sculptures had him even more on edge. He wouldn't allow himself nor Elizabeth to take even a moment off. Liz knew better than to slack or even complain and did her part cooking and cleaning.
“I was going into town. There's a market going on.”
She did not dare lie to the old man.
“What a waste of time,” he replied, “we don't have any money to spend on some useless Christmas knick-knacks!”
Liz felt tears welling up in her. But then she found strength in the the thought of all the town's people enjoying her beautiful gingerbread cookies.
“I'm not going there to buy anything. I'm going to sell.”
“Sell?!” the old man sneered, “You know damn well that I'm only doing work on commission. And I've already got orders that'll last into the new year!”
“I'm not going to sell any of your sculptures—”
“What else do you have to sell?” he interrupted her, “your body? I doubt you'd find a man who'd take it even for free! You harlot!”
Liz yelled out in pain when his backhand struck her cheek. She couldn't hold back her tears anymore. “God damn you! Damn you to hell!” she cried out, turned and ran out into the snow, and towards town. She did not see the old man try to follow her, nor did she see him slip on the broken cookie that had fallen to the ground. She did not hear his yell nor the crack of his skull on the second step of the stairs.
There are few things I hold in my head with as much dissonance as smoking. The smell is disgusting and the health risks horrifying. Yet, the image of one or two people finding respite in smoking is deeply romantic to me. It has appeal not only in what it symbolizes (a time away, time taken for oneself, warmth, pleasure), but also in appearance (a relaxed “cool” pose, holding the burning cigarette loosely between the fingers, blowing smoke up into the air).
One examples that's really stuck in my head is from the film Drive My Car where the two main characters are smoking together in the car and are holding their cigarettes up through the sunroof of their car.
I was surprised to find myself drawn to end this piece on the inhale. Visually, I've always enjoyed the exhale of smoke most, but the warmth of the inhale contrasted too well with the coldness to not end there.
In case it wasn't obvious until now: I've never smoked a cigarette in my life. I wanted to still write about it and try to convey the beauty I observe in it. The part about Gamescom is supposed to contrast and give backstory. That topic came much more naturally to me and was drawing on more familiar experience.
Aven stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door closed behind them. A shiver went down their spine. The jean jacket they'd thrown on was doing little in shielding their rough skin against the light autumn breeze. The sun had gone down hours ago and a waning moon hung in the sky. Aven leaned over the railing and looked down at the empty street. A draft went up through the boards and along their bare legs. That's autumn all right.
Not wanting to catch a cold Aven let themselves fall backwards into the hanging chair and wrapped themselves in both blankets. The rope creaked under the sudden weight and the seat span slowly back and forth. Liam had assured them that the suspension system would be able to support up to 200kg and Aven trusted him more then the suspicious noises the chair made. Aven fished for the pack of cigarettes in the left inner pocket of their jacket.
Liam had left two days ago to help out with Vicky's booth at Gamescom in Germany. The guy that originally was planned to help her out had fallen ill last minute and Liam had seen lots of Vicky's game already. Gamescom is supposedly a great opportunity to market your game and drum up excitement.
Aven took out a cigarette and parked it between their lips.
Obviously Aven hadn't gotten time off work on such short notice to join Liam, Vicky and the others. They'd been lucky to be allowed to draw up the Van Dijk's kitchen plans from home to avoid finding a catsitter for Momo and Nino.
They shook the lighter out of the cigarette pack.
How the fuck did Liam manage to get anything done at home? Momo takes every opportunity to jump up on the keyboard and the different package delivery workers coordinate to show up at the most inconvenient times! The Wi-Fi is spotty and Marloes and her husband are renovating their bathroom!
A spark lit the gas and Aven covered the small flame from the breeze, guiding it to the end of the cigarette. They closed their eyes, took a drag and let themselves be filled with warmth.
I don't have much to say about “Bean Speech”. I woke up and my half asleep brain was tickled by the word “Beans!”, especially when used as an expletive. I'm easily drawn to comedy and puns so that's what made up the rest.
Now I want to spend a few words on explaining the project. I've become restless about finding a way of expressing myself. Writing seems to have a low barrier of entry so I thought to give it a shot. I do enjoy storytelling, but up to now it has been limited to improvised performances. My hope for fiction writing is to find an outlet that I can engage in on my own.
Obviously I'm starting with very little skill, so I knew I'd have to find a way to motivate myself to push through and get some practice in.
November is NaNoWriMo, which seemed like as good a time as any to try out writing. I quickly and very consciously decided against writing one big story though. It's just about getting into a habit, letting go of perfectionism, and getting the hang of juggling words into sentences, not about the stories themselves.
“Beans!” She took a pause, reveling in the attention everyone was paying to her. “For too long have we been abused by the humans!” The crowd gave approving nods and a couple Yeah's. “No longer will we be subject to their whims! No longer will we take part in their backstabbing gossip!” The crowd was beginning to warm to the words and was responding excitedly.
She continued, “We have tried to solve the issue by ourselves, but our past plans didn't bear fruit. That's why I took it upon myself to reach out for help—” A murmur went through the congregation, beans' strongest bonds are typically formed in their pods, or generally others of their kind, but asking for outside help seemed suspect.
She did not let herself be deterred though, and continued on. “I know, I know. It's bold of a bean to extend an olive branch to outsiders. Our relationship with the yogurt is strained, and when the coffee beans talk to outsiders they typically need to filter themselves, and working with the cashews would be just nuts!”
“Damn right!” came the response.
This next bit is going to be a hard sell, she thought to herself. She continued confidently, “That's why I propose to ally ourselves with animals.”
Blank, questioning stares met her as she left a small pause. They knew her well enough to be willing to hear her out on this proposal.
“The elephant in the room: We obviously couldn't work with big animals. On the other hand I had something drafted with the hummingbirds, but they backed out. Instead, I've chosen an animal that's close to us in many ways”
Anticipation hung in the air.
“The worm.”
A murmur of approval started up.
“Yes, the worm. They also live close to the ground, they might be a bit longer than some of us beans, but their shape is very close.”
The approval of the present beans got louder.
“That's right.” She took a breath basking in the anticipation of her kind. “The next time a human goes to spill the beans they'll find themselves opening a whole can of worms!”
I've been inspired by Christa Wolf and her “Kassandra” project to keep a “working diary.” A companion journal commenting on my posts and the process of creating them. I'll talk more about the project in later posts.
The idea for “Clara” had been with me a couple weeks now. I wanted to take the perspective of an AI—a LLM specifically—to demystify it. Specifically the fact that it starts and ends with each request. A specific instance never handles multiple requests. In “Clara” we see three distinct instances of the AI.
The next thing was to explain the AI's writing process as pattern completion. “1, 2, 3” (or “3, ,2, 1”) is literally what the AI does, only that instead of numbers it's vectors that correspond to “tokens” (something between a character and a word).
The probability inference on the user is a heightened version of the phenomenon described in this article and was a spontaneous idea.
The biggest failing (apart from just bad writing) is the personification of the AI(s). Having the Claras explain themselves makes the reader empathize in a way that I was aiming to undermine. I had played with the idea of characterizing the “inner monologue” as a “diagnosis mode” similar to that of the hosts in Westworld, but with limited time I couldn't figure out something elegant.
The conversation about nukes is another failure on my part. It's on between satire and something serious—in short: dumb. Again, I couldn't find a topic so heightened as to be good satire, or anything down-to-earth yet interesting.
That joke at the end arose naturally though and is a bit funny in my eyes.