King Numavision

Personal Assisitant

2009-12-26T18:08:40Z

Personal Assistant

Jeffery D. asks me to join his writing team, dangling Pam in front of my face as a “personal assistant” by way of inducement.

Given that, I can only accept and, inevitably, come up with a story about a guy in an office who slowly seduces his personal assistant, a scenario that unfolds in real life even as I’m dictating it to Pam.

kingnuma @ 2009-11-20T13:36:00

2009-11-20T18:36:52Z

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T18:09:28Z

Another clap of thunder burst over them; the lightning rolled in ten thousand fantastic shapes, along the enameled green, and appeared burning up the verdure, and transfixing every living animal that came within reach of its malevolence. The lake appeared one sheet of rolling fire, and, as they viewed it from the pavilion, they thought it emitted from amidst the sulphurous flames several hideous phantoms, whose dreadful howlings sounded on the ear, and struck each trembling hearer with more than mortal horror. The frightful fiends quitted the lake, and approached the pavilion, where, overcome by their fears, the whole assembly sunk upon their knees, earnestly imploring the protection of Heaven.

The spectres advanced, and, in a few minutes, surrounded the pavilion. It is impossible to say whether the terrors of those within, or the horrors of those without, were the greatest; both were terrible. The fiends formed a circle round the trembling group, and while the whole system of nature appeared convulsed by contending elements, the horrid phantoms performed a mystic dance; loud and tremulous claps of thunder rent the air, as they sang with infernal rapture the following lines:

Round his circle let us hie,
Swifter than the eagle’s eye.
Let us tune the mystic lay;
Let us mark our destin’d prey;
Let us snatch a burning brand.
Sear each caitiff in his hand;
Then each subject we shall know,
Whether here or far below.
Let not virtue, let not fear
Claim from us a single tear.
Tear his vitals, drink his gore.
Then our solemn rites are o’er.

This ended, they rushed tumultuously into the pavilion. The senses of all there had been for some minutes harrowed up by terrors inexpressible. They had involuntarily dropped upon their knees, and with the utmost fervency imploring Heaven for protection. Each fiend caught, with diabolical eagerness, its desired object, and they were about to put their horrid threats into execution, when...

from The Haunted Palace or The Horrors of Ventoliene: A Romance by Mrs. Yorke, 1801

Smoke Ghost

2009-10-30T17:31:43Z

Kurt Schwitters Undbild

There was a washed-out advertisement of some ancient patent medicine on the nearest wall. Superficially it was like ten thousand other drab city roofs. But he always saw it around dusk, either in the smokey half-light, or tinged with red by the flat rays of a dirty sunset, or covered by ghostly wind-blown white sheets of rain-splash, or patched with blackish snow; and it seemed unusually bleak and suggestive; almost beautifully ugly though in no sense picturesque; dreary, but meaningful. Unconsciously it came to symbolize for him certain disagreeable aspects of the frustrated, frightened century in which he lived, the jangled century of hate and heavy industry and total war. The quick daily glance into the half darkness became an integral part of his life.

– Fritz Leiber

kingnuma @ 2009-10-20T16:24:00

2009-10-20T20:26:41Z

Incline

2009-10-14T16:05:14Z

When I got to the middle of the street a black guy was already there, grandly gesturing to a car to pass by. People around here are great jaywalkers – they don’t stroll obliviously into traffic, cell phone to ear, the way the kids in college towns do, or wait, slavishly obedient to the walk signal like the good citizens of the Midwest, but advance at their own pace, crafty and relaxed, like Roberto Clemente taking a long lead off first.

Once the way was clear the guy stepped to the sidewalk behind me then quickly strode by, headed for the light rail station as I ducked into the little incline stop at the bottom of the hill.

It was empty. It’s the nature of the incline that when one car is going up the other is coming down and there are unobtrusive little boxes on either side with arrows that light up to let you know which one’s coming next. I went to the right and slumped against the wall opposite the first door, the package in my hands.

That’s the etiquette, you stand as far back as you can so that people getting off can get past in the narrow space. I straightened as I heard and then saw the car gliding to the bottom, knowing full well that there was still plenty of time before it actually arrived. The incline’s pace is pretty slow to begin with, but as it gets close to the bottom it becomes absolutely glacial, ever so gradually easing to rest against the foam tipped restraints. I didn’t mind. I was in no hurry.

Only an old woman and an Asian couple festooned with cameras got out. Like the cable cars in San Francisco, what has become an exotic tourist attraction for some was built as and still remains basic transportation for others. I’ve ridden next to people who sat there with their eyes shut, dozing, the breathtaking view in front of them having become just another part of their daily routine.

I slid onto the bench facing the window of the front compartment, still the only passenger, and soon we were creaking our way up. The landscape unveiled gradually as the car rose from the station; the trees, the river, the bridges, the downtown skyscrapers and finally the surrounding hills, cupping the whole image like a pair of hands. All of a sudden I had the sensation of overwhelming clarity, of entering rarefied air, not just from the ascent and the vivid sight in front of me, but somehow from within as well, as if for the first time in a long time I was really awake, in the middle of a something that actually mattered. Absently, I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out that old snapshot of Virginia, holding it up to the window so that she became part of it all, which was only right because to me she was the city, the genius loci, indivisible from the landscape.

Then in the middle of this I was seized by extreme self-consciousness, not only about my absurd gesture, but by that peculiarly modern apprehension that I was being watched without my knowledge, seeing myself as I’d appear on a screen monitored by a mocking stranger. But the incline is too old school for that, with no cameras and only a little scratched graffiti in its concealed corners, and when I looked out the window again we were almost to the top.

I tucked the photograph away as the car crawled the final few inches, the doors finally shuddering open. A pair of ancient babushkas with empty net bags eyed me as I eased out and headed up the stairs and around the corner. It was only then that I had my first encounter with human authority, in the form of a goateed guy in a uniform who was talking volubly on a cell phone.

Another thing about people here is that they are also great workers, neither histrionically bored, at great pains to demonstrate how clearly superior they are to both you and their job, nor frustrated despots, determined to wrest every ounce of control out of their transitory authority, but comfortably equal to their situation, performing their occupation but not defined by it, retaining their humanity yet fulfilling their role, which in this case was to watch me feed two dollars into a waist high steel and glass machine.

Despite the fact that there are a number of signs indicating that the incline, like most mass transit, is exact change only, it still comes as an unpleasant surprise to some riders which they get to the top. I’ve noticed that the problem is usually solved with the infusion of the local mixture of ingenuity and good natured sarcasm. It’s also can be a shock to later discover that if you don’t get a fifty cent transfer at his point it will cost another two dollars to get back down. Usually I’ll ask for one, but today I didn’t – there wasn’t going to be any round trip for me.

The conductor nodded in acknowledgment, meeting my eyes meaningfully while never losing the thread of his complex argument, and I pushed through the door and into the sunlight. It was pretty much of a perfect morning, no doubt signaling the beginning of a perfect day, and I was tempted to wander over to the observation platform take it in, but instead put my head down and kept on going. I figured I should go ahead and do what I came to do – there would be more than enough time for the platforms later.

It’s hard to believe that after you’ve come this far you can still go uphill, but I did. Mount Washington has the kind of view that people pay a lot for, but behind the tony houses and condos lies a typically gritty neighborhood, with a combination tanning salon/tattoo parlor across the street from the touristy ice cream shoppe, and even the crusty old barber feels compelled to set out a couple tables of souvenirs, cheap sunglasses and rubber snakes, on the sidewalk next to his pole.

The post office is a few colliding, coiling streets up, and it’s hardly as picturesque as the whitewashed Carnegie Library on the bluff, but rough and worn, jammed into a narrow storefront. There are P.O. boxes on one side and a counter on the other, and I got into the inevitable line. A guy in front was making a comment I couldn’t quite understand, half-joke, half-complaint, to the stoic mail lady, and when she replied sharply his unmodulated, childish voice retreated to apology. As they squabbled I studied the bare shoulders of the woman in a tank top front of me, her skin dry and flabby, starting to lose the glow and elasticity of youth, having irrevocably passed the point when it would be better off concealed. The contentious customer lurched away, smiling goofily and holding up his hands, and I could see now that he was a little slow, not quite right as they say around here, probably some kind of local character, living at home and doing errands for his mother.

The mail lady was brusque with everybody, but then ended each transaction with a sweet and apparently sincere thank-you ver y much. She said it as she handed the woman in front of me her book of stamps and then it was my turn.

“I’d like to send this media mail, please,” I said, laying the package on the counter.

“Is it a book?” she asked, turning it in her hands before dropping it on the scale.

“Yes,” I said, “It is a book,” and it was, a book given to me by a woman when we were both much younger, a romantic book with an even more romantic inscription on the title page, one that I’d kept close to me and read many times since, but which seemed like a kind of lie to me now. Fine she could have it back, a wedding present, congratulations. I’d crossed out the words she’d written and added only one of my own – Good-bye.

I mailed it to her firm, not wanting her to know I still kept track of where she lived. There was the name of a character from the book on the return with 600 Stadium Circle as the address. The city is full of trivia experts eager to display their knowledge, but I was sure that even if this clerk recognized the address of the old, now demolished stadium she wouldn’t care. I paid her, refused a receipt, got my Thank-you very much, and started back downhill.

There are several viewing platforms at the edge of the cliff, stretching almost all the way down to the Point. I’d already put some thought into it, but decided that it wouldn’t hurt to check them all out again. As I said, I was in no hurry, and it was important, after all, to pick the right place.

kingnuma @ 2009-10-02T12:31:00

2009-10-02T16:33:05Z

Tekla Running

2009-09-17T16:45:01Z

attributes

2009-09-17T16:43:35Z

Sonic reducer

2009-09-11T20:52:48Z

Holy Lap

2009-09-05T15:13:17Z

Holy Lap

Daughter of princely sin

Pubescent girl bride

Unencumbered wife

Rain storm goddess

Liminal deity

Let it be known

Your glance slashes as

You walk along the canal

Wandering from

Nature to culture

Wherever you approach

There is writing poetry

Exorcism incantation

Sweet butter and juniper oil

You reveal your treasures

You bathe and adorn yourself

You make the bed pleasure

For many sweet nights

You have guided my descent

To the netherworld

In your holy lap

(Heather) Glory

2009-09-04T16:20:32Z

Tekincline

2009-08-26T15:17:14Z

Laughing Sal

2009-08-25T22:51:18Z

Then we will rememeber

2009-08-21T13:45:52Z

kingnuma @ 2009-08-11T11:52:00

2009-08-11T15:53:23Z

ppg reflections

2009-08-06T16:37:21Z

kingnuma @ 2009-07-31T15:39:00

2009-07-31T19:40:18Z

kingnuma @ 2009-07-31T15:37:00

2009-07-31T19:38:40Z

the Sweater

2009-07-15T22:37:03Z

I see her going into a hidden room, follow, and there they are, the leaders of the defeated enemy army. I sling her over my shoulders like a sweater while I question them, but when I’m done she’s gone – there’s just her sweater.

Like

2009-07-09T15:24:58Z

Like
　

"See anything you like?"

"Huh?" It took me a second to realize that Tekla had caught me looking down her blouse as she leaned over the table, and another second to become completely and paralyzingly embarrassed. "Uhhhh...."

But Tekla just laughed. "Oh, don’t worry, no big deal, I’m used to it. There’s a couple of boys in my class who spend half their time sneaking peeks. Can you believe it, at their age?" She laughed again. "And mine!"

Finally I regained enough composure to say "I guess they grow up fast these days," in almost my normal tone of voice, quickly wishing I’d been cool enough to say something teasingly suggestive -- Yeah, there are a couple of things in there that interest me, being the best that I could come up with after much after the fact thought.

Tekla taught third grade and I taught fifth. We had both started at Saint Martin’s at the same time, had gone to the same college and were often thrown together, at first by necessity and later by choice, natural allies while navigating the treacherous shoals of classroom and staff meeting. A real affection grew between us, along with the unsettling shadow of sexual tension, inevitable with a man so appreciative of female beauty and a woman so blessed with it.

To me she was as attractive at forty as she’d ever been, graceful and confident, with the kind of bedrock beauty that transcends age. We were both married, happily enough on my side, and apparently her’s as well, although I would learn in time that that wasn’t quite the case.

Intimate, but never physically so, we’d confined ourselves to an infrequent collegial hug, carefully overlooking the fact that I was a man and she a woman, a difference that can be ignored indefinitely in theory, perhaps, but only for so long in real life.

Tekla didn’t dress as suggestively as the second grade teacher, with half her blouse undone, or as primly as the librarian buttoned to the neck, or even as comfortably as the principal in her St. Martin’s sweatshirt, but stylishly, very aware of the impression she was making, clearly feminine but never overdone, with her bracelets and earrings and thin gold chains, her usual outfit a simple white blouse and black slacks, but varied with enough dresses and skirts that it never seemed like a uniform.

I’d read an article by a female academic in one of the journals which asserted with complete certainty that being a woman in our culture necessitated the conscious, forced assumption of an artificial and dramatic femininity, an imperative to play the role as conscientiously as a drag queen. As is common with many theories, I believe that statement says more about the person making it than the ostensible subject – certainly, although she had an inherent understanding of posture and presentation retained from her ballet days, Tekla’s femininity came quite naturally to her, laying lightly at even the most unrehearsed moment.

Obviously I thought about her a lot, too much probably, her clothes, her hair, the way she smelled, the way she said my name, those intermittently revealed legs. I certainly didn’t want to call it love, and it wasn’t, not in the sense of some irresistible, crushing romantic force, but there was undeniably a very real sweetness there, the kind that made me willing to get out of bed each morning and continue going through the motions of what had proven to be a disappointingly meaningless middle-class, middle aged life.

But all that was prologue. Inevitably, even in the most predictable, pedestrian existence, lines appear that must either be crossed or completely avoided, and it was then, with that one question that, despite all that had gone before, our relationship really began. See anything you like? At that moment I think we both knew, for better or for worse, that everything between us had changed.

The Goddess in Matter

2009-07-08T16:27:47Z

The Goddess in Matter

Come
I desire to see your face
After having not seen your face
The changing face of the random Goddess
Laughter wrath speech silence sleep desire
Divine matter despised and transcendent
A very sensitive energy form
For all time the treasury of creation
Mistress of compassion evidence of the senses
Pedestaled above in an exalted sphere
Only to descend prominent and brooding
An ominous day a terribly severe attachment
You can’t become immortal until you die
Madonna who redeems creation
Girdled with pure virgin intensity
Potent maiden participating in the world’s substance
Your nature your process your work your play
Until all are saved none are saved
Come be not far away
Queen of the Hollows Lady Alchemy Dame Kind
Initiatrix of the Great Work Interpreter of Shadows
Serpentine Wisdom Who Lives in the Grave
If you don’t love flesh you don’t love anything
Perfect hour of paradise holding in your hand
The vessel of eternity which beams eternal
Illuminating that face elemental as you
Hang the tablets of fate around my neck
And drop me into the ocean of desire

Teklathena

2009-06-27T18:17:37Z

Astral Weeks

2009-06-24T16:56:01Z

To Be Born Again

Is Everything Physical?

2009-06-19T15:41:52Z