Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Silly

Jean Fouquet. Portrait of the Ferrara Court Jester Gonella. c. 1442. Tempera on wood. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria.

Sometimes quite by chance I come across evidence of what an unapologetically silly person I can be. Today, when trying to figure out how to use MS Access to print out reports on my charters, I came across a nonsense database I created when first learning to use the program, the "database of desire." I had wanted to have one large text field since I knew I would be typing in extensive notes on my charters, so I created a field of fake novel excerpts. Without further ado, I present them for your reading enjoyment:

She was dark, dark like the night. O! that I could know her, touch her cabbages, call her Tiny Jim…

Gretel held the ostrich egg in her hand, wondering how many people she could feed after frying it sunnyside up. What are we talking about here -- she thought to herself -- dinner-plate size? Pizza size? Hula-hoop size?

"No!" She shouted, her eyes blazing in righteous nausea….

Green, green flowed the lawnmower over her heart of bliss. Ach! Bitter was the schweingartenmeister…

How high the moon? Not high enough, he said, sadly, drinking his pesticide and gin.

The football cruised to an uptight velocity and then turned ever so slightly, as if to graze the cleavage of the Romanian cheerleader. That was the sign that blood rains would drench the field before the third quarter….

We knew then that there would be no giving up, no time for sniffling, just a moment before the shell broke on the counter, covering the kitchen floor in unbeaten ostrich egg…

The ides of march fell on a Tuesday that year, which surprised everyone in the gallery…

That was the year we were going to make it to the finals that year, but our star forward was trapped in the desert and had to eat his own foot…

My mind was floating across the idea that I would never see her again, when the shark shook me out of my musings...

4 comments:

cowboyangel said...

How high the moon? Not high enough, he said, sadly, drinking his pesticide and gin.

You've been reading my mail.

Man, the Medieval stuff, the lamb's heart on a skewer, the City of Rage and Passion, it's all starting to affect you.

I think you should givethis a title and submit it to 10 journals as a prose-poem. i promise you, one of them will accept it.

Liam said...

Maybe I'll do that...

I will blog about the lamb's heart next.

crystal said...

She was dark, dark like the night. O! that I could know her, touch her cabbages, call her Tiny Jim…

Liam channeling Byron.

Jeff said...

That Jean Fouquet sure looks like my Uncle Pat.

Love the excerpts. You're a great writer. I wish I could come up with things that clever, but I don't have the talent. Wish I did. Ah, fouquet.