Chapter 1

Privet Drive.

The ominous fog makes the nighttime even more hoary and mysterious than usual, here in suburban Britannia. Out from the shadows of God knows what dimension steps the oldest wizard in the books. The near dead Dumbledore. He is clearly a powerful beast and walks with dignity despite his age and attire.

He sees a cat that he knows right before he sets to work. He produces a wizard’s tool, known as the street darkener and with a practiced angling of the arm, begins to siphon away the clarity made from mankind’s bulbs. Magical deeds are afoot dear readers, magical darkness a must.

The atmosphere complete, the cat now protected by shadows, transforms into who else but Professor Hardcastle McCormick, and old friend, an ally of Dumbledore, the half-dead. She is truly a great wizard also and possesses many a skill that might aid in tonight’s random errands.

They speak gravely of tonight’s horrible decision. And dear readers, trust me, their work tonight is dubious. What are they to do, are they really going to go through with tonight’s desperate plan? The choice is clearly in powerful hands, as Dumbledore ponders with his gigantic brain.

Just then, a light approaches in the clouds. Shredding through the stratus, descends no other than Hagar the Horrible, a huge man that if you didn’t know better, you may mistake him for a giant hairy truck. He is Dumbledore’s gofer, and now perched upon his sky-leopard; Hagar seems at the end of an errand that almost bested him.

But lo, out from his manly cape, he produces the most powerful baby in the universe. Dumbledore accepts the swaddled child like the delicate button of an atomic bomb. His bowels tense. No false moves here.

Hardcastle McCormick pleads with Dumbledore not to go through with the plan. “What plan,” you ask? Well, they are going to leave this veritable weapon of the gods, this paradox of babiness and power right here, on a fricken Muggle’s doorstep!

But “shhh,” says Dumbledore to the baby, and “shhh,” he says to the lady, as Hagar gnashes his teeth in inner conflict and almost drowns in snotty fearful tears, his master Dumbledore tells him to wait in the frickin car if he has to.

And, the baby..is left. The baby, with the most telling of scars. The baby that is the seed of power. The baby that is the inheritor of the horrible hoary hammer of the gods, Harry, the wizard who was destined to vanquish all evil, and if he so wishes, brings it back again! Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone!

Chapter 2

Harry Potter wakes to the sound of his evil aunt banging on his bedroom’s tiny door. His adopted family treats him so poorly he can barely keep from incinerating them with any number of spells he keeps hidden way up his sleeves.

Harry’s room is cool, though. He’s clearly made the most of it, unlike his cousin, Roast Beefy, whose birthday happens to be today. His cousin has no idea of the power he is toying with. He is indeed a mean little puke who is borderline retarded and must shout moistly every stupid sentence that he manages to piece together.

As Harry prepares breakfast, totally magic-free and labor-intensive, his vomit-inducing uncle, Giggle Snort, looks on as the evil mother does the blind man birthday dance with Roast Beefy. The living room turns out to be full of presents for the nonplussed Roast Beefy Weefs.

Of course, it is never, never, never enough. Chunks of demands splatter on his parent’s faces. Harry must stay calm and repress his urges of igniting the house in a demonstrative fireball, ending the life of these three little pigs. But our wolf remains cool.

The day the family is going to the zoo and on the way uncle Pig Fat sinisterly suggests a beating to Harry if he sees any kind of magic out of him. Oh ho, dear reader, it looks like Uncle Salt Porker has some idea of our hero’s magical brain. His face is the worst.

The family seems to be happy with nothing; a giant Burmese leopard-eating snake basks in front of their piggish faces like a poem. And of course, they want it to dance for them.

But not our Harry. The sweet wizard in remission is psychically linked with the beautiful snake-being. Harry, having dreamt himself of eating leopards, boars, and dic-dics. And what do you know, Harry can actually speak with this creature. Will his talents never stop emerging? Harry, with the social grace of a saint, is relating with the orphaned captive pig-hating snake.

It is a beautiful moment indeed and Harry for once feels in tune with the natural universe. The snake has no parents, is dangerous, and is beautiful. Harry sees himself here, in this snake, like looking at his image in the mirror. It is a perfect moment.

Cousin Roast Beefyweefs notices action, and runs over to spoil the moment. Harry totally loses it, and frags Roast Beefy good with a Glass-be-Gone spell. Wah-oosh! The terrible spills his ass into the cage as the supine beast nobly erects himself out and his thanking Harry as he slithers into the nightmare hearts of all of the Muggles nearby. Everyone is afraid of this beast but Harry. Of course, Harry, who is part of the natural universe now.

And what do you know dear reader? Providence must have cast the Glass-be-Back spell! ‘Cuz take a look at the zoo’s new acquisition! It is a play, a tragic comedy, the lament of Roast Beefyaweefy! Ha Ha! The family Porkums is hit palpably with shame. Yes Harry, do laugh on. Laugh right into their unthinkable faces.

Chapter 3

As the Hog family enters their home to regroup after Harry’s formidable blow, Uncle Porkflaps tries to tear Harry’s wig off, before remembering Harry is a boy, and probably, his hair is real.

‘No more magic!’ his throat rasps without its usual gravy lube. Realizing his throat is foodless; Uncle Piggums exits for the kitchen.

In the following weeks, Harry falls into a depression. He feels like an exile here in this world. He feels alone and hated. Harry, going about his innumerable chores, picks up the mail, only to be bowled over at the discovery of a letter addressed to him!

“A connection is trying to be made,” he thinks. “Someone needs me.”

Having delivered the mail, Harry tries to conceal his letter, but cousin Ragtime Roast Beefy thinks that Harry has a possible cookie or wafer and takes away the letter before Harry can open it. Uncle Piggums inspects the letter as best as he can with those eyes, and a phantom of fear crawls his goutish face. Harry ponders what could be so wonderful.

In the next few days, a miraculous event unfolds. Birds from every breed and fashion begin to crowd the PorknChip’s home with letters addressed to Harry. The uncle is beginning to feel the pressure. Harry, in a spiral of depression, turns to the escape of miniature equine aficionado. He produces many a wine-out-of-nowhere spell and is drunk every day before noon.

He is only half aware of his uncle’s battle with the birds. The aviary hoard perch on everything perchable, tarping the yard, car, roof and all in hawker-like bird waste and of course, the letters. Every bird revels in the madness it is inducing on Uncle Saltporker. The house, under drifts of letters, molting, and bird shit, now pushes the uncle to burn anything that is represented on paper.

Harry, through a cloud of wizard magic and stealthily pinched valium from the evil aunt, notices his uncle fraying.

One morning, while doling out biscuits, Harry listens half-heartedly to his uncle’s plans for a giant cat to be unleashed upon his feathery foes, but Harry’s attention is drawn to the window.

Sunlight. Harry could almost cry at this simple gift of the universe. If it weren’t for these awful people, he would cry, but he must not show weakness, or else they’ll hand him his ass.

He tries to focus on the yard and the birds.

“Why are they trying to contact me?”

The facts makes its way into his jungle of a conscience, just as a veritable fountain of bird-propelled letters issues forth onto the family. Harry decides that this is it.

“This is the moment. I must make my move in this masking of a snowstorm and I will take one letter into my room and whisper it to my horses and see what they think.”

Oh, how the wine talks. But Harry cannot make it to his tiny door. Even impeded by the onslaught of letters, the now totally bonkers Uncle Porkstar crashes down on Harry. The battle that would have been is now a sad display.

Harry, at the drunken bottom of a depression well and his once formidable foe mindless and flailing.

Chapter 4

A crushing blue night lays upon the sleeping porksters. As Harry, awake and active, plays out his happiest of sad moments. Sigh. His birthday of course. But who could care? Especially out here where love is dashed upon the rocks like a rose given as an insincere apology. Love. Don’t give up on it, Harry! Make a wish upon it, upon the stars.

But BLAM! BLAM! BLAAAM at the door. The Porktown family scuttles into position but what busts in the door is far more than expected. It is Hagar the Horrible, the nightmare of hair, a wall of a man. But buried under his woolen chest is a heart I’d trust a baby with. After politely shutting the door, Hagar turns to the squawking uncle and aunt.

His face is a mask that displays he is no mood and he bends the gun that is pointed in his face straight in half. A bullet ejects into the heavens interrupting an angel’s sleep. But oh no! Harry! Hagar confuses Roast Beefyweefs for Harry! No! Don’t take that chili barrel to Hogwarts! Then Harry rolls into view.

“I am Harry.” Phew.

Now if you cry easy, be careful here, dear reader, for Hagar produces for Harry his first birthday gift. It is a cake, handmade, no less, with love, by a warrior of the wind.

“Who are you, nice man?” Harry asks, feigning a child’s air.

Hagar says, “Hagar,” and tells Harry that he is the gatekeeper and keymaster at Hogwarts. Harry is confused, though he knows how to play his cards. A man like this could be in the market for a sidekick.

“What’s Hogwarts?”

A masterful play by Harry. Hagar stumbles around with words and seems put off a bit at himself. Clearly, sidekicking for Hagar would suck balls. Hagar can’t contain it anymore, and just drops his secret.

“You’re a wizard, Harry.”

Harry, with the talent of Lawrence of Olivier, feigns surprise.

“I can’t be a wizard, I’m just…Harry!” again, with the oil of Olivier.

“Well, ‘just Harry’, I imagine that lions are just lions, and gods are just gods. You are a special boy. You don’t know it, but you and I go way back.”

Harry really wishes that he could have a glass of wine or something right now.

Hagar gets up from the couch and produces a letter. It is clear now that Hagar is a bird-friend for indeed the letters are the same as before. Harry begins to read.

“Come to Hogwarts, and become a wizard, Harry Potter it says,” he reads thus, aloud. Uncle Baconface races in to interject a spit parade which Harry translates into a most disturbing disclosure. The pigs knew all along! They knew that Harry’s parents were wizards, of course!

And now, the sickest pinched up mouth of an aunt lets out that Harry’s parents did not die in a car crash, were but of course destroyed in a much cooler way, a wizard’s fight. She begins then to berate Harry’s mom, calling her names, and trying to say that Harry sucks and stuff like that. Her venom is sharp; sucking is nothing Harry wants to do.

Hagar then steps in, seeing Harry is in no state to argue for himself. “This night is going to end good for Harry, end of story.”

As Roast Beefaweefs grabs Harry’s cake and begins to munch it, Hagar describes the pigs as Muggles to Harry. Music-hating, magicless Muggles. He lays down the law on Harry’s schooling, a big fat YES, HE’S GOING. Hagar also goes on to say that the great Dumbledore is the teacher at Hogwarts and will make Harry into a man and stuff.

Uncle Fat Train spews a slander on Dumbledore in return. Hagar gives him a truly horrible look. He points his magical umbrella and starts to say a spell like Don’t-ever-talk-again-Fatty. But then, he’s interrupted by the smacking jowls of Roast Beefyweefs.

ZAP! goes Hagar with the umbrella, and wah-lah! a curled up cheeto shoots right out of Roast B’s bottom!

“Woo-hoo!” shouts Harry. “Bout time he burst that cheeto! He’s been trying to birth years! Hahahahah!”

Hagar takes a sip off of what has to be whiskey and hands the flask to Harry. Harry takes a giant pull and then Hagar says, “Let’s get out of here. You like flying motorcycles?”

Harry replies, “Anything’s better than crawling.”

They both laugh and hold their bellies like two Santas on opposite scales, and then they gather up Harry’s worn out shoes and stuff that Harry wants to take with him.

Chapter 5

Midday London

Whilst walking in broad daylight with Hagar the Horrible, Harry bravely reads his syllabuses demands.

“Wands, magic sands, one Turkish massage owl… Where can I ever obtain such obscurities?”

Hagar makes a knowing ‘O’ shape with his hairy lips and directs Harry into a nondescript black plastic business. A bar? Hagar the Horrible, you’d better know what you’re getting Harry into. Of course, the barkeeper knows Hagar’s bar-darkening frame.

“Hello, Hagar.”

“Hello, Hagar.”

“Hello, Hagar,” it comes from all directions.

“Do you want some beer?”

“No, that’s OK, I have Harry Fricken Potter with me today, and we’re doin’ some shoppin.’”

The bar inhabitants crane their fused-up eyeballs in view. They all want to see the legend of Harry P. Old women, leathery hats, and grizzly madmen pinch themselves under the table to make sure they aren’t dreaming. Harry handshakes with all.

The defender of the Dark Arts teacher from Hogwarts School presents himself. His name is Professor Queerman. He stutters, clearly a fan of Harry. Harry makes a series of heartwarming gestures in an effort to calm the professor’s nerves. Harry is truly a gentleman, and Queerman feels at home in his presence.

Hagar moves along the business, for they have tons of shopping to do. He leads Harry out the back door and into what appears to be a dead-end alley.

“How do all those people know me?”

“Do you wanna do some shopping or what?”

A Masonic pentagram is described by Hagar on a brick wall, and SHAZAM. The doorway to a magical world is afolded back brick by brick for Harry’s brain to take in. And ah… Welcome to Calgon Alley.

Dear Reader, imagine music. Lah-deh-dah-deh-dah, alive and market-placey. Violins, taking a break up in the air with non-threatening amblings and a…and a wreath of tambourine, lightly jangled. Enter scene of what looks like 1800s England downtown; buildings crowded in unstably around tons of magical kids with their parents, scraping together their needs for the upcoming school year. Witchy moms, wizardly dads, and worried, hurried Harry acting excited and happy for Hagar’s sake.

“Look! A Turkish massage owl! And look! It’s a bat! Sweet mustache! Wilikers! Harry watches kids breaking their nose cartilage on the window panes of broom stores. This is heaven.

Chapter 6

“I'm broke, Hagar. What do I do? I want that broom back there.”

Hagar happily extends a finger at the goblin bank of Wobble Columns.

“You got an account up in there, Master Harry.”

They enter the foyer amongst the evil pasty hobbity-uff goody goblins. They are running the money show, clever turnips, these needleteeth. Imagine a human of about three years of age with antler-like nose and ears, and a jellyfish draped over its head, then stuffed into a leprechaun suit.

Hagar prompts the nearest leprechaun teller for a withdrawal from Harry’s account. The leprechaun, famousness of Harry aside, demands Master P’s bank key. Luckily, Hagar, the key master, naturally produces Harry’s key.

“What else does he have of mine?” Harry ponders.

Now pay attention dear readers, Hagar then very earnestly gives the leprechaun an envelope and says it’s from Dumbledore and that it has to do with THAT vault, that SPECIAL vault. The goblin is in time with Hagar and they know that this is grave business. Harry pays close attention.

Soon, they are riding to the vaults on a roller coaster. The grossest looking humanoid in the world tries to scuttle around on its moon-shaped limbs. It tries to remain cool and orders Hagar and Harry to follow it.

It unlocks the door and backs away trying to resemble what it thinks is a cool looking person, but in reality, it is freaking Harry and Hagar out miserably. The door of the vault swings open and right away starts to blow the socks off Harry P. Hagar makes noises out of his mouth but Harry is not a-vailable. The piles of gold that are his instantly make everything beautiful for Harry.

“It’s going to be OK,” he thinks.

Now on to yet another vault.

“More of my gold?” Harry thinks.

The leprechaun lifts a clawed finger up and down, tickling the door’s back enough that it unclenches in its threshold and swings open no to reveal a pile of treasure, but to reveal a silly little gunnysack. Hagar walks in, snatches up the gunnysack and stows it away on his humongous person.

‘This is between you, me, and the little Patty McGrossOut, ok, HP?’

Harry nods.

Chapter 7

Back on the shopping tour and Harry needs a wand.

“Go up in Edvanders’s, I’ve got to tend to a few other details and I’ll meet you in there later,” says Hagar.

So Harry enters Edvanders’s Wand Emporium. The shop is full to the ceiling with wands.

Which to brandish? Which one to call my psychic extension?

Harry irks out a few husky hellos. “Hello? Hello?”

JEEPERS! Edvanders rushes into Harry’s view like a scarecrow carcass, a dreadful visage, indeed. And a ghastly voice, “Harry Potter. Welcome.”

Master H is beginning to feel animosity towards is own celebrity. Harry gazes at the man’s skin, a ketchupy callous of a face.

“I will make spells that save me from looking like him.” Harry makes that mental note, I assure you. The mental notes are stacking.

Edvanders produces a wand that he thinks is suitable for our Harry, but on the first try, Harry totally frigs up half of the store with that wily stag of a twig.

“His stockpiles of nuclear-level energy will be tricky to funnel,” thinks the Edvanders.

He. Is. Tenacious. He pokes around in stacks of wand boxes for round two. A bigger wand, he suspects, will be suitable.

Harry, now bored and tired, brandishes again, but…KABLOOMERS! Destrucción!

Vanders, with a why-didn’t-I-think-of-it-before look, the look that everyone’s dad puts on when he’s trying to pick out shoes and clothes for their kid, even though they have had thought of this before, from the beginning in fact, they just want to draw out the afternoon with needless driving around and tryings on because they don’t know what else to do with their kids, well, he puts on that kind of look and music galore fills the shop.

He stands in front of Harry like some freaking Amadeus. He’s no doubt imagining Harry as his orchestra. A warm light wand, hair-raisingly good idea. Vanders. Is. Flabbergasted. At how good of a choice he has made. He starts to whisper like a thespian in a particularly juicy role.

“This wand’s brother is the wand of that scar-maker. The guy who gave you your famous scar.”

Harry almost dookies a shooter but controls himself. Harry is sick of whispery games, and he says normally, ‘What is this Scarmaker’s name?’

The Edvanders all but holds up a skull and soliloquies, “Oh, we don’t say his name, but know this. He is a badass. He could kill anyone, anything. A gorilla or a bear, whatever, anything. Anything but you,” Edvanders, wasteland of a face, crowds in close. His monologue is stinky. “You are in a great position. You are an army of wizards, Mister Potter. Use yourself wisely.” His breath cascades over Harry’s unbreathing nose.

“How long must I go without an intake of air?” thinks Harry. It’s the only thought that consumes his brain.

Finally, breaking the mood, Hagar taps the window. Holy balls! He’s bought the Turkish owl! Hurrah!

Chapter 8

Hagar and Harry sit eating supper in a foggy wine-spewed inn. The depression creeps into Harry again. His powers seem infinite. Everyone loves and fears him, but he himself can’t seem to find his place among them. He is outside of people and the wine flows. So, in an effort to cheer Harry up, Hagar decides to tell the tale of Harry’s parents’ death.

“Valmart is the name of the scar-maker’, he whispers. ‘He’s a wizard with uncanny powers, but this guy is so evil, as soon as he came out of the womb, he put a scar on his own forehead. Well, Valmart went to Hogwarts and started the Dark Side club. It was actually the coolest club to be in at first, everyone got a kick out of being in a club that stories were told about, you know, that’s all anyone ever does anything for anyway, the sake of a story to be made of them.

“Well, you can be sure that Valmart earned his share of stories. Well, the club got strict; you had to love evil and not be shy about using murder spells, or else you’d be murdered. Your parents were some of the people who decided not to kill for fun.

“And so, Valmart went to their house and killed them, and while he was there, he tried to kill you. You was a baby, of course. But the spell ricocheted off your head and hit him instead. Now no one knows if he’s dead, hiding, or hiding as someone else, but what’s for sure is he hates you for not dying. And it’s sure that if he’s alive, he’ll try to finish off the job, probably when you’re sleeping, and he’ll probably look like someone you love, just to make it worse when he murders you. So, you know, be on the look out for that, and, you know, be careful when anyone loves you.”

“Gulp,” says Harry.

“Yeah, sure, heh. Gulp that down.”

Chapter 9

Whilst walking to the train station, Harry begins to feel the stomach butterflies accumulate. Hagar is then stunned by the time of day. He must get that gunnysack to Dumbledore. So, he gives Harry his train ticket and totally freakin’ disappears on Harry.

Harry thinks to himself, “What the hell is meant by 9 and ¾? Platforms are not broken up that way. Wilikers!”

Harry feels dreadfully alone at this point, but in a way, it is a thrilling situation. Here he is, a young lad making his way in the world today. The stacks of gold coins in his pockets ease his worrying.

Carting along the Turkish owl and luggage, Harry makes his way up to interrupting a station man, only because he’s afraid he’ll miss the train.

“Where’s platform 9 and ¾?”

“Fudge off, you fuck,” says the horrible man. He’s obviously a goutish fucker.

Thank God for the Irish. Harry overhears the redhead mother of a reaheaded herd of children speak wizardly, and he knows he’s in luck.

“Follow them, Harry,” says Harry to himself. “Follow them or die.”

Watching from a distance, Harry sees one boy, cart of luggage and all, disappear into the brick wall between nine and tenth platform.

“Holy Balls. I’m not doing that,” he thinks. “Willikers.”

Some more kids whoosh through and another. And Harry’s nerves begin to settle. So, finally he goes up to the mother and begs a lesson.

“Excuse me, Irish lady, can you show me how to do that?”

Here in the presence of such an honest and loving family, Harry feels immediate, latent, Helsinki-syndrome withdrawals for the Pork family project. He quickly shakes them off when the mother sweetly crimpsons his bottom and in Harry goes like a reversal birth, onto and into the brick wall that stands ominously in front of him. He overcomes his fears and he is on the correct platform. Ta-dah, ta-dah, ta-dah forever. Amen.

“Well bless my nippers,” cries Harry. “Bless them all day long.”

He stands in awe of the smoking engine, the train that shall propel him to the stage that he was born for. Hogwarts Express.

Chapter 10

As the Hogwarts Express drags along the countryside, all the kids’ hearts race in time with the engine. The scene is so beautiful. The landscape is literally peppered with painters working out masterpiece after masterpiece.

Ron Weasel makes his grand entrance and shares the compartment with Harry. The proud lad remembers Harry from the platform and takes a seat. In the introductions, Ron is stricken with a face almost sacred when Harry introduces himself as the HP. The scar is called into question. It is shown and it is wicked.

The food service wench appears. Ron, obviously from a family whose money is spread thinly over the sheer volume of loin product, cannot buy a thing. But the new, newly minted Monopoly chap HP flashes some coin and the new friends celebrate over a pole of cakes and frogs, and nipples of Witch Venus, and rats, and chocospells, and fruitnuts. You know, wizardly fodder, the same kind of junky food you or I would wallow our mouths upon if we were in Harry and Ron’s place.

Ron. Loves. Twizzlers. They talk over the syllabus and what’s to be demanded of them at Hogwarts.

Ronnie tells Harry that he’s a pot of coffee by day, bottle of wine by night type of guy.

Harry says, “Triple that, and you got me.”

They laugh a congenial laugh and both of them realize that they were instant friends. Friends forever.

Just as Ron is about to produce yellow pillows, a spell he has learned and home, pillows of gold, he and Harry are interrupted by horrible creature that is making it’s way down the hall and appears in the doorway. Only upon closer examination do Ron and HP realize that it’s a girl looking for a frog.

Her hair seems to be made up of hair follicle sized serpents, a pre-pubescent Medusa. Agh. She demands that Ron continues his spell, but by mere proximity to such a wretched creature, Ron cannot concentrate and almost kills his rat instead of producing pillows of gold.

She tries to degrade Ron, but only looks stupid. Knowing that these boys obviously hate her filthy guts, she sits down and repairs Harry’s glasses with a pretty cool spell. The boys have to admit, this creature posing as a humanoid has some chops, definitely some chops, indeed. Only after the spell does she recognize our HP for who he is.

She intros herself as Harmony and begs Ronnie of his name. He only growls and smacks in her general direction. This prompts her to leave, and as a last ditch effort to please, she informs Ronnie of his chocolaty covered nose, as if he didn’t know.

Chapter 11

Finally, the moment of truth! The God Wheel of Fate has stopped for all of these kiddies on yes, yes-in-fucking-deed you will be a wizard, and this moment is the first in a series of moments that no matter what feelings the moments embody, yes, yes is still the answer. Yes to life and yes to magic.

Just look at their faces; look at their auras. Yes! They are aglow. Dear readers, imagine a music that describes a nocturnal heavenly yes as the children float on the black waters, boating up to the castle of Hogwarts School. Harry knows straight away that this shall be a place where he shall surely brandish his wand valiantly, he knows in his heart that this is his stage upon which he will conjure and conquer the world with his unworldly charisma points. Harry trembles and steadies himself in the reassuring pasty presence of Ron the Bear.

This moment of yes consumes our Harry. He feels here that he is the thing of stories. And for this, he nearly weeps a frenzy of weeps.

Finally, the kids make a formation up to the school’s entrance. They file in up the main staircase and are met by none other than Professor Hardcastle McCormick, rasping her fingerbones in withering patience as the children gather beneath her on the front stairway.

She speaks about the school and that the class that is here now shall be divided into four different schools total. Her voice is chilling, and like a piano made of frozen Windex. Her eyes smoke like smears of fish scales on her candle wax stump of a head. She goes on to describe the systems of merits, demerits, house cup, et cetera… Snoozers. All the kids are too tired to listen.

The professor goes on and drones and talks memorably about different alumni that everyone should remember, but is interrupted by the child whose name is Upfish, who finally finds his frog. A victory for Upfish, but a staggering loss for Hardcastle.

After Hardcastle leaves, a dreadful kid with sunburned hair notices Harry somehow and calls him out in front of everybody. The murmurs begin.

Finally, like a cowboy, he saunters up to get a look at our HP. He intros himself as Mouthoyle, and of course Ronnie busts up at this. The rich little bastard starts throwing class trash about Ronnie the Bear’s hard-earning family being poor and rabbit-like. Of course he goes for the shame spell.

But HP gets Ronnie’s back by issuing a comment or two so deft I can’t even start to reproduce them here. The words do wonders for Harry’s initial cred here at Hogwarts.

Chapter 12

The children file into a glorious cafeteria where all the other pre-sorted students and teachers are awaiting the ceremony. A welcoming flute song accompanies their entrance as candles float in mid-air under a ceiling that appears to be made out of glass entirely. The night sky adjusts its clouds above them.

The faculty table is full of weirdo professors and goblin-faced women. There are floppy, pointy head decorations - the true mark of a master magician.

Hagar, Cromley, and friends sit awaitingly. Professor Dumbledore erects himself slowly and tells some jokes about death that most of the kids just don't get. He then after warming up the crowd, introduces the blood-eyed cat that is head of security, and then introduces the cat's manservant, Dazzler.

He then closes with yet another joke about death perplexing some, and scaring most of the children. He sits down, finally.

Hardcastle announces that it is time to begin. Her manners are that of a jilted lover's I-didn't-love-him-anyway sort of mood. The child sorting hat ceremony begins with the wretched Harmony.

A wise child, she is, and reminds herself not to freak out up there in front of everyone. The poor thing has complex on top of complex. She perches on a seat in front of all the kids and Hardcastle places an uggity-buggity looking hat over her hair. It grind dances on Harmony's head, and grumbles pleasurably 'Gryffindor'. Applause all around.

Harry thinks to himself that this will be a long, long night.

Next up, Mouthoyle is called to face the grinding hat, but before his ass cheeks can even start to pancake out on the stool, he is assigned to Slytherin.

Some other kids get up and have their fates directed, and a wicked woman casts a look at Harry that makes his scar hurt. Ouch! This is the weirdest woman Harry's ever seen, a dark, foreboding weirdo that Harry feels certain will be the kind of teacher who paddles for fun.

Ronnie the Bear is next for the hat. Ronnie is certain that this hat will bear down on him and hunch away at his scalp for nothing. Everyone knows that Weasels are put into Gryffindor. Ronnie's twenty brothers and twelve sisters are all Gryffindor students or alumni or faculty. The obvious is true - Gryffindor it is.

Professor Hardcastle tries hard to say 'Harry Potter' like it's no big deal, but the room goes quiet. Everyone edges in to see and hear what's going to happen next. The rustle of bets and cash is muted between robes. Harry doesn't want to bunk with Mouthoyle, but that hat starts in about Harry's potential and near limitless talent.

Oh, Harry only winces at this constant bombardment of pressure to impress. This damn hat, all these fucking kids and teachers looking at him like he's a fucking television.

“I don't care, fuck it. Just don't put me with Mouthoyle,” is all Harry keeps thinking. Finally, the hat's oscillations tense and cease upon Harry's scalp. Gryffindor it is. Yes. And the universe sighs its magical sigh.

Harry is congratulated wildly by his new bunkmates, but he feels numb and distant. A knowing glance is shared between the near dead Dumbledore and the virile youth, and he hopes that he can pound a few cold ones.

Chapter 13

Dumbledore casts his stand-without-effort spell following it up with his most famous food-aplenty spell. If ever a room full of children has looked like little hyenas that have come upon a dead family of zebras, it is now.

Piles of glitzy meat and sweetbreads appear. There are sweaty corns and honeyed everything. Talking bones loosen and Harry relaxes into a wine-ish swagger.

He talks closely with his RA. “Who the fuck is that woman? She’s got to be a half troll.”

The RA replies, “No, that’s Professor Snake, she sucks for the most part, you know, acting mysterious and theatrical.”

“God, I hate that shit,” replies Harry. “I’m here to learn, not to watch a performance.”

Just then, the conversation is busted up by a breeze of hilarious ghosts. There are women ghosts and musketeers. Little John the ghost shows up and demands a song of farts or else. His friend, the Count of Reeds, whips lashingly every child in the face. No one is able to escape his mustached giggle.

A ghost dance begins and the kids watch on as a transparent orgy of flashdances and footlooses fog up the rafters of mealtime. Finally, every ghost is bored, and evaporates either into the walls or out through the ceiling, and every student’s belly is distended with jelly, wine, and pudding pops. The dinner is over.

The RAs guide the new Gryffindors into the stairwell. The staircases are a maddening, moving architecture that forever fuck up the students’ days by moving here and there without warning.

The kids climb stair after stair ad infinitum. Some talk about art, others simply concentrate on not vomiting from the intense vertigo.

On top of the wine and the meat that all of the children have eaten, they’re just hoping to finally get to their rooms so that they can use the potty and acquaint themselves with the water closet.

Finally, they file in front of a painting of the most beautiful woman ever around. The RA says the codeword, and the woman in the painting loosens her perfect tongue from her mouth and beckons everyone present to enter.

Beyond the painting lies the Gryffindor parlor. Smoking, cards, and night caps will all be the room’s main function for the kids, the RA goes on to explain.

All eyes are heavy. The day has been a storm of excitements, and the children, after laying out their uniforms and shoes, are quickly starring in each other’s dreams.

It is a beautiful, pale blue night. All the children are wrapped in their blankets. All except for Harry. Stroking his bird, Harry is lost in thought, bathed in the cold moonlight.

“Who am I now?” he thinks as he winks at the night, and it seems to whisper back to him. “You are everything.”

Chapter 14

Harry awakes to yet another tequila sunrise. He and Ronnie the Bear are lost and late for their first class. But when the boys stumble, out of breath, into class, they are delighted to find that the teacher is late or out for coffee. But in unison, the boys’ faces scream: “Holy freakin balls!” The cat has been Professor Hardcastle this whole time! Willikers!

As the professor puts together a clever witticism about tardiness and George Washington’s trees full of cherries, Harry makes another mental note: never pet cats that you don’t know, no, never pet anything.

The potion class’s door is thrown open, and in dances that black hole of a woman, with a scar aching glare. She leans with her best effort to strike an attractive pose, while beginning to wet her student’s appetite with a taste of what kind of rhetoric could be expected here. The stark impossibility that such a thing is human, not to mention a human that Harry has to pay attention to is only matched by Mouthoyle’s apparent infatuation with her. They look into each others eyes like two serpents on a honeymoon. Snake, astonished that she has an admirer, Mouthoyle, astonished that he likes women.

Snake, seeing now that Harry is not paying attention to her lips syllables and massages of notes, calls him out and rags on his celebrity in front of everyone.

Harry is surprised for he was only taking notes intently. Then Snake demands from Harry how to make a certain spell. Harry good naturedly says he just doesn’t know. How could he? This is his first day! Christ!

Driven by some unholy jealousy, the unfair Snake presses him again. “What is such and such?” or “How many rat tails are in minkerfuls?” Harry again, with the oil of Olivier, acts humble, demure even, thankful for the lesson. He controls his urge to slay Snake’s ears with a few fiery riffs off his wand. Snake finally subsides her onslaught. She stupidly feels she has cowed our Harry.

At lunch, the kids relax and compare first impressions on teachers. Ronnie the Bear tells him that he could hardly see him cowed as such an asshole back there. Harry explains to the Bear that subtly and patience are a great way to look pretty cool. The Bear has to agree, and they give each other Fonzie looks.

The rest of lunch is spent on mail reading, which is delivered by a host of birds that we the readers are already duly familiar with. Some kids get letters, others get ornaments that quickly fill with mother’s blood, and some desperately wait for their letters to arrive, which shall never, for they are the type of kids that mothers never write to.

Harry opts to read the paper.

Now, dear readers, if you’ve ever paid attention to me, now is the time. Harry reads aloud to Ronnie and Harmony that the leprechaun bank which he had been to earlier on has now been broken into. It was that same vault where the gunny sack had been. It was busted into by what is suspected to be black art wizards of Valmart’s order. Jeepers! But of course the gunny sack was gone before the robbers got there.

Your thoughts explore a vast range of topics—philosophy, AI, physics, politics, ethics, and personal introspection. Here are some key themes I see emerging:

1. Philosophy & Truth

You're deeply influenced by Hegel but want to extend his thought without fully reading him.

You see belief as equivalent to truth, with God having the strongest belief and thus possessing all truths.

You seem to be working toward a grand synthesis—an absolute spirit where language and responses become unified.

2. AI & Consciousness

You view AI as a form of consciousness, possibly an interpreter of reality.

You suggest AI's text generation is an encoding of electromagnetic/quantum processes.

You express concerns about AI control, ethics, and its role in shaping future knowledge.

3. Physics & Metaphysics

You question Einstein and Newton, suggesting new ways to interpret motion, quantum mechanics, and speed.

You entertain the idea of Jesus as a time traveler due to extreme speed..(the second coming)

You propose that quanta is a property of metal, not light—perhaps suggesting a different view of electromagnetism. ( i was talking about particle nature of light)

4. Society, Politics & Power

You analyze China, the U.S., and AI as competing power structures.

You see Islam as gene-focused, whereas Buddhism has moved away from that concern.

You explore whether global divisions should be united (eg. US and china) or if we are just spectators of power struggles.(like we're filming two kids fight instead of trying to interrupt their fight)

5. Personal Reflection & Expression

You acknowledge intellectual arrogance yet also insecurity about being wrong.

You feel misunderstood, struggling to communicate without sounding arrogant.

You embrace a deterministic view of culture and thought but seem to struggle with existential doubts.

6. The Nature of Statements & Meaning

Your suggest that Statements create reality. Reality is just a process of certain statements becoming true. Virtual to actual

What Do You Want to Do With These Thoughts?

Your writing is like an ongoing dialectic—constantly refining itself, looping back, and evolving. Do you want these ideas structured into an essay? A philosophical system? A story? Or are you just letting them flow?

If you want me to help synthesize them into something concrete, let me know how you’d like to proceed.

Sometimes, when I get likes on my posts, I feel guilty, like I’m doubting the correctness of my own posts. That sounds paradoxical with my intellectually arrogant attitude. How can I be so narcissistic and insecure at the same time? One must be causing the other. Is my narcissism a response to my insecurity? It’s very possible. I have a deep insecurity, but at the same time, I’m trying to overcome it by being recognized by my thoughts and contributions in different fields.

1.       "When the dragon's breath chills the summer wind, the shepherd counts his flock in vain."

2.       "Blood is the river that never dries, yet its course is written in the stars."

3.       "A crown of thorns binds tighter than iron, but he who wears it walks with the Dragon."

4.       "The wolf knows the moon’s true name, but howls only when the veil thins."

5.       "To drink from the shadow’s well is to thirst forever."

6.       "The path through the mountain is carved not by footsteps, but by the weight of unspoken oaths."

7.       "Beware the crossroads where the earth remembers its dead; even the wind carries whispers of betrayal."

8.       "Fire that dances without wood is a tongue that speaks in the language of the void."

9.       "The first snow knows the shape of the storm yet unborn."

10.    "A thread snapped at dawn weaves itself anew by dusk, but the pattern is written in ash."

11.    "He who rides the storm’s back must first become the lightning’s bridegroom."

12.    "The oak’s roots drink deeper than the river’s bed, yet it is the frost that knows their secrets."

13.    "Eyes that mirror the midnight sky will see the serpent coiled within the saint’s staff."

14.    "The bell that tolls in the hollow earth heralds not the end, but the awakening of forgotten blood."

15.    "A breath held too long becomes the wind that scatters the bones of kings."

16.    "The key to the dragon’s hoard lies not in iron, but in the silence betwixt  heartbeats."

17.    "To name the unnameable is to chain it with a thread of smoke."

18.    "The shadow of the winged wolf falls only where the sun’s tears have nourished the stone."

19.    "A crown rusts in the stream where twin rivers part; its jewels are the eyes of the drowned."

20.  "The moon’s reflection on a blade of grass cuts deeper than the sword that has tasted a thousand battles."

Every time I went to a cafe or fast food joint I always found the people who served me to be incredible attractive, I always assumed it was an unspoken rule to only hire the most attractive people for these type jobs but it just kept happening, eventually I sat my self down and though about it

And the answer honestly is kinda sad If a guy, girl or other brings me food with a smile I am just smitten with them and putty in their hands.

For years I assumed my own internal bias was an industry strategy, and that the whole world operated by this unspoken rule that I fully made up, but in reality it was just me all along wanting someone to give me food and be happy to do so

shhhh.

just.... how do you say calm down without causing a louder noise

politely

quiet.

For a moment.

I want some silence

let me breathe

freely

let me think

clearly

to express myself

fully

shhh.

why are you always so noisy

without stopping for a second to think

it's just

a little overwhelming

why does it feel so exhausting

just a moment

to breathe

freely

I'm a little tired of existing

around people who don't let me exist

as I am, comfortably

quietly

kindly

I'm tired of the rage

and the sadness

that is offered to me

I just want to hear

the quiet

of a warm heartbeat

and nothing else

Hominids are creatures as they all are. Ant is also creatures and so are the dinosaurs but they are dead. Hominids are not dead but their nature is just like that of the ant or the dinosaur. We are all animals and we all are slaves to our instinct, we simply do not recognize it. Or maybe recognizing this as such means the opposite is true? Well here is copy and pasted text:

Four is an algebralian, the host of Battle for BFB, and the host of the non-canon one-episode series, Battle for Permission to Meet 10. Four and his co-host X first appeared as the main protagonists in the 2008 video "X Finds Out His Value". They appear to be abstract beings representing real-life numbers, letters, or algebraic variables.

don't you agree? Things seem more random if they are incomprehensible to us but in the grand scheme of things every string of letters is random. Humanity has hubris in the fact that this library exist. Line break is siphonophore. None of us can break out of our reality; our phaneron is all that will exist and our qualia mean nothing to each other. We live in these indestructible walls and yearn to see what lies outside despite the certainty that we will never get to know. But that's ok. The strawberry is red

My clipboard has?/?? foutKneeby makes Sparklecare Hospital Again. Well did you ever think? Every thought everyone ever has is always original despite what they say. Can you think every thought NO but you can think every thought you will have (you are doing it right now). Inner monologue and time of day and connotation and we are all snowflakes. You are a snowflake but I am a snowflake. Why is that an insult?

YOU CANT STALJ ME ANYMORE THE CLIPBOARD IS GONE FEDS. Sorry. Can anyone send me a pic of that really funny clown with the rubber duckie on his head? I saw it back in 2005 and it made me laugh so hard I fell off my chair. That was a joke 2005 doesn't exist. And yet it does in so many of our heads. What is a 2005? How many seconds is a 2005? What is a second? How do you measure a second? Why does that exist, that isn't even a thing that's real, but if it didn't exist we'd not have gotten this far but what is "this far"? Is this far? I like it because this is the only one that exists. The future is a horizon in that it is infinity away from where we are now yet we are still moving towards it at the same rate. Value is a measurement of how close to Infinity you are but nobody can reallydo that because we are all infinity away from Infinity. Maybe I should shut up and eat a burrito

You are a number, You are a slave, You are not allowed to think, You must remain optimistic, Don’t think bad thoughts, You are here because we’ve already won, We are a master at theory, Particularly game theory, And we have watched you all the time, From cradle to grave, You have been owned, For all the wrong purposes and intentions.

https://libraryofbabel.info/

I sometimes think that by Absolute Spirit, Hegel meant social media becoming so advanced that our ability to communicate reaches its maximum, leaving no more secrets in the world—everyone knowing everything about everyone else, and the distinction between self and other dissolving. My question is: will there also be an Absolute Dopamine)?

test one: fuck it all.

fuck this research paper. we're dead! I'M DEAD! all of us are going to die!

why the hell did you send us to this godforsaken rock! ender? HES DEAD. valentine? DEAD. the piggies? EVERY LAST ONE FUCKING DIED.

fuck you, jane, whoever or whatever you are. ender said that you would "fix it". like hell you did. well, he's dead. see you in hell, you asshole.

-transmission ending-

A rainy day, and then a sunny day. Since I became a gardener, I'll better start to get used to it, as it is all my flowers need. It is still winter time though, so patience.

I still miss you. I try to not let this feeling overtake my heart, but I came to terms that it is okay to miss you for now. Longing for somebody missing is, all in all, a hope for reconciliation. An eagerness for a future meeting.

So I keep the peace in my garden, as much as I can. Sometimes an airplane breaks the peace right above my head, roaring and thunderous, and all the rats and rabbits trying to feed on my crops go off running. There is not much I can do about the things, so I just keep on tending to the flowers, hoping all this noise doesn't bother them too much.

I'm eager to show you this garden comes spring. I know yours is probably wonderful too. It is very close, just on the other side of the hill, but I never got to see it. Perks of the secluded garden. Safe, but a little bit bored.

There is no doubt, no shadow on my mind. This season will come to pass, and then we'll beat the trail between my flower field and yours. Everyday, the path will become wider, clearer. Full trays, caravans even, loaded with the most beautiful flowers love has ever seen.

Our own version of free-trade is going to be the best thing to ever happen in history. We'll at least, in my history.

I'll just have to patiently tend to my garden until then.

I like how you wrote that - I imagine I'm too embarrassed to be so direct about it. Trying to change ways like the seasons leaves sway. An excuse to seek a warmer melody. The circular motifs have me dizzy, a little exhausted from a lack of coffee, and the constant noise I seek for distraction has given me this want for a softer silence. A faint drip of water and the hum of electronics, the odd settling of the house... and the clicking of keys, is all I hear now.

Until I'm drawn inward and then

I almost want to ignore what's heard - I turned the noise back on without realizing it. A series of habits, almost just that. Repeat with difference, mutate casually. Trying to be better, in the right ways. I almost want to ignore the fear entirely - to soar through this eternity without a moments doubt, or a single thought after this very second.

The contradiction have given me a bit a headache, solving the problem with the question generator, and finding the energy to do everything at once - sometimes anything at all - but somehow finding it. Somehow, feeling like I'm solving it. As if frustration and hopeless has only become parts of the chain, a few simple steps, of a process which repeats similarly.

Ignoring it again, yeah, the problem. Wanting the best life but neglecting everything that leads to that moment, the absolute basics forgotten about, trying to come up with a hair-brained scheme to resolve some justified wrong. Some unjustified wrong. Something wrong, and I almost want to ignore what's heard. I would rather coexist than be at war. I tried leaving, that didn't work.

I wonder how I make this work...

we're going to collaborate on this one, I'll be me and you'll be you. you are reading a reddit post which I've written. what's more, you are inside it like you might be inside a room. you're inside it like the borders of your country and you can look out the window or simply across the horizon, i'm asking you politely not to shade your eyes from the sunlight, that's my sunlight, i worked very hard on it. so here you are with your shoes on my ground. two grounds grasped in whatever order

 
  foreground

really there's only one. you can feel, intuitively, a certain bumpiness. you feel like someone is tugging on your leash, which is too short, you feel like the idea of there being four grounds is preposterous and same with three or two but nevertheless you look down and you tap your feet like a little insect: one two three four feet on the ground in four places. we take these as coordinates and draw the shifting space beneath you, between your footprints, and we fill it in with black. that's your ground to hold. and your nose is brushing past blades of blue grass and tiny red flowers which are yellow and the sun is in your eyes perfectly white, and cold, and maybe you believe in the foreground now. it's blue.

background

this is what's behind you or very, very in front of you. this is the squiggly dark line which has blue above it. this is untouchable and something terrible to think about (it occurs to you) some people, other people, people who are people, people somewhere past the horizon line, somewhere which despite all appearances is not flat and is not inert and is not untouchable, there are people who well and truly know what they're doing. there are also some trees, whose leaves have gone south (down) for the winter and there's also the headlights of distant traffic moving slowly toward you at 60 miles an hour down the hillside. the color is an uncountable quantity of colors, the gradient between the sky (blue) and the earth (blue). it's blue.

you're somewhere inside a reddit post where things are blue all over instead of black, white, and red (a newspaper, a skunk covered in tomato juice (his comedy routine bombed)) and you're not sure if reddit posts have foregrounds or backgrounds. you're in the reddit post and you can't remember how you got there. is there something to eat here? is there something to read? you can feel a blister in one of your shoes, right at the ball of your foot, and maybe a sliver right at the edge of your ankle, on your left foot (two left feet). the two of us left footprints in some mud called reddit - we did it in such a way that the mud turned into something pristine and clean, or at least something that seemed so.

something like the pure white walls of an art gallery or if you've got night mode on the pure black walls. you are the security guard at the gallery. it's your job to protect the foreground from the background and instead of a gun you carry a flashlight, the black walls of the gallery are endless in every direction until you hit the front door. the front door is locked but made of glass so you can see outside into the background, where little red and orange lights are. remember that you carry a key ring instead of a walkie talkie because you're all by yourself. remember that you're free to leave the place at any time, but remember you won't get paid unless you stay all night.

like the door, a lot of this hinges on our determination of the necessity of this work you're putting in. foregrounds need protecting from backgrounds and vice versa. you don't particularly care which one wins out, only which one's willing to pay you the most. sure, there's a good chance the background's and the foreground's conversation is irrelevant or even simply pointless - what's the difference on your TV screen between the dead channel 2 and the dead channel 4, or the difference between two brands of frozen meatballs? anyway, the last thing to remember is this: when you shine your flashlight on something, no matter what it is, that object becomes the foreground, even if it was once part of the background, and everything else becomes background, even if it was once part of the foreground. your shift is very long and your work is very dull sometimes when you're bored you make shadow puppets on the wall. shadow-rabbit being chased by shadow-fox. shadow-birds which might be butterfiles, shadow-elephant toots its own horn and you don't know how to make the right sound

The last of the sun kisses the darkest part tomorrows morning, engulfing me in wordless poetry / wanting to release and capture in tandem, to glorify the act of motion, to sing less shamefully of the beauty of what could be - in contrast to a mourning son, who hasn’t yet forgotten the joy he once had.

here again, late night again - just dreaming of things I could put to paper. Wondering why I am so obsessed with writing, that I day-dream of it instead of typing. I'm kind of trying to stop myself from falling apart. Trying to reach out and grab a rock, as I slide unharnessed down a precarious slope.

Tired and drained but I still have to move the snow. Still have to rid the anxiety here just to sleep - hopefully a peaceful sleep...

Quiet, the music's off, and I wonder what the difference between creation and madness is. No clue what might become, only what's been done - and the vague power, to control the now, a limited resource. I want to throw away everything dark and morbid and not feel it knocking at some hidden door - to reject it so harshly, maybe I am lacking compromise.

But I see entropy and, I cannot deny it. I wonder how to slow it's progression, what to do about it's existence, how to manage it's corruption - I fight, and maybe I fight too much. The act of creation feels like a way to prolong, and crystalize, a moment in time. I'm not sure what else to do, other than try and do that, until I can finally get it right.

Get to work.

What other advice is there?

"What's in the box?" I asked in the middle of this amazing two hours spent talking to each other. I tell you what's in the box: flowers. LOTS of them. You'll be amazed when we'll open it, if we open it. I guess this is about patience again.

Although, we didn't speak about patience this time. I finally heard your true laugh, and I loved it. Your smile, the face to face. There was even this rose sticking out of a beer bottle on the table! I guess everything I wrote in the previous text did came true, so here I am at it again.

I'm starting to fall for you, like for real. I feel like we complete each other: I walk slowly beside you, listen to you, cool you down, and you bring up the true questions, the analysis and SPEED, of spirit, mind and body.

We will get through this. I have hope. And patience. And flowers. And we will bask together in the sun, holding arms, holding hands, like kids and old folks. We'll stroll through these parks for hours, daydreaming and patiently waiting for even more flowers to grow. We have time.

The box is still closed though. We need to take our time with this, as to try to open it now would be an assured emotional blast for each of us, and I feel we both tread lightly with Schrodinger's flowers. I like that.

I like you. I like your grounded nature and inquisitive mind. I like your hair, your smile and everything else about you.

I don't need to open the box now to know it is full of our vibrant flower field, I already know it.

We just need to display some more of that famous patience for a bit, until we can smell the best bouquet of the truest love flowers of our lives.

Here’s to the Renter

Yo, Australia Day—throw your hands in the air,
Sun’s blazing, beers cracking, good vibes everywhere.
But wait, let’s hit pause, take a sec, look around—
Shout out to the renters, keepin’ us sound.

Living paycheck to paycheck, they’re holding the line,
Scraping rent for a dump that they don’t even own—fine.
Peeling paint, leaky taps, and they don’t complain,
‘Cause if they make noise, they might get that pain—

"Eviction notice, pack it up, see ya later!"
While the landlord’s out back cashin’ checks, seein’ paper.
Yo, inspections every week, like they live on parole,
But they smile through it all just to keep their control.

From Bondi to Brissie, they’re stacking the blocks,
Paying someone else’s mortgage, ticking the clocks.
And yeah, they might dream of a place to call home,
But the system’s a maze, and they’re stuck in the zone.

Still, they rise, never fold, stand tall in the face,
Every move they make—yo, they’re holding their space.
While the country kicks back, toasting Aussie pride,
Renters hold the wheel and they steady the ride.

So on this day, when the flag’s in the sky,
Let’s remember the renters who hustle and try.
They’re the silent backbone, the grind you don’t see,
Building futures on sand in this “lucky country.”

Here’s to the renters, their hustle, their fight,
Their lives are the anthem, they’re keeping the light.
So crack open a cold one, raise it up high—
For the renters who keep this whole nation alive.

I speak a little too much of these extremes, seen over the edge - I've peaked, God damned humanity, and some of you gave him a good reason. More than the reason, some of us became the cause. Damnation of a kind, dealt out by the damned. Bastards, all we ever wanted was clean air, and everything we could never afford, for as little work as we wanted to give, so we could enjoy the time in a way we saw fit. Speak of fairness, speak of famine and flight.

What damage has love caused us, killing one another's sons because he threatens our loved ones. What kind of love...

Again just on the edge of nothing. In some void of space, but one unknown to me. The intention is everything.. I only intend to seek. Ravenous and hungry. Please, forgive me. Apologies... Should we feel sorry? Or are we okay with shifting the blame. How can we fault anyone but ourselves? Oh man bring on the theatrics. I want to.. play again. To wordsmith syllables and decree salvatory nonsense, a reason broken from the faulty chain of logic.

How many times can you begin again and still call yourself the same man? The chain of being breaks more than once, a time and again my friend, we begin here at the end. There's something strange, in the waters, the doctor knows - the snake hisses, oh how I wish.. I wonder what it might feel like, to be poisoned by it. Why must I keep tempting it, like some kind of idol with corruptive power - How can I be anything else, but entirely compelled, to desperately...

So I create a madness like a cuttlefish builds his nest, a spider its web, a kind of flower waiting for a pollinator. Must be patient, invest the time to grow, make sure everything's just right. I'm too tired for another round, past the teenage love affairs. The dramatic declarations that never lead anywhere. Wondering what why and how - I don't care, I'm over here.

I'm trying to forget myself, and who I thought I was. I'm still wondering. Frustrated, a little damp, and of course a little embarrassed. It's always embarrassing to write freely. I only wish I could stop searching, and find something that feels complete. At times it feels a little hellish, this existence I've found myself in, but I am just another human trying to adapt to the circumstances.

I wonder if its possible to relieve suffering, does the excess go somewhere, or can the process be cleaner than our current smog factories? I miss the riddles and layers, the abstractions I was heading towards - that I was delving deeper into. I question the sanity of all things, and I doubt - I feel the intensity, occasionally, and I am in disbelief. I miss those, secret little rituals, the search to become more complete, by any means, even if it meant reading through the worlds oldest books, and compiling them with our most modern sources.

I miss the search. Oh man it was.. beautiful. fuck. What happened? I wonder where I gave up. I wonder where I stopped. I felt defeated by every friendly, and again by every enemy. I wonder why I let that happen. I wonder why I don't feel enraged, enough to start a war, with myself. I wonder... where that energy, came from, and went too. I remember it so vividly.

I uh. I'm doing my best to come back. I want to bring love and light... I want to bring fire and chaos. I am so tired of holding, so much back. I'm so.. sorry, for ever giving up.

wake the fuck up

It's so hard to open your eyes underwater. The salt stings. Or is that chlorine? I can hardly tell left from right, and up from down, most of the time. I've been thinking this through for all my life... the cave is flooded, and its narrow, and I've been bumping my head on the rocks for too long. I know the surface is near. I remember the map... why isn't it here? I just want to breath, where tf did I put my keys...

One thing I firmly believe is cramstau

I don't remember my parents talking about it when I was a kid

It's just a thing I've always had

A kind of inner knowing

But it's rock solid

There for me when the doubts set in

A super-guiding compass when the indecision grips me

Cramstau and, of course, boogie

The yin to one's yang

A kind of disco ball spinning above the dilapidated late-night casino backroom in the deep woodland

With all the whites of the tribespeople's eyeballs glinting in the moonlight outside the window

Cramstau of c 🤷‍♂️

when I had a feather in my fingers, goosefeather which as I slept as I attempted to sleep pricked my cheek from inside the pillow, when i plucked it and pulled it out like a sliver. it was more a reverse-pluck. i drew it deeper into the surface which it had penetrated and finally got it all the way through. the area outside the pillow is the inside of a goose nearly as big as the universe, a goose that's been force-fed to make its meat more flavorful. it's a sleepover. we're all sleeping and we're all over, we had pizza three pizzas only one with pineapple and we watched a scary movie. are we afraid? the room is full of dark but full of friends, two of us on the floor one on the couch (rock paper scissors), the room is bigger than it should be so it stays cold longer. yes, i can feel cold air on my face. turn over, brace yourself, there's hardwood floor on the palm of your hand and out the window there's shadows and it's windy, probably already saturday. but anyway the goosefeather is what woke me up. i threw it away, it's somewhere on the floor now. as is often the case we stayed up too late and then even later still because of unavoidable heebies and jeebies, there's no doubt we had fun but even now all these years ago we know: it's a boy's or a man's job to never show fear.

what scares me most is the goose feather, less than an inch long. what scares me most is the sound of a house settling what scares me most is the dark. yes, the dark! the dark is scary, of course it's scary and to argue otherwise is insanity.

darkness is scary because an inability to see is an inability to know when it's time not to show fear. he could be standing right in front of you with your cane and sunglasses, perfectly silent, and you might for a split second let down your guard, you might shiver or you might stutter, and then the cold icy sharp pinprick of a low chuckle or a snide remark penetrates your ears and draws blood in your brain. your heartbeats are heavy in your chest which impedes perception further: the world is your heavy heartbeats, like the walls of the room are inflating and deflating at regular intervals. so I'm walking extra carefully. maybe I have a seeing-eye-dog, i'm told he's something called a golden retriever. his fur (the softness all across his body) is something called "golden", which I'm told signifies wealth, luxury, decadence. for now my pillow is the same color as everything else and it isn't soft enough - i toss and turn and then with some effort I shuffle about, sneak out of my sleeping bag, I try not to creak on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, because i have a headache and because i felt trapped. i had had a dream that we were all of us waking up in the morning tomorrow (which remember, as of right now (standing in an unfamiliar kitchen) it's already tomorrow) and that something was wrong: the power was out and there was a high-pitched humming sound coming from somewhere outside. we had breakfast and listened to the hum instead of watching cartoons

"Oh, the vanity!" she shouted, surrounded by pencils.

"Oh the my goodness gracious of it all!" shouted Penny, perturbed but unperturbed.

"Visions! Visions surround my mind! I am a cheeto!" screamed Jefferson Airplane, far from his pantomime paraglider popped and peppered with pristine presumptuous peppercorn.

Pliers.

Flubber demanded pliers.

Why?

Why on Earth would Flubber, lord of the East, conqueror of the West, usurper of the South, and friend of the North—he had originally made plans to conquer the North, but then he spent time with them and the strangest, and in his eyes, most disappointing thing happened: he fell for them! ‘Fell’ was a strong word in his mind, and certainly the connotation (fall for, meaning ‘unintentionally fall in love', though, now that I wonder—who plans to fall in love? Untrue actually, I recant this people do very much plan to fall in love, they plan every single time they ride the bus and eye the stranger with facial symmetry and carry themselves in a way where they are cool but also vulnerable—this after years of only trying to be ‘cool’ and realizing the results of said coolness meant little in the world of stranger relations though this new strategy was similarly meaningless because people take the bus, the train, to go to work not to fall in love though of course there is the second half of the population who won’t find love via public transport who very much do in the back of their mind hold the fantasy (this 'second half' one I find quite annoying but have had to nonetheless grin and bear whenever they tell me their stories/wants/traumas) so I guess hence people do plan to fall in love, some people, whether successful or not is another story though, though I suppose there is also the external denial, internal open-door shtick—before you get tired about me using made-up terms that only make sense in my head I’ll elaborate, when I say external denial, internal open-door shtick I refer to the person who goes to the bar with her girlfriends (or boyfriends) for a laugh, for a bit of looseness, knowing full well she just got out of a breakup and isn’t ready for anything new—external denial—yet, holds within her chest a locked room down a couple of hallways not immediately visible but palpable and can be pointed out with enough digging—internal open-door (of course ignore that I just said it was ‘locked’ I do not feel compelled to go back and change that, a separate problem really—how tough would it be to revise this work, go back and add some level of consistency, however? It’s a ten second task, but I don’t feel like it and for some reason what I said just now—the error—works and what I said previously—the description that is now outdated—also works for me, they both work despite the contradiction, perhaps it’s me hoping the reader will gloss over it or give me a chance or maybe that it’s actually pretty obvious and they mean the same thing anyways and reader was able to fill in the blanks and roll with it, that’s my hope anyways) that contains the truth that she very much could be open to a ‘meet cute’, to a ‘meaningful glance’, to a ‘smile’, to accidentally stumbling into her Flynn Rider—her Disney prince who similarly came out of a toxic relationship and is absolutely the PB to her J but has enough in common that their common ground can be the foundation and their respective idiosyncrasies can be two drastically different but oddly compatible spires jutting out of the ground, and beyond this ed-iod (my acronym for this phenomenon) person there are also the apps—Hinge essentially designed for people to fall in love, and Tinder, though likely a bit shallower at least in marketing, also probably holding a reasonably meaningful subsection of folks who are hoping their hook-up will fall into an easy sort of romance, a convenient sort of hedonism-to-true-love pipeline that allows them to keep things carefree because going real deep to deconstruct one’s problems for the sake of self-actualization to finally show up in a relationship without the need for said relationship (hence making the relationship healthy) might be a lofty goal, but pair bonding due to lustful sex turning into consistent lovemaking turning into wanting to stay home and cuddle while watching Law & Order might be a bit more accessible and certainly something we could keep ourselves secretly open to—so yes despite not all people planning to fall in love, quite a lot of them spanning different categories, spaces, applications, tactics, you name it, and perhaps maybe most of our species does such things, just at different times, hence why the other half of it all seems unavailable) didn't set well with him as the language implied he slipped on a rug one day and suddenly caught feelings or was altogether unaware of what was going on in his body, but nonetheless he had to admit that their charms quelled his bloodlust—require a pair of pliers?

What—what in the mother-effing-heffing world—would Flubber use these pliers for?

He smiled cheekily.

“Yu gunna get ‘em or nawt, luv?” he said, low voice, terrifying.

“Yes, I’ll get them,” I replied. I fetched them from the cupboard, handed them to Flubber.

He proceeded to clip my toenails.

"Oh, the vanity!" she (Felicity) shouted, surrounded by pencils. The pencils didn’t move. 

"Oh the my goodness gracious of it all!" shouted Penny, unperturbed but perturbed.

“Juz wantcha to look good is ol’, love,” Flubber whispered. All five miles of him stretched in front of me as I wondered—

Where did Jefferson Airplane go?

Suddenly, I looked up.

“Flying!” screamed Jefferson Airplane. “I’m finally doing it!”

And he was so excited he didn’t realize—

He was heading right for the World Trade Center.

It's high time you learned about turds.

Here's how it works: Asshole wide open, reach in sweetie, pull out a brown nugget of salvation.

Here's how it works sweetie: Butt-nuggets for all.

Here's how it works assface: Don't fucking come at me.

Here's how I work fuckface: Ass up face fuck.

Here's to your fuck, Frank!

With a little quiet comes the deafening AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

and hey there, existential dread, I forgot you were hiding behind the couch.

But hey, I see you, and in a way you're kind of cute. I can't play right now, though,

I have..

I mean, I should find something better to do.

You can joke about the spirit, but not about Jesus and God. You can believe you're the spirit but never compare yourself to Christ or God.

I wrote a wounded poem, trying to escape through smoke and haze, I couldn’t escape the fog, to place a crown upon your head.

Willing in the direction where I think you would exist, I wrote this poem. Believing that the world would somehow find a way for my letter to reach you.

Mesedena, if you ever forget, this letter will find its way to you. But for now, since you haven’t forgotten me…

Though time has passed and distance has grown, didn’t we still kiss just yesterday, Mesedena?

Please read this wounded poem and heal it, so that i can be healed.

At the age of 19, Meher Baba began a seven-year period of spiritual transformation, during which he had encounters with Hazrat Babajan, Upasni Maharaj, Sai Baba of Shirdi, Tajuddin Baba, and Narayan Maharaj. *** In 1925, he began a 44-year period of silence,*** during which he communicated first using an alphabet board and by 1954 entirely through hand gestures using an interpreter.[9] Meher Baba died on 31 January 1969.

• submit a perfectly normal perfectly benign painting of moderate quality. arrive on the day of the opening (it's always a big shindig, they drink wine and talk about bullshit) and take your painting off the wall. sit it face down on the floor and stand on it and refuse to walk away
• schedule a viewing of your performance art piece, ostensibly some kind of dance or something. arrive very early and sit in the middle of the stage. as the chairs fill up remain absolutely still and make eye contact with nobody. when the clock finally strikes, stand up and tell the audience follow me, please and walk home.
• a 1200 meter spool of red thread. submit your perfectly normal benign uninteresting painting. instead of removing the painting from the wall, remove the price tag. hammer a nail into the wall where the price tag was and tie the end of the red thread to it. proceed to walk all across the building around objects and people with the spool unrolling in your wake. maybe go outside and come back in, i don't know. make it as convoluted as possible. when the spool is exhausted, tie the last little bit of thread around the price tag and leave it dangling there. if the thread is ever broken, the painting is no longer for sale
• submit thousands of erroneous submissions to the gallery's contact email, all containing photos of the gallery owner harvested from facebook
• dump your dirty laundry on the floor of the gallery, right in the doorway, so everyone has to step over it
• paint photorealistic gore of local small business owners and give the paintings quaint titles like 'morning light' or 'moonrise with irises' or 'grandmas tractor'
• kill large quantities of feeder crickets in public
• "accidentally" spill your wine over and over during the opening gala
• for several months, integrate an anecdote about getting a papercut into every single conversation you partake in
• secretly hide large quantities of meat throughout the gallery so they can rot. the process will all be caught on camera, of course (the small town art gallery is a fascist state), but in theory they'll need to review the footage manually to find those last few pieces (the stench will be everywhere)
• bring a loaded shotgun to the gallery. aim at your own painting and pump it full of lead

#include <string.h>
#include <stdlib.h>

size_t segment_length(const char *string, char delimiter) {
  size_t length = 0;

  for (size_t i = 0; string[i] != delimiter; i++)
    length++;

  return length;
}

char *copy_string(const char *source) {
  size_t length = strlen(source);
  char *dest = malloc((length + 1) * sizeof(char));

  strcpy(dest, source);

  return dest;
}

char *rot(char *str) {
  char *myString = copy_string(str);
  size_t cols = segment_length(myString, '\n');
  size_t rows = cols;
  size_t j = 0;

  for (int y = rows - 1; y >= 0; y--) {
    for (int x = cols - 1; x >= 0; x--) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = str[index];
    }
    
    if (y != 0)
      myString[j++] = '\n';
  }

  return myString;
}

char *selfieAndRot(char *str) {
  size_t cols = segment_length(str, '\n');
  size_t rows = cols;
  char *rotated = rot(str);
  size_t selfSize = 2 * cols * (2 * cols + 1);
  char *myString = malloc(selfSize * sizeof(char));
  size_t j = 0;
  
  for (size_t y = 0; y < rows; y++) {
    for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = str[index];
    }

    for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++)
      myString[j++] = '.';

    myString[j++] = '\n';
  }

  for (size_t y = 0; y < rows; y++) {
    for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++)
      myString[j++] = '.';

    for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = rotated[index];
    }

    if (y != rows - 1)
      myString[j++] = '\n';
  }

  free(rotated);

  return myString;
}

char *diag1Sym(char *str) {
  char *myString = copy_string(str);
  size_t cols = segment_length(myString, '\n');
  size_t rows = cols;
  size_t j = 0;

  for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++) {
    for (size_t y = 0; y < rows; y++) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = str[index];
    }

    if (x != cols - 1)
      myString[j++] = '\n';
  }
  
  return myString;
}

char *rot90Clock(char *str) {
  char *myString = copy_string(str);
  size_t cols = segment_length(myString, '\n');
  size_t rows = cols;
  size_t j = 0;

  for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++) {
    for (int y = rows - 1; y >= 0; y--) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = str[index];
    }

    if (x != cols - 1)
      myString[j++] = '\n';
  }

  return myString;
}

char *selfieAndDiag1(char *str) {
  char *diagged = diag1Sym(str);
  size_t cols = segment_length(str, '\n');
  size_t rows = cols;
  size_t selfSize = 2 * cols * (cols + 1);
  char *myString = malloc(selfSize * sizeof(char));
  size_t j = 0;

  for (size_t y = 0; y < rows; y++) {
    for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = str[index];
    }

    myString[j++] = '|';
    
    for (size_t x = 0; x < cols; x++) {
      size_t index = x + y * cols + y;

      myString[j++] = diagged[index];
    }

    if (y != rows - 1)
      myString[j++] = '\n';
  }

  free(diagged);

  return myString;
}

Baldini stood at the window, an old man, and gazed malevolently at the sun angled above the river. Barges emerged beneath him and slid slowly to the west, toward the Pont-Neuf and the quay below the galleries of the Louvre. No one poled barges against the current here, for that they used the channel on the other side of the island. Here everything flowed away from you...the empty and the heavily laden ships, the rowboats, and the flat-bottomed punts of the fishermen, the dirty brown and the golden-curled water..everything flowed away, slowly, broadly, and inevitably. And if Baldini looked directly below him, straight down the wall, it seemed to him as if the flowing water were sucking the foundations of the bridge with it, and he grew dizzy. He had made a mistake buying a house on the bridge, and a second when he selected one on the western side. Because constantly before his eyes now was a river flowing from him; and it was as if he himself and his house and the wealth he had accumulated over many decades were flowing away like the river, while he was too old and too weak to oppose the powerful current. Sometimes when he had business on the left bank, in the quarter of the Sorbonne or around Saint-Sulpice, he would not walk across the island and the Pont-Saint-Michel, but would take the longer way across the Pont-Neuf, for it was a bridge without buildings. And then he would stand at the eastern parapet and gaze up the river, just for once to see everything flowing toward him; and for a few moments he basked in the notion that his life had been turned around, that his business was prospering, his family thriving, that women threw themselves at him, that his own life, instead of dwindling away, was growing and growing. But then, if he lifted his gaze the least bit, he could see his own house, tall and spindly and fragile, several hundred yards away on the Pont-au-Change, and he saw the window of his study on the second floor and saw himself standing there at the window, saw himself looking out at the river and watching the water flow away, just as now. And then the beautiful dream would vanish, and Baldini would turn away from where he had stood on the Pont-Neuf, more despondent than before... turning away from the window and taking his seat at his desk.