(7:13 am Nov 29, 2005)
Zany. Buffoonish. Cockamamie. (That's a nice word there.) Foolish. Goofy. Ludicrous. Silly. Clownish. Wacky. Those zany zotzBrothers.
Zany, yes, indeed, I like that word.
So, what about it gentle reader? Now that you have had the night to sleep on it, have you decided to send me your money? Listen, I am not interested at this point in negotiations or your comics. Don't try and send me any funny money either, just the genuine article. If you are interested, just send me your money. Just be advised that once I get it, it will become my money and will no longer be your money. I make no actual promise in return. If we do not manage to turn a profit for you though, your money will buy you the unchallenged (by us) right to implement the business plan in question on your own. That should give you some comfort right there.
In case the above did not make it clear, any money you send to invest in YesYesInc will not become an asset of YesYesInc, but rather my asset. This may seem strange for a bona fide business start up. No stranger than the business plan itself I quip in return. But all kidding aside, the reason for it is that the business plan is my creation and I have licensed it to YesYesInc (not yet incorporated anywhere by the way) and their share sales all go to me to license the use of the business plan. Simple really.
(7:26 am Nov 29, 2005)
Is that zany enough for you? No, it is not the Everest of zaniness I grant you, but it is a lofty peak in my book.
Vikta was lying in his bed dreaming sweet dreams. I would tell you what they were made of, but then I would have to send the midi assassins and the soldier enforcers, and a squadron of dragons after you.
OK, I will give you a hint. Chocolate and Vanilla swirl.
Don't look now, but I was forced to send the dragons on the basis of that hint alone. You asked for it gentle reader, sorry about that.
Vikta woke up, got out of bed and went to the dresser and tidied up his hair. He opened up his window and took a deep breath. Sunshine freshness. It doesn't get any better than this.
He stretched and flexed his shoulders. They were a little sore from the pegging last night. Well, not quite pegging, he would never go pegging again. But he could wipe out the line and chunk up the tarmac. He could draw the outlines of tops and wail on them. He wondered if he could develop a virtual reality pegging game and take part in his old love in that fashion. Perhaps.
In any event, he had no real regrets. How could anyone regret when not having Vanilla was the alternative? To his mind, there was no question. Vanilla all the way baby. She called to him now and he closed the window and went back inside to make breakfast.
(7:38 am Nov 29, 2005)
Zebra. Equine. A piano keyboard on four legs? Crossing. Why did the zebra cross the road? Stripes. Convict. Black with white stripes, or white with black stripes? Grevy's. Equus. Burchell's. Lizard. Finch. Mussel. HMS Zebra.
(8:01 am Nov 29, 2005)
History : The Past. Compare and contrast.
What are you so excited about? Oh, sorry, no. I am not going to undertake that. No, rather, that, as they say gentle reader, is left as an exercise for the reader. That would be you. Right?
(8:03 am Nov 29, 2005)
(5:16 pm Nov 29, 2005)
A zebra crossing and a crosswalk. No need to compare and contrast. What happens if a zebra crosses at a zebra crossing?
Bruno was tired, dead tired, bone tired, his tired went as deep as ugly is said to go if you know what I mean. Up all night. No, not writing. That is the hurtful part of it. Up all night tossing and turning, trying to sleep so that he would be fresh enough to write. What a waste.
So now, here he was, sitting at his laptop, trying to keep his eyes open, trying to find some inspiration. Looking for some sort of near miracle. It was the twenty ninth already. Nono ends on the thirtieth! It was already getting dark. One day and six and a half hours left. Should he cheat by trying to find someone with a private jet with an on board net connection who could fly him west tomorrow to chase the time zones? Forget it. Win or lose but play the game straight. There was still a small glimmer of hope. He would have to shut down all distractions. And write. And write. Right? Right!
(5:26 pm Nov 29, 2005)
Words are funny things. Written words even funnier. Little black squiggles on a white page. Hey, do you think it was zebras that invented writing? Little stains on the paper really. So insubstantial. So inconsequential. So powerful. So lasting. So moving.
And what of the compact between the writer and the reader? What a strange relationship a reader and a writer share. A sharing of thoughts. A sharing of minds. A relationship that can be almost instantaneous or that can span thousands of years. A partnership of discovery that can span time, space, cultures, races and genders.
So, as I sit, and as Bruno sits, writing words for you, well, I am writing these words for you, I don't know if you are going to be reading or have already ready Bruno's words as well (speaking from your time frame of course) so I really should not bring his work into this, although, if you can find his, I am sure he would appreciate you reading it.
So, as I sit writing these words for you, the year is two thousand and five A.D. but I have no idea when you will be reading it? Will you read it later this evening when I post it online? Will you read it in a thousand years? Strange to think that these few (well really, not so few) zany words may be read by someone a thousand years from now.
Strange too to be putting this book under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike license. Are these efforts to encourage a creative commons that so many have recently embarked on all around the world to succeed? If so, where will the words be reused? How will they be recast? Will any parts of this novel be taken out and used in animated shorts? (Now there is a picture: animated shorts!) Will someone other than me find a plot for it and turn it into something suspenseful? Can someone make a slapstick comedy? A comic book? Who will record the songs?
(5:41 pm Nov 29, 2005)
Yawl. Ketch. Sloop. Cutter. Mizzen. Aft of the rudder. Two masts. One small.
Hey yawl, what's cooking? Yawl.
What sorts of beats will they choose for the songs? Will any of the other words inspire someone to write new songs?
(5:45 pm Nov 29, 2005)
(6:13 pm Nov 29, 2005)
Mmmmm. Dolphin. Or for you folks who can't handle words with more than one meaning, Mahi. With some nice jerk seasoning and some lime.
Gentle reader. Won't you join in this grand experiment? Won't you imagine what you might do with these words as a base? Do you find yourself drawn to any of the characters? Do you know something about some of them that I don't? Can you sing or play the guitar? Can you paint? Draw? Come one, come all, come and dance at the Nano Ball, yawl, do it all.
(6:17 pm Nov 29, 2005)
There was an old lady from Bimini
Who wanted a house with a chimney
She shouted out loud
Twould make me so proud
To sit by the fire in my chimney
There was an old man from Briland
Who thought he was always just stylin
He wore eight inch high clogs
And shirts with shiny green frogs
That stylin old man from Briland
There was a young boy from Exuma
Thought a bump on his head was a tumor
He got a cat scan
But doc said twas a pan
Raised the lump on that boy from Exuma
There was a young lady from P.I.
Who went on a date with a spy
He first tried to nip her
Then he tried to unzip her
That daring young lady from P.I.
There was an old man of the Berrys
Who was no longer really that hairy
It had migrated down
To his back from his crown
That balding old man from the Berrys
There was an old man was a conch
Who liked to play pluck and tonk
He lost a weeks pay
At the alley one day
That foolish, broke broke old conch
There was a zany man writing nano
Who wished he could play the piano
He sat down and tried
Then he broke down and cried
That zany man writing nano
(6:45 pm Nov 29, 2005)
Xylophone. Wooden. Percussion. Chromatic. How many points is that? Asia. Africa. Mallets. Melody. Tuned. Marimba bruddah. You tink dey's any relation to da pans?
(7:02 pm Nov 29, 2005)
(7:07 pm Nov 29, 2005)
A five hundred word sprint and the day is done. Could you actually get by with calling five hundred words a sprint? Well, lets try to sprint the whole way...
On your marks, set.........., Bang!
And they're off! Look at them run, oh, that word over in lane one is setting a blistering pace. I don't think he will be able to keep that up for the whole race. No, wait, he tripped. He's fallen headlong and oh NO! His leg tripped up the word in lane two and they've started a chain reaction. I tell you folks, it looked like dominoes there as they were all going down.
They're getting back up now and trying to catch their strides. Some are limping though. There must have been some injuries in that mess. I guess they will be lucky if there are only a few strains.
But wait, that word in lane one that started the whole fiasco was the last to get up but he looks like he is finding his stride, look at him make up ground. It's tremendous. He is definitely not going to be able to keep up that pace for the rest of the race. He must be hoping to catch up and then match the pace of the others. If he tries to keep up that pace, he is sure to burn himself out.
We're at the back stretch now and pride is running well out of lane eight. No one gave him a change before the race but he looks like he is running comfortable and with some confidence.
Prejudice is falling back, limping badly. He must have been injured earlier in that pile up. I mean, that looked like a rush hour rubber neckers paradise on Interstate Ninety Five for a while there.
Well, the pace seems to be letting up a bit now, I am not sure we can still call what they are doing out there sprinting. Sure, they are going faster than many words can run, but you have to remember folks, these words are world class athletes. They have been training most of their lives for this contest and they can run for miles at a pace that common words would be hard pressed to match at any time.
You look around you the next time you are in a crowd of words. Most are not well conditioned. Most would be falling out if they tried to sprint for four hundred and forty yards. (OK, so we are talking old fashioned words like forsooth and methinks.) But perhaps not, there is nothing that says modern words cannot race over old fashioned distances. Nothing at all.
Oh, look! Heartache is making a break, but Lucre is trying to stay with him. Lucre looks a bit dirty from his fall. His lane must have been a bit damp.
What a dirty trick! The meet organizers seem to have extended the finish line to let Love conquer all.
(7:27 pm Nov 29, 2005)