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15th June , 2009
09:00 am - The 21st century arrived. Here's my jet pack.
Dispatches from the Money-Mouth Interface: Today, we (that's my colleagues Will Hindmarch and Chuck Wendig and I) launch Jet Pack, a gallery and maybe a storefront for our fiction ambitions. Look out for chapbooks and other stuff in the near future. Right now, though, we're just doing the fiction.
More news as events warrant, as they say.
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29th January , 2009
04:54 pm - We Got Game
This is about as close to a launch as I'm going to get. So I wrote a game. There's more at ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) msgr and my usual blog.
So I finally got a box of copies of the MSG™ Executive Edition, mainly for the purpose of giving comp copies to the people who worked on it or appeared in it (namely Graham, Becky, Zara, Kiera and John, all of whom will be getting their copies in the next couple of days. Ben Baugh's in the US, so I'll send his separately); also, because I want to sell it (£7 a copy -- drop me a line if you want one).
Anyway, I'll be flogging them at various events (The Crunch, the SCM Conference) and by request for £7 each. If you're not close at hand, you can still buy the Executive Edition here, although with a bit of luck, we'll have it with a distributor come the end of February.
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11th September , 2007
11:18 am - He Leaves Behind a Rulebook
The news: our friend is dead.
We scramble to show respect
Any way we can. We make him a saint, play
The grief game, sticking closely to the rules:
You say you’re all right, you desperately lie
Like your heart is still in place, like no one can tell.
Comes a time you have to tell
The whole world unbidden: my friend is dead.
We pick through his things, making him lie
In state, forever twenty-nine, immortal in that one respect.
Among his effects: one hand-written book of rules
For a game we both already know how to play.
She and I try it out, play
Awkwardly, remembering not to tell
My wife, her husband. These are the rules.
It’s innocent. We’re friends. He is dead.
And we are thirty or more, too old, too much self-respect
For let’s-pretend, for falling to a pretty lie.
Not meaning to, we test the lie
Of the land. Secrets hidden in play
Attract us; I trust her, I respect
Her. Intimate like only friends, we don’t tell
Any complete truth; we behave. He is dead,
And we are not ourselves. Those are the rules.
We let things slip. She rules
That this is the last game. She cannot lie
To me. Because it is wrong. Because he is dead.
This is no time at all to play
Games. She asks me if we should tell.
Yes, I say; we don’t. But the idea, I respect.
We talk like adults. We have too much respect
For each other. We have broken the rules:
Fantasies are fantasies, but we can’t tell
Them apart from the lie.
We did this for you, we say, we play
Once more. For you are dead.
My friend is dead, and in that respect
He has become perfect and we must play his game, by his rules.
We will ruin it all: we will lie together. When, I can’t tell.
Current Mood: accomplished
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22nd March , 2005
05:47 pm - Quatrains
1.
Now you've seen me in two places,
Now my secret's yours to see,
Must you put aside your graces,
Won't you spend some time with me?
2.
Yesterday you asked to borrow
My heart, and you returned it broken;
You can have it again tomorrow -
My complaint remains unspoken.
3.
You gathered up the strength to leave me;
I hurt you more than I could mention,
But please, my darling, please believe me:
Your pain was never my intention.
If you've found your way here, there's nothing to see. I created this account to be able to comment on other people's LiveJournals.
If you're really interested in me, go visit the john heron project, instead.
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