Final Quiz Review Sheet

Before Carl's face loomed the hallway, so dark that he could not make out one detail past just a few inches. Only rarely had anything loomed before Carl, he not being a face-to-face person anyway. Carl preferred to make himself slight and scamper around, holding always before his eyes only those actions, of the greatest industry and articulation, which entailed constant production. He resembled a thick-shelled beetle, but softer and plumper. He would not bow nor scrape--he was no yes man, believing instead strictly in the truth--and he prided before all else his ability to finish the job. Behind open-faced hands it was whispered that he never slept, and would rummage through the commodious storehouses long after all the lights had been shut off and all the people gone home to their wives and beds. It happened occasionally that his co-workers would find him drowsing, shaking back and forth, on some dirty sofa in the rec-room. They would lift him up, carry him on their backs to some cot secreted in the janitor's closet, and deposit him there. Once or twice he had slept their all day. The room was, despite being so far underground, dingy, hot, and humid. Condensation as thick as blood was constantly gravitating toward the ever growing wetlands of sweet-smelling mold on the carpet. On their way, these snail-trails would salvage for themselves whatever bits of crap happened to be trying to block their path. In the top left corner of the room, facing the door, an air-duct led to airier places.

It was on one of his late nights that Carl chanced to notice the looming hallway. He must have passed by it thousands of times, never once considering it. Maybe it was because he had finished finally his various odd-jobs, that on this particular night he found himself feeling nervous, and lingered there so long. He shone his flashlight all around, but he was unable to chase away the conglomerate, jumping shadows. Because it was useless, he turned off his light, and swallowing deeply he headed straight into the darkness. Not ten steps later he bumped into somebody. He was afraid; he knew that nobody but himself stayed around so late. Pensively he called out a hello. "Hello" echoed some invisible voice. "Who are you?" asked Carl, "everybody I know went to bed long ago." "Oh, I don't ever sleep" said the voice. All of a sudden a match was lit, accompanied by the characteristic sounds and smells, the light fell to a candle, which, once lit, illuminated the face of an old man. He wore a long white beard, stained with crumbs and goo. He was leaning on a grey metal desk, and he wore a old, decaying vest and a blue silk tie. "I've worked here since long before you were born, I'm sure. I have many responsibilities. They send my meals down to me; I never leave my station I'm that busy. That's probably why you've never seen me before now." "What is your title?" asked Carl. "I'm head of information acquisition and filing," the old man replied, "but I'm sorry to cut this short, I'm afraid I must ask for you authorization. I'm not even allowed to speak with you unless you bear a signature from the chief." "Excuse me," said Carl, "I came here entirely accidentally." "Well then, you are definitely not going to get in to see the collections in that case. I am supremely important, you know, it would probably help if you bowed to me." The way the old man said this made Carl feel uncomfortable. "I guess I'll leave then." "No. Wait, it's been so long, I really want to show somebody my work. I'm not such a square that I cannot disobey a rule or two every once in a while. Besides, I'm very proud of my work," said the old man with a grin, "come on then." "Thank you," replied Carl, "I was really hoping to see it, I guess."

The old man led carl around the desk, they had to squeeze because it was pushed up so close to the wall. The old man took a key out of his pocket and unlocked a rusty iron door. As the door swung open Carl was blinded by a light which seemed to stream without any definite source from the terrible storeroom beyond. The ceiling was easily fifty or sixty feet high--"it must be pushed up right against the surface" thought Carl to himself--and the space was filled with row after row of shelves. The shelves were so cramped that one could only navigate them sideways, and they were loaded with thousands and thousands and thousands of little white boxes, each equidistant from the next, and none bearing any distinguishing sign. "What's all this for?" asked Carl. "This is my work," replied the old man, "it's great, worthy of some bowing and scraping I'd say." "What's in all the boxes?" asked Carl, with a gulp. "Everything," said the old man, "all the world's knowledge is stored here. Everything known by man-kind and individual-man alike." "Really?" asked Carl. "Yes really," said the man mockingly, "Go ahead, test it." "OK, I haven't seen my wife in over a month--my work keeps me so--and I was wondering if she hadn't yet cheated on me." "Ah, good question, let's find out." The old man took out a small crumpled notebook and, flipping seven or eight pages, finally exclaimed, "here it is!" He rushed off like a dog chasing some unseen vermin. Eventually he came to a small white box with no obvious label, Carl followed, trying to catch his breath. "It is really remarkably well organized," said the man as he lifted off the lid. "That's my bedroom!" cried Carl. "Ha! I guess it is," returned the old man with a laugh. Carl watched in wonder as a figure entered. "That's my wife!" She was followed by another figure. "That's our neighbor, Bob!" And another figure. "That's Bob's wife!" And another figure. "That's Bob's gardener..." Carl watched as all four figures began undressing. First Bob helped Carl's wife out of her clothes, while the gardener helped Bob's wife out of hers. "Oh my God!" exclaimed Carl. Then all four climbed into bed with each other. "I've seen enough" said Carl, and the old man shut the lid again. "Are you going to kill her?" he asked. "No, I'm actually not that surprised, and I'm even happy that she's found some way to keep herself busy. This gives me the opportunity to return to my work all the more diligently." "Good. Then you should get on your knees before me and humble yourself for this knowledge which I have given you." Carl did not know what to do. Slowly he got on to his knees and clasped his hands in front of himself, the old man seemed to grow taller and more ferocious looking. "Are you afraid?" asked the old man. "A little," replied Carl. The old man bent down and removed a sword from a drainage pipe under his feet. Carl tried to run, but the old man cut him down quickly. After Carl was dead, the old man cut his body into thin slices and devoured him, his mouth as big as a bulldozer.

Post #13

I was, in my youth, something of a traveler. And so the story I'm about to tell you comes from someone who is able to judge things for the most part correctly. If you have had any experience traveling, and if you had happened to speak the language of the place you were traveling in--or simply had a friendly curiosity--well then you'll probably understand. I've said maybe a thousand times before, that really we have no recourse, and really anything goes. Slave as we might, I said, slave as we might, we will never see those heavenly lights. Only the dark ones will ever appear to us, and beautiful as they may be.... When we do nothing. Say it again, if we do nothing.

I saw a woman wearing the pelvis-bone of a horse for a necklace. I will not lie and try to claim that such accessories were fashionable at the time. Far from it, you yourselves could have not been more schocked than I was then. She was old, and quite ugly, and wore nothing but an unfortunate neglige. Becuase I shared with her even my most treasured secrets, she appeared to me as my own kin. But so many years is a long time to talk about the weather and eventually she had the desire to discover whether princes really exist. God grant her the best luck. I stayed, not really of my own volition, but because I was so much younger than she, and, afraid that I would squeal, she had yes tied me up. When the old crone arrived she assured me that eventually another pretty young lady would come along. Sure enough, when I was too old and too awkward, another unanounced princess showed up--they really seem to appreciate nothing. She was so old that she had teeth missing, and she insisted on trying to kiss with those deflated lips. What could I say to her? I had recently developed a theory about crickets, but all that was simply nonsense. I'm glad that I just sat so quietly in the corner. It gave me time to ignore her. Eventually she died. I was an old man by then, and so wild looking that no person would willingly approach me, when the old hag showed up and once again promised fresh virgin pricesses.

But I died and decended into hell before she ever arrived. There I was allowed to do only what I really wanted to do, so I spent my days lamenting all the days I would eventually spend lamenting. But hell is not so bad; we all call each other 'poet', and are convinced that everything is beautiful. In hell everything is beautiful, we can really be ourselves here, we are naked and godless--at every beginning tiny bells ring out, and angels, who look very happy, are scratched on the walls. Before long you forget yourself. On history day we are apes. What a good thing to say. On history day we are apes. On history day we are apes. On history day we are apes.

Post #12

Tryin' something new: a picture! I've also just recently got my site a hit counter, and have successfully installed it myself! And I changed the layout and then played with the colors, but I'm not sure if the new color scheme took...we'll know after I post this. I have a lot more of that "practice with dialogue" to post, but I'm not sure if I'm liking it, but I'll probably post it anyway.

I really don't have much to say, I just wanted to put up this picture. I don't remember who painted it, Jack something I think, it's OK. Why is she showing her tit? And why is the guy both holding and smoking a cigarette? And, is that a mirror in the backround? Because if it is, then I'm not sure if it is doing a very good job of reflecting. Altogether not great, but I'm hoping that naked tit will attract some more attention to my site.

The last person to visit this site with whom I am not acquainted, was from Britian and searching blogger for the word "circumcision".

Some Practice with Dialogue: Exhaustion and Miscommunication (Part 1: The Meeting)

One thigh lays flat against the cold sidewalk, the foot of the other leg balances precariously on its heel, an elbow and a forearm are also pressing on the concrete, the corpulent vagrant awkwardly tries to lay himself out, to fall asleep. The late night is disturbed only by the sound he makes inadvertently scraping pebbles against the hard surface. He has been making-his-way all day long, and this lonely patch of sidewalk seemed a good place to unburden himself. Lowering himself then, on shaking limbs, his cheek has almost found the ground, his large, round behind wagging in the air, almost tasting that vanishing bliss of sleep, when a friendly voice booms from within the darkness: “Charles!”. Immediately he is on his knees, prepared for the worst, his ten fat fingers pushed into his thickly clothed chest, leaving an impression. “I’m sorry Charles, don’t have a heart attack please,” rolled on the manly voice, “don’t you remember me?”

“You stand all the way in the back of the shadows my friend, I cannot see you, let alone determine whether I know you or not,” said Charles cautiously. “I’m here all alone, I’ve found a nice spot. I’m not such a miser that I need it all for myself, so you can come on out and take a nap here too.”

Pastures

Monthly comes the farmer, his grain to sell, his friends to meet. Bales and bushels of wheat and any vegtables he might have grown. His red face full of smiles under the sun, his missing teeth a long time joke among friends. The dirt road which runs through his small town is yellow all day long, and he remembers when he was a kid, streaking the dust with his stick, no shoes no shirt. And the first time he fell in love. And the evening dances in summer, under the moon and the stars; the heavens pushing the limits of the horizion, he would sit on some rickety old chair and lose his soul amidst the stars, until his boyish cheeks were streaked with tears. And how he'd wrap himself in his mother's apron, or work all day with his father. And he'd wander. Out, out, out over the green pastures, until he found something new. And wandering again home he'd trudge along that good ol' road. Just past this self same road, out into the distance of the unclaimed land, lay tiny wild flower blossoms reaching after the sun. And nothing really ever changes these rich landscapes of meager but haunting life.

But beneath the soil dwells an angry monster, terrible to describe. His finger nails are contaminated lead pipes, cut lengthwise, and sharpened from digging in the bedrock. His skin is the color and consistency of concrete, and he wears the cap of a German academian, now long ago ruined. His legs are hairy and thick and his stomach is always empty. He would eat, but every living thing that he touches turnes slowly into cold, beautiful, marble statue, so he can never manage more than a few bites. His eyes are blue and completely normal, and he has long since stopped pitying himself. Underground, he has over the decades carved out a small gallery, which no human eyes -- save his own -- will ever see. There he displays the half eated corpses of worms and dogs -- they somehow produce their own faint light, so the viewing is rather pleasant; one may contemplate all the intricacies. In the remotest corner, a virgin, perfect in form, his eyes linger on her body, he would still kiss her if he had lips, but his toothless mouth is dry. Instead he writes bad poetry to her in the mud; and waits for the water to wash these away. Beauty, he calls her, my dear wife, he says.

Post #11

I don't think anybody new has been to my site for awhile. Still only 16 hits to my profile, I should get a general hit counter, but I don't know where, and I don't have the energy to find out tonight. I can't remember the last book I finished, I guess it was For Whom the Bell Tolls or Waiting for Godot, one of those. I'm slowly making my way through Kafka's diaries, I think they're poorly translated, but to find out and read them in German would be too much like homework. I really ought to read more often, it is stupid to play computer games instead. Now it's Fallout 2, before that Mech Commander 2, and I just brought Baldur's Gate 2 and Arcanum out of storage at my parent's place. I have a wall of books, compared to which I am only very small, and to apply what powers I have to them would be the very best thing, but instead I waste my free time, if with nothing else then with idle fantasy: I'm going to learn German, I'm going to write a thesis, I'm going to get all As, I'm going to travel; or: Civilization 4 needs more resources, and if only we could trade arms, and is it just me or do all the AI players follow basically the same track, it is almost there but it needs...etc.

What, afterall, is easier than picking up a book and reading for an hour or two?

Tommorow night is Nosferatu with the score by a live orchestra, at least that's something great. And I intend to stay on campus and do homework until it starts. If one pays attention, one finds that somedays one is more oneself, as though I were alone in my bathtub watching a large black spider on the wall, and somedays one exists not so much mechanically as like a reflection: just another person in the eyes of all those other people. Somebody, a stranger, might speak to me then, and I would just answer satisfactorily, like he would have answered too.