Grebmot Goes L. Ron Hubbard

Don't worry, I'm not trying to start a cult (not yet, at least). Instead, I've been experimenting with automatic writing—or stream of consciousness, rather. It's when you sit down and keep writing, and you keep writing, and you keep writing, without stopping. Like you're... hm... channeling some higher entity and allowing it to speak through you. Kinda, but not really. Essentially, it's just me talking out of your ass, like the big boss himself. Supposedly, Ron would write entire novels like that, just hacking away until he wrote wonderful classics like the beloved Battlefield Earth. I could do that, with a little practice, that is. And that's where the rubber meets the road around here. Exercise!

Long story short, the basic idea is to force myself to do ten minutes of automatic writing each day, using the daily prompts provided by Kitty and the Freewriters. Sounds almost like a 1980s pop band. Doesn't really matter. Either way, there will be some light editing, but I reckon it's important to stay raw. Again, it's supposed to be a workout, not a beauty pageant. You get it. Either way, here goes nothing.

Saturday – Postcards

Somebody receives a mysterious postcard. The wrong address? Maybe the protagonist starts looking for the original recipient, or he could just toss the card and learn about its value later. It could originate from some remote island, like a message in a bottle. A globe trotter who decided to encourage a stranger. Travel the world yourself, stop sitting at home. The protagonist could be somebody who rarely leaves the house but dreams about doing so. Some kind of Walter Mitty who fantasizes about imaginary adventures. What are those, anyhow? By definition, probably something that's worth telling. Like during those quiet moments when our ancestors sat around ancient campfires, with the starry night sky rotating above their heads. What happened then? No!? Can you believe it? Thousands of years pass, and eventually, we end up with the protagonist, sitting at home. He's watching the world through screens and dreaming about the mysterious postcard. He imagines a woman, a pretty one. A burst of insomnia. He swings himself out of bed and grabs something from the fridge and watches TV. Commercials about this and that. Dumb ads for things nobody really needs. What does one need? He isn't entirely sure, but whatever -this- is, that ain't it. He starts looking at things like he's never seen them before. Beyond that window, there's the horizon. Sometimes it feels just like a waiting game. One day after another, after another, after another, and then it ends. What else could it be? If it was a waiting game, what are we even waiting for? Silence. A stray cat jumps onto the windowsill and meows.

Sunday – Nordoff-Robbins Music Therapy

The children worked themselves into a trance. The music got faster and more intense, like an upbeat soundtrack to a voodoo ceremony. Mr. Ed, the therapist, was bobbing his head with the beat. ADHD Carl swung an acoustic guitar over his shoulder and produced a pick out of thin air. With a single powerful strum, a chord echoed through the room. Little Claire ditched one of her crutches and started howling into a microphone, totally forgetting about her cerebral palsy. Yoko Ono never had as much talent. Drum solo! Badadum, badadum, badadum, boom boom, boom boom. Tish! Another strum. More vocals. The sounds were melting together like fine cheese in a Swiss fondue pot. Mr. Ed got up, raised his hands, and started wiggling like Elvis. This was special, like the Holy Spirit visiting a megachurch. Then suddenly, the door flung open, and the music stopped. Mrs. Sandford stuck her head in: "They are here!" Down in the parking lot, a car convoy was grinding to a halt. Agents in dark suits kept pouring out of a multitude of armored SUVs, a bit like a clown car sketch, and started mumbling codes into their collars. Roger that! Then an old man emerged from what they called "the Beast" and started wobbling towards the entrance of the building. About 12 disabled kids were closely monitoring the situation from above. "W-well... th-there goes t-t-the neighborhood," Iggy stuttered, followed by a rimshot. Mr. Ed told him to hush.

Monday – Chess

Chess, the game of kings. Or so they say. The king is usually the last to die, despite his general uselessness (being a glorified pawn, basically). Queens are more useful. When I think of chess, I imagine middle-aged alcoholics with a stubble, hustling on some inner-city playground while smelling of malt liquor. They stink, but it's not like they care (they only care about chess). When they aren't finessing amateurs, many are kind of mediocre. The type of cannon fodder you'd feed to a brilliant juvenile who's juggling chess boards. There's no money in chess. The real money is somewhere else, but first, you need to burn through some pawns. Call it social chess, if you will. Navigating the grid of relationships. If I do this, then this. Tit for tat. I think the Bhagavad Gita talked about that sentiment. Something about demonic dispositions, I think. Both the Gita and chess share a basic premise. Two armies facing each other. Heroes and villains itching for a fight. Non-participation is an impossibility, and at the end of the day, it's still just a game. As soon as the board has been wiped, another match starts. Forever.

Tuesday – Visual Arts

Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. I'm not talking about Dungeons & Dragons, so never mind the flying meatballs. I guess what I'm saying is that beauty is relative, like time. What some might consider ugly, others might consider beautiful. Me? I never understood the appeal of Pamela Anderson. An outdated reference, but stick with me. For a while, she was the hottest woman alive, or at least "they" said so. Like when she was doing the sexy lifeguard thing and would run down Californian beaches while wearing her Baywatch swimsuit, with a pair of fake tits flopping up and down in slow motion. The camera would pan to the right, and there'd be David Hasselhoff running in the same general direction. Another Baywatch star, who at one point performed his smash hit I've Been Looking for Freedom while dancing on top of the Berlin Wall, until it consequently got torn down. Decades later his daughter would film an infamous piece of footage depicting him drunkenly eating a cheeseburger. Internet history! Pamela Anderson, on the other hand, would turn political activist and start dating Julian Assange during his Ecuadorian embassy arc. The sexually frustrated creator of WikiLeaks was another man who's been looking for freedom, I suppose. Also quite the dancer.

Wednesday – Zebras

Think about all the village idiots who've been trying to tame zebras. Maybe they are just misunderstood visionaries, but their schemes never pan out. Or do they? They could've been doing it wrong, I guess, like them unsuccessfully trying to cowboy these majestic animals into blind obedience. Take Robert Redford in comparison. Once upon a time he made a movie about a different kind of cowboy. A more sensible type of man. Someone who'd gently whisper to horses. It was exactly that, The Horse Whisperer. Eventually, they'd loosen up and nod in agreement. Yes, Robert Redford, I understand. But could he whisper to a zebra? What would he tell them? Their only frame of reference is the savanna, lions, and elephants. That sort of thing. Probably, he would say nothing at all. He would just listen because that's what nobody else did. Tell me your secrets, zebra. What's bothering you? Surely more effective than just saddling up and clicking your heels. With haste! Come on! Move, you stubborn donkey! But they never do... Like that horse during the summer Olympics. The woman on top being reduced to tears, impotently yelling at the horse in a foreign language. You do you, horse, stay free. Like all those zebras.

Thursday – Sewing Machines

Think of the sewing machine like a prison shanking. A bunch of inmates standing in line, one guy gets tapped on the shoulder, and then all hell breaks loose. Stab stab stab. All because somebody refused to provide his paperwork, didn't pay his debts, or maybe just because of some half-imagined insult. Gotta keep it real, I guess. It could be as trivial as a missing bag of potato chips, like the tragic absurdity of a Shakespearean play. Romeo and Juliet, but the prison system. Truth be told, prisons around here aren't even that bad. In the hospital, I heard someone argue it was just like prison, him having spent time in both. On the other hand, one little doctor woman DID shove a syringe up my spine once. Just a single poke, though, like a tap on the shoulder, but not really the full St. Quentin experience. Then a few years later, a scrub gave it another go and had to try multiple times. I remember feeling a sudden jolt of energy, like I was being zapped by an electric fence. We both laughed nervously, and I wondered how close I got to paralysis. We'll never know.

Friday – Pediatrics

At first, I thought pediatrics was related to some kind of foot fetishism, like Doctor Quentin Tarantino wearing a head mirror while investigating some poor woman's feet and then trying to hide a boner. Personally, I just don't get it. What kind of person is into feet? Wouldn't exactly call it psycho-killer territory, but man... if you're into feet, I'll be watching you from the corner of my eye. I hope you won't be doing any quick movements; this kind of stuff primes me for combat. But seriously, it is weird. Especially if you keep inserting that sort of stuff into your work. Like, you're the director, standing around doing your director thing, and then you say: Hey, how about this? You stick your foot into my mouth and pour tequila down your legs. Hah, wouldn't that be funny? To be fair, it kinda worked in the context of From Dusk Till Dawn, given how Quentin's character really was a psychopathic weirdo. One who'd eventually turn vampire at that, but personally, I don't even notice feet. Unless we're talking about some really nasty-looking toe fungus having giant floppers. The kind of feet you'd expect from an aging prostitute walking barefoot into a truck stop restroom. Feels like biting a lemon just thinking about it, but I guess I'm no Quentin Tarantino.