At the height of its glory, the City was everywhere and everything. All that was, was the City. For a hundred brilliant centuries, the City defined and explained the human race. Those who came from other stars to visit the only naturally habitated planet of the system within which the City's planet revolved were unanimous in their judgment: Few glories in any galaxy could match the accomplishment of those who had created and now sustained the City.

And when, after ten thousand years of undiminished splendour, the City's greatness declined, it was no failing in itself or its citizens but merely the next stage in the planet's evolution. The human race, after millenia of contact with beings from light years' distance, began to understand their being and possibility in terms other than the City. The totality of the City's dominance of all things human had gone unchallenged for thousands of years. Humans had forgotten that once they were separate from anything like a city, much less the City. But in time, the realization reappeared, and almost instantaneously, the City began to diminish, not lessened in its splendour but only as the essential defining aspect of life on Earth.

Humans began to realize: the City was no longer everywhere and everything. There was more.

But, some fifteen thousand years before humans came to this realization, all that Monica and Alfred thought about was if they would be caught before they were done fuckng. The corner in which they stood, bodies pumping at each other excitedly, hurriedly, was dark and secluded, but people still came by occassionally. They had been walking by in that way when she had grabbed his hand and pulled him into that shadow, lifting her dress to leave no doubt what she desired.

Muffling her half-shout into his shoulder, Monica came with a series of shudders; a few thrusts more, and in silence, she felt Alfred spasm with his own orgasm. As he withdrew from her, she clung tight to him, arms around his neck, not in adoration but simply out of momentary exhaustion.

She did not love Alfred; she did not even know his name. They had been passing each other, walking in opposite directions, when they arrived at that secluded corner and she had grabbed his hand, dragged him deeper into the dark for a fast, furious, anonymous fuck. That was always the first risk: Finding the right partner. Mistake the look in someone's eye, they way they walked or dressed or glanced covertly at you, and you'd not merely end up in jail but medicated, mind-swept and desexed.

The thrill of the hunt was almost as ecstatic as the culmination of the sex. Either one could destroy your life, yet both gave pleasures and joys that made the rest of life in the grey world of the 22nd Century worth tolerating.

“If I couldn't fuck,” she whispered into Alfred's neck, “I would kill myself.”

a little bird
picked me up
and carried me away
to a land i had dreamed of
for so long
i could not see,
clear though it was,
the danger
into which we flew,
she and i.

a little bird
exchanged with me
soft songs of love
and guesses of forever
but those are always
the stupidest dreams
unless one of you
is awake enough
to be aware of the danger,
clear as it is,
and turns aside
while tomorrow
is something better
than a regret.

Ok, I'm breathing a sigh of relief. Episode 10 of Season 4 is the end of the series. That's a half-season finale; I forgot they do that on BSG. It would have made an interesting conclusion to the series, but now that I realize it's only half-way, I see a few things I was missing.

(Perhaps part of my problem is watching via bittorrent. I don't necessarily follow some of the meta-info that I would get watching SciFi, where they would also announce the second, etc. I'm paying for my pirating sins.)

(spoilers follow the jump)

I don't have a television, but I can still watch tv. I am current on Battlestar Galactica, Doctor Who, the last season of Dexter, Bleach (with subs), Pushing Daisies (as far as they got before the strike) and I'm hoping someone will post Food Network's "Next Celebrity Chef" (my favorite and only reality show). I watch almost all of these via bittorrent, although I've found a legitimate way to watch some shows: Hulu.com.

Hulu is advertisement-based and has an array of tv shows and movies. You can watch "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" and the first season of "Lou Grant." Or, as I just did over the past few weeks, season one of "Bones." Not sure why I started watching it. I'd known about Hulu, but the ads were irritating (the same 10-second McDonald's ad over and over, or awful Chili's ads. Then an adblocker for Safari came along that skipped past Hulu's ads instantly. I tested it on — Bones. I was going to watch an ep of "Buffy" but I've seen them all so many times; I just wanted something new, and there was "Bones" right near "Buffy." Turns out it's a darn good show.

Not perfect. A bit preachy at times, sometimes predictable. But the relationship between Bones and Booth is one of those perfect tv pairings, and they never get close to romance in season 1. That would have been the cheap and easy (and usual) way to play it, but the creator, Hart Hanson (the only other thing I know of his was "Joan of Arcadia," a wonderful and unjustly cancelled show for which he wrote two eps) was smart enough not to play it easy.

The season-ending cliffhanger was great, too, although predictable. But given the storyline of Bones' parents, it was inevitable at some point.

Season 2 and 3 are not going to be Hulu'd, however. I'm heading back to bittorrent for that. It takes longer than Hulu, but I'm not in any rush (just for te new eps of BSG). And I guess when you are involved in a criminal activity, better to be patient. If Emily Deschanel wants to come and scold me for my wickedness, I could handle that.

all the sparkly bits
look down on me
as i hold tight
to the last handhold on earth.
the pull is irresistible;
not so the fear:
the unknown,
the bright open question
of what happens next
when i let go,
or my strength fades just
a little bit more,
or that mean fucker
inside my head
decides to play one last trick.
that question,
or, more accurately,
that answer,
which is there before me
as large as the sky
and completely invisible
in the overwhelming brilliance
of every mote of light
that has shone on my life
while my eyes were closed.

i wake every morning,
lie there, dull & pondering
why is it so hard?
i open my blurry eyes,
disappointed to again see
the gap separating me
from ...
    how
can i speak the name
of the immensity
that is what i am not
and what i would be?
    from
me to me? dreamt of
like the lover with wealth
and a need for my body,
a distance of the imagination:
infinite, therefore possible,
day by day
breath by breath
as i realize that
just as surely
as i am not me,
i have always been
will always be
    me.

if i had no imagination,
o the stories i would never tell!
the dreams i would not pursue,
the hopes that would leave me in peace.
with no imagination,
i'd never worry if my talent
might ever be recognized or admired;
my talent, however great or meager, no longer
would be a concern, or disappointment.
my sleep would be steady,
my days, pleasant and mundane.
life would be tolerable
and i would know no better.
i would not care
for that which i would never know
i had never had and would never lose.
if i had no imagination
i would not even bother
to consider how empty i would be
if i had no imagination.

windows make great
metaphors,
but they are even
better
at keeping the outside
out
and letting me stay in
while my eyes
and mind
wander just far enough
away
to be able to return
home
in time for
supper.

as i came back out of the kitchen
this time with a fork in my hand
i said,
“ 'salad spoon' is not a common utensil.”
truly a bon mot,
and truly wasted on Rick
thoughtfully sorting freshly dried laundry:
huh?
sensing that my audience was neither
appropriate nor appreciative,
i held up the fork, almost pleading,
and he glanced over his shoulder:
“this time i'll try a salad fork,”
emphasis on the word so he'd grasp,
so simply put,
the dry humor used to transform
my error in utensil selection into witticism;
the result yielding less bon to my mot than before,
but still, i thought,
worth more than the blank look and grunt
and back to folding toasty warm y-fronts.
but even if he lacks the wit
to comprehend, much less enjoy,
the subtle humor of my gustatory faux pas,
injestion of my salad did indeed prove more amenable
to the application of fork rather than spoon.
the pizza i ate with my fingers.

i know better.
i always know better.
you name it, i know better,
and yet....
i do learn from my mistakes, just not very quickly.
perhaps there are nuances
i have not recongized
in some of my mistakes,
so i am giving myself
the opportunity
to grasp the subtle details.
or maybe i'm just stoopid.
whatever the reason,
i continue to give
repeat performances
of my greatest, and
lamest, mistakes;
and always my response,
once the dust has settled
and i'm sitting red-faced
in my corner, stupified
to know i have done it again:
i know better.

i always know better.

so. what.