(Near) Redemption / Rebirth of a Sock Monkey

Ed sent this through. He's been playing with online translation tools.

This is wonderdul. I will let this speak for itself, except to point the reader's attention back to the source material, to identify Ed as the one speaking in italics, and to presume aloud that movies are being used as stand-ins for languages.

(ORIGINAL TEXT: I'm sitting at the wheel, staring ahead, or at sort of an angle, staring out across the lanes of traffic. I can see these trees on the far side, the leaves, the long grass. They've stopped. There's grey shapes in the corner of my vision, hovering in mid-air, which I assume are stopped pigeons except I can't check because I've stopped too. Can't move, can't even swivel my eyeballs in their sockets.)

I should have been onto this from the start,
just imagine we first met

Ong bak
and then
The Ring
to reach:

I, in advance, such as the wheel sitting still staring at the cross or traffic lanes. I have stopped in the remote areas of their leaves and long grass, you can see these trees. The gray shape in the corner of my vision, so to check I have to stop hovering in the air and take advantage pigeons will not stop except for me. Can not be moved, rotated in the socket but I can not.

but with Nightwatch we found that:

I, in advance, such as the wheel sat still staring at the cross or traffic. I stopped in remote areas, their leaves and long grass, you can see these trees. As gray as in the corner of my vision, so that I have to stop to check the hanging in the air and use the pigeons will not stop, except for me. It can not be moved, rotated in the socket, but I can not.

but by finding the lemon tree (recommended):

I, in advance, such as the wheel was still staring at the cross or traffic. I stopped in remote areas, the leaves and long grass, you can see the trees. As gray as the corner of my vision, so I have to stop to see the hanging in the air and pigeons will not stop, but me. It can not be moved, turned in the socket, but I can not

and after staying with the host:

In advance, and the wheels are still looking at the cross or traffic. Remote area, stopped in the leaves and long grass, you can see the trees. Gray to the corner of my vision, so I will not stop watching it, hanging in the air and dove Now, excuse me. That is, the socket set, but I can not do is move sueopseup

we next hang out with Z though it is not the end:

In advance, and the wheels are still looking at the cross or traffic. Remote area, stopped in leaves and long grass, you can see the trees. Gray on the corner of my vision, so I will not stop watching it, hanging in the air and dove Now, excuse me. That is, the reception, but I can not do is go sueopseup

a quick look through The Eye reveals:

Prior and the wheels are still concerned about cross-strait or traffic. Remote areas, parked in the leaves and long grass, the trees you can see. Gray corner, my dream, so I will not stop the watch and the doves flying in the air now, I am sorry. In other words, the reception, but I can not do is to sueopseup

and finally
we have to visit Abdul Alhazred
and he has some tales to tell:

Before the wheels are still concerned about cross-strait or transit. Remote areas, and had been parked in the leaves and long grass, you can see the trees. Gray corner, my dream, that will not stop for hours and the doves flying in the air, and I'm sorry. In other words, the reception, but I can not do is sueopseup

honest to god I've just been cutting, pasting, and using the google translation monster;

so 2 thoughts;

Is "Sueopseup" on Sleepdep's list of names for blogspot verification?...

and given the nature of the tale the paragraph is taken from isn't it nice that we can see the end of the story from here:

my dream, that will not stop for hours and the doves flying in the air, and I'm sorry. In other words, the reception,

since if the doves are flying, he's sorry, since we're aware of the reception awaiting him...

--

NB A day or two later Ed wrote again with:

the same journey without returning to English each time between languages produces this:

Before the wheels are still concerned about cross-strait or transit. As long as the grass-roots level of the tree in the remote areas, and you can see. Gray corner, my dream, that will not stop for hours and the doves flying in the air, and I'm sorry. In other words, the reception, but I can not do is sueopseup.

and d'oh missed out Hindi, in the original:

इससे पहले कि पहियों अभी भी पार के बारे में चिंतित हैं जलसंयोगी या पारगमन. दूरस्थ क्षेत्रों, और पत्तियों और लंबी घास में पार्क की गई थी, आप वृक्ष देख सकते हैं. ग्रे कोने, मेरा सपना है, कि घंटों के लिए बंद नहीं करेंगे और हवा में उड़ कबूतर, और मैं माफी चाहता हूँ. दूसरे शब्दों में, स्वागत है, लेकिन मैं ऐसा नहीं कर सकता sueopseup है

=

Before the wheels still are worried about cross-strait or transit. Remote areas, and leaves and grass in the park was long, you can see the trees. Gray corner, my dream, that will not stop for hours in the air and flying pigeons, and I'm sorry. In other words, welcome, but I can not do is sueopseup

ah and notice the acceptance of the inevitable - 'Welcome'

A friend of mine once said he believed the trick to dealing with rejection was to revel in it. He had a plan to cover the walls of his room in rejection letters.

He never did it. It was a good idea though.

So there's one. One letter pinned onto the wall.

Horrific Nightmare Action (2 of 2)

Been meaning to finish this. So:

Men, boiler suits and masks – hammers, rope. More and more people screaming. Breaking into the flats, pulling the people out, dragging them. Into the courtyard. Pushing their bodies into the coffins.

I’m watching. I think: oh shit I have to protect my grandmother. Pushing them into coffins and hammering the lids shut with massive iron nails. Up onto my feet, armchair falling over.

One of the teams is near the flat, the leader looks my way
looks right at me
points
to say: 'that one'
and they set down the hammers
start walking over
walking across the courtyard of coffins
walking through harsh sunlight
sound of screaming is everywhere
but not too fast
an assured, practical stride
four or five of them
coming over

I run to the door and somehow it's hanging open. Somehow they're closer than they should be. The first one is just three or four steps away. Blank-faced mask, reaching out.

No time to shut the door. Got to save my grandmother.
I turn and run into the flat, and that's when everything
I mean everything
explodes with wriggling, crawling
there are old people climbing out from everywhere
out from inside the furniture
under the carpet
out from behind the pictures on the wall
climbing out of vases, climbing down out of the lampshades
they have these leering eyes
broken teeth
naked
all of them are naked, they have drooping flesh and liver spots
matted hair
veins under their skin
purple/black flesh from bad circulation

I run through the lounge, leaping up from the limbs clutching up from the floor, amazed - HORRIFIED! - by this. In the hallway doors are bursting wide, they're falling out in twined masses, piling onto the floor.
I scream. I turn back - the men are stepping inside, the first man is staring at me across the writhing, transformed room. His eyes are made of shining metal.
I don't have a choice, I run into the hall. I have to step on some of them. They moan. They are hard to step on, they're all in motion, churning, it's a sexual thing - OH GOD, they're having SEX with each other, or they're trying to.
The rooms have moved. The whole layout of the flat has changed, I open the door to what should be my grandmother's bedroom, but it's a toilet and two of them are pushed up, rutting against the sink and watching me in the mirror.
I turn - metal eyes at the end of the hall. Climb over more of them, they're moaning now, and here's a side-hall which is free of them, it's empty, then a corner, a small room. A washing machine. A big wooden door. Beside the door, my third grade teacher.
My teacher pulls her top off, revealing large naked breasts.
She points at the door, a gatekeeper from an old, old story.
She says: "Your father is waiting for you."
The panic is gone. A strange silence has settled, it's almost like peace but it's not. A hum of expectancy.
I step up to the door. My teacher's breasts are heavy, pale, round. She smiles.
"Go in."

I open the door. It's a bedroom. Not my grandmother's.
It's too late to save her anyway.
Ornate. A four-poster bed, drapes and tapestries on the walls. Antique furniture. A large gold-coloured statue - an eagle taking flight with something dead in its claws. On a side table, a smaller sculpture of two dogs tearing at each other's throats. The whole place has a feeling of opulence, dread.
Opposite the door is the most important thing - a cheval glass. A full-figure mirror. Ornate golden frame, fashioned into a series of animals eating each other. This has been a recurring image for me, both before and since. Chains of animals, all eating each other. Here, looking at this mirror, I think: this is Nazi stuff. Evil.
I look at the mirror. I guess I must have taken a step forward because she's closed the door behind me. The hum is actually in my ears now, humming and growing louder. The reflection in the mirror is cloudy, I can only vaguely see myself, my own body. The glass is rippling, like water. The glass is on fire. Those invisible flames which shimmer, warp your vision. My reflection is moving, stepping closer.
What did she mean "My father is waiting"? My father?
It isn't my reflection. Something's coming out. Something breaks the surface up high, up at the top - two points, horns. Far apart, more and more of them. And now I can see fingers, emerging to grip the frame, which is on fire.
More and more of the horns, my god they are huge.
And a hairy knee, a leg, a cloven hoof planted onto the carpet, which blackens, scorched.
I'm thinking: MY FATHER?
When this thing comes out, when I see its face, some part of me will be destroyed, utterly. It doesn't matter that it's only a dream. When I see this thing's face, it'll be over.

The Three Hyperlinks

I've spent the last week working on other stuff, so have been unable to bring more Sleep Dep into the world.

So here are some links.

Exhilarating - Just in case you are not one of the 900,000 people who've seen this already. "There Are Monsters". Watch it in full screen, pay attention.

Wonderful - "White Girl Dreams", ten pages from Mary K Brown. Navigation is on the left. MK Brown is who Sleep Dep wants to be when it grows up.

Inspirational - The complete and downloadable recordings of Shooby Taylor, the Human Horn. Start from the top. Don't stop after the first couple. Keep listening. Listen to them all.

(Near) Death of a Sock Monkey

Had a series of bad traffic accidents a couple months back.


The first one was probably the worst – coming up the ramp onto the motorway, I would have been going about seventy or eighty k, getting set to merge lanes and all of a sudden the cars in the next lane stop, and the van stops, and everything else stops. Dead still.


I'm sitting at the wheel, staring ahead, or at sort of an angle, staring out across the lanes of traffic. I can see these trees on the far side, the leaves, the long grass. They've stopped. There's grey shapes in the corner of my vision, hovering in mid-air, which I assume are stopped pigeons except I can't check because I've stopped too. Can't move, can't even swivel my eyeballs in their sockets.

And I'm thinking: fu-uck.

Time's fucking stopped.

Except my consciousness has continued in the gap.

And I'm there.

And at first I'm just thinking: fahh.

Mate.

But then I think: when is this going to start up again? You know? 'Cos I've got no way of knowing when, or if, things are going to start moving again. This could be it, this could be me – trapped for forever in just this one moment, driving three dozen crates of wine and spirits up onto the motorway. Staring out across the traffic, with the trees behind half-in focus. Can't even focus my eyes.



This could be me, forever. Weeks, months, years. Centuries even. Millennia. My own private hell – fuck's sake! I'm thinking: it'll drive me out of my mind. Drive me fucking mad. And then what? Drive me even further out of my fucking mind. It'd just keep going. Sustained pressure on my sanity, there'd be nothing left. No reference except for this one same moment, this one bunch of stimuli. Train of thought would just come apart completely, round and round, thinking about the same things until you couldn't even call it thought anymore, it'd just be chanting.

But then I think: what if it starts up again? 'Cos I'd be fucked then too, since I've got my foot down on the accelerator, like I say I'm going seventy or eighty k into another lane of traffic. So I'm worried that when (or if) it starts up again, I won't be able to react in time, I'll slam into one of these cars, probably this yellow one just behind me which I can barely even see.

Fu-uck!

You know?

Like, how am I supposed to be prepared for this moment when time resumes? If, in fact, it ever arrives? Driving a van at eighty k is one thing, but going from zero to eighty in the blink of an eye, going from not driving to full on driving down the motorway... that's a different story!

I make up my mind to stay tense, stay prepared. I'm staring out across the lanes of traffic like a dozey fuckwit, not moving, not doing anything, but mentally I'm prepared for things to go whizzing into life the next moment. And then the next moment. And on and on. I'm sitting there, and half of me is scared that I'm stuck here for eternity and I'll go mad, and the other half is just shit-scared I'm about to fly into a side-on collision at eighty k.

I'm thinking: first thing to do is take your foot off the accelerator. The very first chance you get. Then hit the brake, pull the wheel to the left. Foot off the accelerator. Hit the brake. Steer left.

Somehow I have the theme music from Labyrinth stuck in my head. Don't ask me why.

Thinking about Labyrinth reminds me of Beth, my sister. Beth likes Labyrinth, I mean everyone does, I certainly do, but she likes it more than anyone.


Beth's always on my case about my driving. Dumb cow. Not that there's anything wrong with my driving, because there isn't. She's just decided I'm a bad driver, keeps telling me to get a different job.

“If you keep driving that van you're gonna have an accident and kill yourself. Bet you fifty bucks.”

I think: bet you fifty fucking dollars that when time starts up again and I hit this yellow car, Beth's going to blame it on my driving.