A few days ago I bought a house. But then I sort of unbought it again, after I saw the inspector's report. Now the whole deal is floating aimlessly in a translucent, jellied limbo -- it's just like things being "up in the air" only thicker, murkier, purpler, and with more lurch and jiggle.

As if that weren't bad enough on its own, last night my wife and I came home to discover that our young puppy had escaped from her kennel, ate something toxic, and left a trail of horrifying stringy shit puddles on every carpet of every room in our current house.

So, now my future is uncertain and I'm basking in a permenant funk of puppy-shit perfume. Isn't life grand?


The house we're negotiating for is a pioneer-style one-room schoolhouse erected in 1895, renovated and divided into living space by a Swedish woodworker in 1986. All of the interior fixtures have been finished in wood, stone and brick. The beds are wooden thrones, built into the rooms. It has three fireplaces, a sauna and a cool loft with a retractable ladder. The property backs on a nature conservation, a short walk from the water...

Best of all: it has its own bell-tower, complete with a century-old bell, whose peel is lounder than the clarion trumpets of Heaven. (We're thinking we would ring it on special occasions only, lest the rest of the village lynch us.)

We wife and I are in love with the place, but our (accepted) offer was conditional on the results of a professional house inspection. The house inspector was not troubled by anything major, but he did have a litany of minor issues to bring to our attention. In response, we've asked for an abattement to the price. Now we're holding our breath to find out what the vendor says.

I cannot sleep. I want the schoolhouse to be ours. I want out of this city.

This uncertainty gnaws at me like gut-rot.


A Place For My Penis to Tarry

My body has discovered its own answer to the stress: extreme hornification. I can't seem to leave my wife alone. I am constantly molesting her, seeking to tickle her into arousal, pestering her for sweaty rumba. "I have to get up at six o'clock in the morning for my exam tomorrow," she complains.

"I'm up now," I report.

Is it normal to be sexually obsessed with your wife? I'm usually up for doing my wife until I collapse from exhaustion, but this recent bout of anxiety-driven hornitude has a mania about it that's a bit scary.

Granted, my wife is a delightful and enterprising plaything in the sack. That's one of the reasons I agreed to rent to own, rather than just getting a disposable finger-puppet of a girlfriend. Nevertheless, my past desires for her attentions seem dwarfed now by this inner fervour to spelunk her wet depths in search of relief from nagging financial doubts and big life decisions...

But my wife is on a different wavelength. She is harried and tired from mid-term exams and shuffling the baby around, grumpy and irritable from cleaning up trails of dog diarrhea, exhausted and anxious from driving around to sign papers and make arrangements, and generally spent by the demanding chores of life. I feel like fucking and she feels like a nice, relaxing coma.

I try not to watch her undress for bed. I don't need further stimulation. From the corner of my eye my mind seizes on her swaying breast as she leans over; my will is forced, and next my eyes are running the curves, my hands itching to reach out and caress...

She turns on the TV. "This canine has the proud bearing and glossy coat of a Yale man!" exclaims Mr Burns.

"Sleepy, sweatheart?" I ask.

There is no reply. She is already unconscious.

My rest is troubled. I dream of mortgage applications, and exploding septic works, and a school-house going up in flame. I dream of shitting dogs and choking babies. I dream of big mistakes. And, to add insult to injury, the overarching theme is a florid run of blonde pubic hair, leading southward to a delectable but seemingly forbidden treat I used to know so well.

Shit, I'm tense.


Fiction Constipation & Affirmation

My wife told me about transient0's K5 Fiction Challange, and asked me if I planned to submit something. "Haven't you been kicking around that same short story for months?"

"It's not finished," I tell her. "I don't think I can finish it on time. I'm too nervy, and the story's hit some serious snags."

But she is pushy about it. Ever since I won the HP/Graphics Canada Juried Digital Art Contest last week she's adament that I should enter every contest in the world seeking exposure, awards and prizes. "You should enter!" she says cajolingly.

"My story, in its current state, it pure unadulterated guano," I assure her.

She shakes her head. "You always say that."

So, whether or not I have the time to get it in for transient0's deadline, I put the decision of whether or not to finish this story in the hands of you, the masses of the K5 Diary Ghetto. Therefore: what follows is the intro copy to my story. The question: would you be interested in reading the rest of it, given the hook?

There are a hundred billion things for sale, and everybody is selling them. There are a hundred million brands to know, and everybody hears them. If you say the right word at the right time, this dying world can be your oyster.

Everything we buy has eyes, because we're all looking out for one another. That's co-operation. Everywhere we go has ears, because whispers and secrets are the holdings of those who would harm us. That's security. No one is alone, and no one is afraid.

And sure, there's always the soundrels -- the greedy and truthless barter-pirates of the invisible markets, the violent anti-automaton employment activists and their mediaeval dream, the sick privacy perverts who would shroud each life in a cloak of obfuscation and silence if they had their way -- but nobody said this world was perfect.

Myself, I don't complain. I am a free man. I go where I please, and brand for my butter. Earth may not have much in the way of jobs these days, but I don't have much need for a career.

I have never worked a day in my life, and I live like a prince.

You see, when anybody could be subscribing to your feeds at any time, it counts to know what to mention when. And I'm the best: I can drop a hot slogan in a moneyed crowd ten times before the lesser advert-bums even know it's even on the rise. I can cross-market through inuendo, create logo awareness in the dark, bend any conversation toward a paying end...

And then I just kick back and watch the shining credit pile on the screen plink higher as the marketing machines weigh the world and make their decisions, plus or minus, credit or debt, advert or fair use. Plink! "Thank you, Viacom," I say. Plink-plink! "You're too kind, Monsanto."

Yes sir -- it's nothing but the hobo life for me.

Any and all comments appreciated.