OneBigSoup cashtag

OneBigSoup cashtag
recovery fundraiser for A. Blackwell

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Richard Marcus and our kibitz 3 years ago

Re-re-re Organizing notes from my email Kibitz with Richard Marcus
(Organizing the stuff I wrote before with Richard Marcus before I was so RUDELY interrupted....UOENO!)

Expect typos and grammaticals..  some are intended, some will remain until I can actually see what I'm doing for comprehension.  
Apparently I need computer glasses of some sort, but people can't see a computer geek while blinded by all this melanin......
Migraine in progress...  
And I'm fresh out of Fukitol.

HMS Pinafore was Dad's eulogy and I'm in my feelings about that and Prince passing in the middle of it.


When someone encourages talent they see in another...
I was so encouraged by Richard...  especially in the condition he found me that day.
"Game recognize Game" and all that..
Anyway, it appears these emails will be posting in a legible configuration

ThyGeekGoddess V 

to Richard
That was fun!  
I LOVE Mozart, but we used to laugh at the tuxedos who basically flaunted being in cahoots with the social class that actually enslaved his talent.  The ones who cry because it sounds sniffly.  Since we normally ate out before a show, we'd be dressed in whatever. 
Same with Shakespeare.  How do you go to Othello, dripping in diamonds?  
Welcome to the Good Ship WTF.
In junior high days, (kilt cough), we saw James Earl Jones do Othello.   I was in such a rush, I left my glasses and didn't realize it until where you could see Sugar Ray's Leonard's roof from RT50...
It was the point of NO way no how we're going back for shit.  
I wasn't as blind as my big sister, but I cried all the way to the theater.  The round one.. Ford's?.  We were pretty close, but at 12 years old, I was a bit thankful I couldn't lay eyes on him for too long because his voice....OMG.  That was enough to jump start puberty.
Hey, I was 12!
But, Yay...  President Barack HUSSEIN Obama *snark* brought him back to the White House and nobody bothered to really notice how freaking epic that is......dammit..  Did you hear he's putting back the solar panels?
That's so gangstah.
My general rant is, "He's not left-ist, he's left-HANDED and if you think he's talking over your head,
BE SMARTER!"  Honestly, the poor man is stripping his genius to moron circuitry on these people.
I know that look.
I've done tech support!
"NO, that is NOT a cup-holder!"
Muggles are really missing out on a damned good administration.  He had to be covertly snarky like I was growing up.
And it turns morons into babbling idiots.
Somewhere I have a Frybread Power poem on a book mark.  I never have it and any kind of camera / scanner handy at the same time.  Poke me about it later when I forget, K?  It's frilliant.

/me grabs her swatter..
A dixiecrat just said something stupid on Huffpo. 
Bombs awaaaaaay!  
Talkies when you get time, but I might have lost my place..... .just stop me if you've heard this one.

Richard Marcus 

to me


A Bagel Is More Than A Jewish Donut

A bagel is more than a Jewish donut,
More than a roll with a hole.
More than a strange English muffin.
A bagel’s got bagely soul.

It is something a baby can teethe on.
The true home of cream cheese and lox.
Bagels are tied to the hulls of big boats,
To keep them from hitting the docks.

A bagel’s a friend.
A bagel’s a buddy.
A bagel never forgets.
Bagels as hard as bricks and concrete
Make wonderful weapons and pets.

A bagel is kind.
A bagel’s well rounded.
A bagel is wholesome and neat.
I’ve seen bagel Boy Scouts
On busses and subways
Graciously give up their seats.

A bagel is brilliant,
The Mozart of bread,
The Shakespeare of flour, inspired,
The Rolls Royce of noshing,
The Buick of Bulk,
And as chewy as one of the tires.

I once knew a man who was struck by a bagel,
It gave him such a “potch” that he schvitzed!
Yet, I heard him exclaim,
“I would rather be maimed
By a bagel, than be crippled by Ritz.”

First given to Israelites fleeing from Egypt,
Who cried, “A schmear on matzo destroys it!
Smoked salmon on manna?
That’s a pox on the lox!
Such a mess just to fress, who’d enjoy it?”

So hearing our cries, God looked around
Saw angels with heavenly lights ‘round their heads,
He thought: “What if I coil it, then boil it then bake
A halo
Out of some kind of bread?”

And that was the gift (along with those tablets)
That let the Jews know they were chosen,
But then some schmuck said “Can I make a buck
If I made them in flavors and froze ‘em?”

So bagels today? Feh!
They’ve gone to extremes,
Gluten free? Low carb? Makes me gag;
Vegan-schmaggegan? Tofu-banana?!
It’s like eating a bagel in drag.

But in hard times like these,
real bagel’s a comfort,
Like a warm teething ring we can eat.
They fill us with love, they fill us with joy,
Not to mention two pounds of wheat.

So when you’re worried or tired,
Outsourced or fired,
Caught in the grind and the crunch,
Stagger right into your neighborhood bagelry
And take a nice bagel to lunch.

                                                  - Richard Marcus
Copyright, 2002, All Rights, Richard Marcus


Richard Marcus 

to me

With typical writer self-obsessed ego I apologize for not being able to read your work at this moment because I am, in fact and as stated,self-obsessed – But in truth it’s more of “I cannot let myself get distracted by work as wild as my own. I must write till brain fry. Therefore in my place I send you the first few pages of the novel as recog ition of your efforts. Best I can do till evening.

    Nature Bats Last
Richard Marcus

          Thayer closed the door to her bedroom, padded over to the enormous dark oak, roll top desk and sat down in front of the coral green,1959 Smith-Corona Sterling Super-5 (serial # 5A862417), which she had named “Smitty.”
          She leaned over Smitty and flicked the “on” toggles connected to the noise cancellation units in the foam rubber baffling attached to the back of her bedroom door and the one that swept the floor and walls. She nodded to herself, satisfied she wouldn’t disturb the rest of the house
          Thayer placed her fingers lightly on the white, marshmallow plump keys almost like a greeting; telling the squat, happy machine she was there.  It was wired to know.
          The ancient desk’s gaping workspace was so huge and dark and Thayer so slim and, to be honest, close to boney, that it looked like a tiny child trustingly putting her hands into the enormous mouth and touching the flat wide teeth of a very patient hippo.
          She lifted her hands off the keys and from a neat stack plucked up a sheet of thick, creamy paper and positioned it precisely parallel with the back of Smitty’s platen, the black barrel which did all the work.  
          She then grasped the chunky, white knob on the right side of the typewriter, turned it and smiled at hearing the ratcheting “click-click-click” of the cogwheels and sprockets as they rotated the barrel, making the paper disappear down into the back of the machine. Every time this happened it caused the tiniest catch in her chest that the sheet was really gone into Smitty, never to appear. Of course it always did, rising up like a perfect, white, recvtangular sunrise behind the chrome silver bar of the paper bail.
          To Thayer, the “clickety-clickety-clack” of the keys, the type bars, those long metal, alien fingers with their alphabet fingerprints, hitting the black/red ribbon, then paper and platen with their “fwap-fwap-fwap-fwap...” the platen barrel’s cheerfully efficient “tickety-tickety-tickety-tickety-tickety,” as she pushed it back to it’s starting point and the deep “bong!” of the bigger bell her dad had installed, was more than just a Rube Goldberg piece of performance art. The levers, gears, springs and cables, pulling, shifting, was a metal shop symphony of virtually extinct sounds, vanished history and the fading wisdom of a far more tangible, concrete and dependable world. Long gone, that world. Long gone.
          She stopped, gazed at the thunky contraption. Even silent and still she was comforted by its clock work operating system. A tight, well oiled Newtonian universe of interlocking components, dependable cogs, durable cause and effect. Safe from all outside influences, slings, arrows, tragedies and morally depraved hack bastard, cyber thieves.
          She saw the machine not as one solid unit but as an army of thousands; unified, bound together in their fearlessness. It connected Thayer to the energy of bulling steam engines, prehistoric iron bridges and the bulging sweat muscle work of hammers and nails She was their general and they were combat scarred warriors who fought with her for the truth. They were now poised, waiting for her to lead them into a battle for the hearts and minds of the world.
          She accepted the fact that the cacophony from her iron word factory assaulted the senses of countless, prissy, mid 21stCentury cafĂ© customers, library patrons and cafeteria classmates.  Nonetheless she was willing to incur their daggered disapproval and even expulsion from those rooms. And she had. Many times.
          It didn’t matter what they thought. What she stamped intothe white paper, not sprayed or lasered by some flaccid bladder or pump, was a commitment to passion, observations. Life. Her life. Her existence.
          She liked the fact that, if and when she chose, she could maintain an unhackable, untouchable and utterly private, steel firewall. Her thoughts, words impervious, safe from the data storms, the hyper-morphing either clouds of the ever monitored links and eternally surveilled nano-data circling and re-circling the globe like poison gas.
          Her brawling machinery stopped the sucking vermin hackers dead. Made the cyber felons move on to mug and rob the sheen of sleek, silent, insubstantial light glimmers flitted on to the waif thin, gossamer screens of the utterly helpless, the terminally dependant and self involved.
          Thayer also needed the noise and impact of Smitty’s powerful kinetic energy physically, to preoccupy her anterior and prefrontal lobes. Keep the monkey mind busy while hercerebral cortex, calmed and clever, captured the truths of what she hunted.
          Smitty also buoyantly raised chemical levels which modulated the phasic reactivity in her brain’s volatileneurotransmissions, and what writer has ever wanted more to then to have their passions, images, characters and tales stream through their minds and souls on to paper while the joy of a Boccherini cello concerto of dopamine, washing over, sweetly channeling the raging images and epiphanies, so they could focus, could report. Could spin magic on to paper.     
          She paused. Brow furrowing. Truths. Unwieldy things.  A serious, decision making crossroads; whether or not to commit that evening’s private family events to more than just the paper. The threat of all the forces aligned against decent human privacy swept through her brain.
          She nodded, agreeing with herself that it all must be observed and chronicled clearly and honestly but she was not going to risk putting it out there to be analyzed and “on the record,” not yet and not realizing that she whispered out loud “On the record.”
          She knew that the moment Smitty’s  * struck the upper left hand corner of the page, a single nanobot embedded in the typing paper would instantaneously be turned on and with almost the speed of light send an electro-chemical shout of “Wake up, guys, it’s show time!” to the next nanobot, then the next and so on, cascading down the page like robotic dominos, the whole sheet coming alive, nerve endings touching nerve endings, the whole phenomena of a subatomic grid crackling like telegraph wires, top to bottom, coast to coast, across the vellum through embedded conduits.
          Of course, Thayer knew that was not the way it actually worked and that the tiny asterisk was as wide across as at least ten million nanobots and that the paper she was using was probably infused with a hundred trillion of them. She removed the now charged sheet, crumpled it up and threw it away. Putting another sheet in she began to type the date: “December...” Then she stopped and glanced over at her at her iEdge to make sure it was not receiving the signals from the sheet of 8.5 x 11, 20lb (94 brightness) NanoType white bond.   
          The blue light stayed steady. It was not receiving. Good. She finished the date...
          “...12, 2030, then assaulted the keyboard, angrily focusing her flash flood of words on the hapless keys. Hair flying, fingers a blur, she looked like nothing less than a wildBeethoven assaulting a piano in a ratta-ratta-ratta-tat-tat fusillade of machine gunned letters, punching the paper with a continuous and deafening stream of crackling shots and brutal machinery.

ThyGeekGoddess V m

to Richard
I didn't even tell you about the Fargo coffee shops......yet, did I?
LOL  People didn't understand how little interest I had in that place.
THAT's ego!
The entire four years I was looking to get out and they didn't like it at all.

When I have the words for how pleased I am with the chapter, I'll let you mm, I got nuthin.
There's one word to talk about later.....but for now, I'm gonna read it again since the world has finally STHU.
 I'm still wondering why it felt like you two were saying, "Well, it's about time you got here. What kept you?"
Well, I took a wrong turn at the shrub and.....
Today was an extraordinarily productive day for me.  
Likewise, I hope.

My neighbor was helping me organize when first started reading the chapter.  
I remembered when my BFF wrote the EEOC complaint on a laptop.  It was a POS Thinkpad I'd worked on, but couldn't afford.  Her hands crawled effortlessly over the keyboard, like I'm doing right now and I was far too impressed in her eyes.

She was used to it...and she pulled it off with long beautiful nails.  
Maria?  Is that what I look like on a piano?  And she said, "Huh, yeah, pretty much" 
"Damn, I'm good!"

To get the joke I sent her, you'll have to know one more thing.
She and I double-dated a list of boys so they couldn't push us beyond our limits.
We were each others built in excuse.  She had to drive me home, no one else or ELSE!
By the time the next hopeful got up to bat, he had no case since we hadn't seen each other in at least a month.
Longer if I was grounded, which was likely, considering the oppressive curfew.  I still don't know what they were saving me for.  So naturally, we talked like the girls at the slumber party in Ntozake's play.  She wasn't born in Levittown, but I wasn't alerted to her arrival for 10 years, but her folks were in North Carolina and she could see them any given weekend.  She helpe me earn my card, which I promptly burned upon graduation.  We talked a lot about how to raise our kids, but wished we didn't have to put up with the jacked up ratio in DC.  Men in the area had their pick of 10 women each!  Their attitude didn't have us looking forward to any kind of wifely duties, whatsoever.
We were going to be high-octane tax payers and raise our kids together.  
She's a year older and was able to save her benefits, get a a BS in EE at Catawba, and a masters in Computer Science from Duke.  Both of our ex's live in Miami.  
So, all that flew through my head when you spoke of typewriters because I could NEVER ever EVER get my paper straight in those damned things!  I remember my first typewriter was a bit more than a toy.  But there was NO WAY I was writing what I really felt on it.  Paper=evidence.  I'd learned my lesson after I tried having a Harriet the Spy notebook.
Kids were talking over me at a slumber party and I ranted it out in the book.  Someone swiped it an bitched about my foul language, completely ignoring why I was THAT pissed off!  They knew better because we were ALL raised to be seen and not heard.  Slumber parties were supposed to be where we didn't have to just be seen.
Some got it, others ignored the obvious and tried to shame my bad language.

So the picture attached had a little message on it.
 "Hey, Maria!  You were right, I got used to it!"

Comm channels are open....

Richard Marcus 

to me

Okay so what I’m getting is that you think/talk on the keyboard and that’s very cool. Almost like I don’t have to be there at all because getting it out is most important and you are communicating with somebody safe. Yup. You are. The timing on the meta level is peachy It’s all floatable and reaches the right altitude and on and on and on. Good. Without that energy – your energy -  the world would not be paying its gravity bill and we’d all go to fuckall. Your domino words falling falling clickity-clickity clickity-clickity clickity-clickity is important. You can run whole word Sym Cities on it.
Downside: for me, maybe you, is that on the boots on the ground level; i.e.: Me sitting writing, I have the transparent but nonetheless most needed eggshell lowered. Your writing does make a lot of noise. Good noise. Music and then a brass section and then the Moog synthesizer then the Wurlitzer and I’m in the rococo Paramount up on 167th    (?)  Well, I’m not sure but the ADHD scrambles if I go focus on untying sooo many different thought patterns wires, trial balloons and “tune in next weeks.”
I wonder/hope and know you don’t (won’t...maybe won’t) open a blog and put in it EXACTLY what you write to me.  I swear, I swear, the world will find it.  I want to respond to exactly all you write but it is so much on the same wave length I need to think and write and re-write that I cannot. There’s no multi-tasking that puppy for me. So if you want to keep writing diggity diggity But I cannot respond in kind (would like to but can’t) because it’s the very same energy I need to write the novel. Ah, but you know that. Still it all needs to get out. Blog. Blog Blog it. Hate the word “Blog.” Sounds like a fucking plumbing problem. But I do believe that in this rare case it would work.

Today was an extraordinarily productive day for me. 

Likewise, I hope.

Nope. Wasn’t.
This is why I’m writing all this now. You write powerful medicine. Put many bees in head of brave. Fucks with concentration.  Make him ride horse sideways. Think of ’64 Worlds Fair and other things in Queens. Dog does not know what his master is doing. Upsets dog. Upsets master. Do not feel sad. Keep writing. It is, like Larry said, “A Coney Island of the mind.”

Richard Marcus

to me

Pages and pages. Me writing pages and pages. Did skim. (Very nice of me) Saw a lot about me not letting go of your hand. Or something to the effect of Mudd. See – Call and response is not in my tool box right now. Thayer is an Aspie 17 years in the future  which makes her a handful.

Even though Chicago pizza makes a cheese cracker out of New Yorkpizza. nyah If what you’re saying here is that those bullshit Chicago cheese casseroles have anythingover NY pizza then we do have a problem.

Go forth and blog.


Last episode of Supernatural had a shot of the Hollywood Walk of Fame showed a star for the Larson brothers magic act.
One of the tricks used a head-chopper called "Thayer".  

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