Short film “Glory at Sea” by director Benh Zeitlin

There are nameless graves inside my desk. I might look for you there, but I
never found you. Were you ever there at all? They said they buried you. Along with a box
of matches. To help light your way.

But they are all liars, dobbs. Every last one of them. They are constantly talking in the
drawer. I come there to sleep now.  Lullabies of past lives and forgotten names.

I miss the trees, dobbs. Where I used to hang my gin and tonics by the thread of her hair.
I don’t know what happened to her I think she drowned in River City. With the rats. Three
were just too many of them. Trying to claw to higher ground. You should have seen her skin.
Red tears oozing into the water.

Then came the shark. They tookmy arm when I reached for her. It still hurts soemtimes. Stay
with me here dobbs, and don’t believe everything you read. It’s the snakes you really have
to worry about. Right on the front page. That’s how they got into your home. The heart
attack. At first, they just called it a phobia. A defect in the muscle. Since birth. The
dawn of existence. I think it’s the ink. OSHA came tor warn us about it. With a word search
But I was told it was something more personal. My name in letter I didn’t recognize. Right
next to fire extinguisher. And a snake coiling around a boy’s neck.

I put his obituary in the paper today. It said he had a sister who died under similar
circumstances. Both to be burried on Tuesday.

Whatever you do, don’t use the matches.
I
I’m sending you a few eulogies I found in my desk. I hope they’re not yours.

I Hope they’re not Mine.

I’ll try to dig you up next time there is new construction.

–Rock Hudson

Merry Christmas Sharks.

Straight out of sci-fi, Shimizu Corporation has proposed a water network [AQUA-NET] to be built in deserts in order to kickstart their developmental viability. If only Liet Kynes had thought of one of these, Muad’Dib could have avoided a messianic jihad and Leto II might not have had to spend millenia murdering ghola Duncan Idahos with his signature worm-thrash smash.

The plan calls for the creation of recirculating seawater lakes surrounded by walls extending down to the impermeable layer. Water will  move between neighboring lakes through gravitational force creating a network of canals feeding these lake reservoirs.  Once these water zones are created and sustained, artificial islands can be formed on the lakes utilizing the new water supply.  The canals will connect these isolated zones and provide transport opportunities.  Hopefully some Saudi oil baron is greenlighting this as we speak.

For more of the gritty details, head on over to the plan overview at Shimizu. While you’re there check out their other dream projects.

She feared it would make the wrong impression when a client visited.  When she inevitably fell asleep.  Her face planted on the desk.  Leaving — no doubt — a ghastly imprint on her forehead where the sweatband rubbed against her desk during the snooze.

No amount of coffee had ever proven capable of keeping her awake between arrivals.

Besides, she had been told several times that her ears were quite erotic in certain lights.  Her slightly too large, virginal ears.  Naturally, she liked to show them off.  Unadorned.  Exquisitely nude.  Having quite forgone the ostentatious barbs sported by many of her peers.  She wouldn’t think of such ears chastely hidden away behind a flapped hunting cap.  Blinding the clients with its obvious referents — Sherlock Holmes and Holden Caulfield.

She was convinced.  She probably needed a hat.  Because she was always falling asleep.  And her hair did tend to densely tangle on these numerous occasions.  Leaving her looking like a vagrant.  Drug addict.  Hippie.  Wall street occupant.  Nothing about her appearance inspiring confidence in her varied latent abilities.  Nothing implying the reliability required by clients with important cases.

Suspected cuckolds still having some standards.

She needed something.  That would denote her special position, remain somewhat inconspicuous in non-hipster environments, and allow her to sleep comfortably.

A fedora allured her noir sensibilities but seemed perhaps too cliché.   A beret might have worked, but that was all wrong for the job.  She was not — after all — a narcoleptic artiste.  Or marching military.  Maybe a gatsby.  But she wasn’t prepared for the poverty and drinking needed to really pull it off.

A straw panama could possibly work if her job involved more palm trees.  Mai-tais.  Adirondacks and hammocks.  SPF 50.  Bad novels with warped covers.  But a beach with a salt breeze couldn’t be further away here in the smog-filled city.

Certainly a derby was too curvy.  A coonskin too huck finn.  A ten-gallon too gallant.  A hijab too drab.  A yarmulke too kaballah.  A pith to imperialistic.  An ascot too hot.

So far — all of the narcoleptic detective’s investigations into the proper headwear had produced zero results.  Not that she had really hired herself onto this case.  It was just something she studied in between clients.  If she wasn’t sleeping.  And she was beginning to wonder if she was even much of  a detective.  Sure she took a really nice photo of cheating spouses engaged in the deed when given solid leads.  But most of these cases she was taking were milk runs.  She had never signed on for a stone cold whodunnit.

She was starting to think maybe the mysterious case of the sleeping hat had her stumped.

But she felt in her gut that the hat existed.  Even if she hadn’t seen it yet.  She trusted her gut.  That’s what real detectives survived on.  Intuition and deduction.  Constant awareness of surroundings.  Black coffee and fried eggs.  Confidential informants.  Copious amount of filtered cigarettes.  The hat was important.  But the good things in life were worth waiting for.  It was just a matter of doing the research and legwork.  Lunch wasn’t free.

And she knew that one day — eventually — she would zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.