StumbleUpon | Manjushri's blog posts

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/19077530/

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 10:39:54 -0700

http://www.flickr.com/photos/arcticsunshine/

check out some of my drawings and writings.

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/16366281/

Sat, 19 Jan 2008 10:19:59 -0800

A friend of mine reviewed 3 short stories of mine. Here are the reviews not the stories:

Comments on The Nature of John. by E Blagsvedt

Being used to John, I never ask about the multitude of john, since I have a religious feeling about the john and the how other johns are collecting johns at the foot of the john. now we bow our johns `n pray, thusly....... matthew, mark luken john all em profits er deaden john putcher johns onat john `n hold `er john

... I give this work 5 stars not counting Venus (Vee-nuts skt) which was just a planet rising in the east.

comments on Arkanzakstan by E Blagsvedt

I was in this place (a small city actually) in Arkanzakstan, where I was pregnant with words. I don't mean by this inference that I am qualified to write a review of things in writing. Just the same as I stood on the bar at the bridge's top's most pointed parts, looking around in the places this author (Bill Smith?) describes, I tried to be me and started to write what I saw minus my ideas about it. I used the half of a binocular called a telescope. It was only lookable on one end. The stipends looked bigger as the writers received them but they grew teensy as you approached the actual city of nyork. The problem being in part, that when you looked in the small end the things (parts of them) in the large end grew smaller. I don't mean this as an indictment of small things but just as a description of what I experienced as I stood on the bar roof and gazed at the shacks where the apparent (paperback?) writers worked on and off their sentences. There really wasn't any shack like things, just bareboned writers in their non-existent nightclothes laying, sitting or bending over their typers, trying to make up good shit. The shack part was invented by the author and only stuck out noticeably in hard bound and on occasion in audiobook editions.

I give this piece of writing a whole flight of stairs.

comments on John And Bill by E Blagsvedt

This is a heartless story about a Quasimodo like writer of characters like people that have, in this sad but unsurprisingly simple experience, really had no choice but to shoot things. Conversely, this is mainly dealt with, and in the subset known as class struggle (due to his lack of money and fame) dealt with as climate change. In the first part where the murders take place he is run past his own grief ( some say falsifying happiness) in a way that reminds one of the Count of Monte Cristo's escape from the dungeon with his four ( three excluding him truly) alter-egos. The fact that no mention is made of the resultant storys written by him and published by his friend outside the looney bin makes me think that the real identitiy of this particular John may be well known by people in other countries, like China or even the previous story about the Arkanzakstan writers helping themselves to the loot in nyork's writers markets.

It is not necessary to start at the beginning of this story since it is just as meaningful if you read other things laying around the room like World News and Sex.....and then jump right into the part about the pill avoidance measures he takes. Of course and not to mention, the crazy food tray throwing that makes a big statement about the lack of recognition of the existential nature of his plight that the black people (the one that gets the music) get confused with writers block. You notice that his tray (..nor the food that must have made great colorful swirls on the wall) is never mentioned again in the whole story...think about it. You must read the last half of this story first if you are to see the fundamental unity of purpose this story evinces and that is evident at his startling death.

I give this story a dozen storms, all raging across the desert in the brilliance of his hospital room..

Bob (John) Brown Jan, 2008

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/15246430/

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 08:32:08 -0800

A witty saying proves nothing. - Voltaire

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/14797391/

Fri, 30 Nov 2007 06:37:05 -0800

The Bus Stop

We were at the bus stop. She was smoking a cigarette and pacing around looking down the street vigilantly. I stood for a while, shifting my weight from foot to foot. She finished her smoke and lit another. I sat down on the bench and stared into the space in front of me. She continued pacing, smoking, watching. A song came into my head. I started singing it out loud, softly. She interrupted her activity to cast me a glance. I sang a little louder. It was an old blues song about a guy who liked to drink one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer. Without a pause in her pacing, smoking and watching she hummed lightly along with me. I started the song over and she chimed in a little louder. Pretty soon we were singing for real and she looked at me. Her eyes were so sad and thankful. We sang the chorus over and over. "One bourbon. One scotch. And one beer," we sang. She stopped singing when she heard the roar of the bus nearby and I was left hanging. The bus pulled up and she hopped on. I stood up slowly and entered the open doors. I found a seat and watched as the city passed by. The sond kept singing itself in my head and I would remember her sad eyes, thanking me.

I got to work and headed for the bathroom. I sat on the stool and my head fell into my hands. I cried.

I swung by the break room and grabbed a cup of coffee, then went to my machine. Rudy, from the nightshift, was running it.

"How's it runnin', Rudy?" I said.

"It's fine. Have a good one," he said and walked toward the lockers.

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/14504583/

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 14:16:31 -0800

The Cardinal Conversation

The kind gentleman in the tweed boxers came over last night.
Yeah? What this time?
The usual.
Mm. Gum on the sidewalk, gunpowder sandwich, nice things to say in a motherly tone.
Yep.
Why, then, was his sheep at my place? Do you have an alibi?
Of course. Progress.
Show me your clean slate.
No amount of crippling will follow me through a tunnel of real redheads.
Well, I can't get over the bridge.
Yeah, that was hard for me too. All those forest fighters.
It's a damn cryin' shame, especially with the christmas sports teams gearing up for the excellent training camp.
Yeah, and you know their not going to relax those strict size accomodations and refrigeration parameters, it's all a matter of trying real hard, as a team, to no cry.
So, we got through anyway, on our flaming cow packed with vegetarians.
Well, what kind of security slaves did they have that night that you were there with your "I love the singer Ronnie Stewart" t-shirt on and all your pockets filled with hot marbles?
Well, I ordered a can of it and cleared my throat but none of them would comment on my technique. I think they're a little stuck up since the stick up.
I don't know, that sounds a little racist.
Well, I didn't mean to say it the way you heard it but eventually I'm going to kick your ass anyway.
What about my huge fists? You think your moves are plentiful? I've got charisma and valuable cologne.
Sure, bring it up now when I've become vulnerable and sectarian and have no reason to go on mowing lawns.
I'm sorry, it's not as kind of me as I thought it was to throw around the facts of my excellent technique.
Agreed.
Polo partner?
Windmill.

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/14504066/

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 13:57:18 -0800

Lion's Club

The tremble in her eye was not of my design, it was a fickle gimmick on the part of the Lion's Club association to get my story. For years they've been wanting my writing secrets. Even though they lablel me as "avante-guarde crap,""out there,""quotidian," they want something, to squeeze the juice from my mountain of symbols and get at the well-hidden, well-protected secret.

So, this trembling woman stood before me, bossoms heaving as a tear dribbled down her cheek, her cruvaceous figure outlined and highlighted by the skin tight sheer gown that clung to it.

"Maybe I'm just gay," I said, letting my voice crack like a pubescent. Expert writing.

"You're not gay, you stupid faggot!" she said.

I placed my palm on the center of her chest, her heart pounding there and sending me signals of beauty, signals of subterfuge, signals of the oncoming election. I slid my hand over and cupped a breast, then slowly traced my fingertips up her chest, neckline, jawline, to her nose which I honked. She explained anger and bashed me in the face with a concrete argument but at the same time a Strauss waltz had come into my head. It was very loud and drowned out miss evening gown's pointed instructions. I walked away. Even though I felt like waltzing. I could feel the flames at my back. I picked up some cheese and champaign from the dinner table and walked over to the window. The cheese had a lion on the wrapper so I threw it off the balcony and poured the champaign after it. Drink up Arkansas, Indiana, I thought. And then the music faded out and I could hear purring. It couldn't be miss evening gown, I thought. I turned and saw she was holding a cat and feeding it dead crickets smeared with pate'. Then she pulled down her top, smeared pate' on her nipples and the cat licked and licked, while miss evening gown threw her head back in semi-orgasmic reverie.

Okay, I thought. I need to make the call. I went to the pay phone in the kitchen and poured some whiskey on it from my secret flask. I dialed the number for the Lion's Club and got the operator. "We do not take Jack Daniels, Sir, only Johnny Walker." I wondered how she knew I was a 'Sir' and looked around. Kitty was still enjoying and there was Johnny Walker's red label on the floor, by boxes of cereal and children's toys. I doused the payphone with the amber spirit. I wanted a good connection.

"Lion's Club."

"My secret cannot be obtained by the fiasco you have concocted."

"What exactly is the nature?"

"Find out why the ground has footprints and give up the Germans."

"No where have I been commented on"

"Next time I see my magazine I'll get my magic marker."

"And I want my cat back." I looked over at the scene with cat and lady. They were wrapping up with salutations.

"Looks good. Sionara, seniorita."

"Change the wind." And we hung up.

Once I got the cat back to Colonel Colon @ the Lion's Club me and miss evening gown patched things up and spent many memorable hours together before she dissolved into the isotope from which she was originally unleashed upon me.

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/14437382/

Sun, 18 Nov 2007 09:59:15 -0800

THE PRAYER

With all the drama I'm sure you've heard about the gross overmiscalculation of the time in the night that led to increasing boils and blood coughing. I had no idea until it became obvious. Now that it is obvious all we can do is pray. So I got out my cans and lined them around the toilet bowl. Lined the open seat with lit candles and placed the offering cake in the center. The cake was a nice wedding special on sale at Balding Harry's Pantyhose and Cake store. I ordered rare and he assured me it already was. I didn't have suitible roadkill for the rear tank adornment so I searched the refrigerator and scored some leftovers of the wife's design that wreaked of palindromes. These would do.
As I knelt before my divine chapel of incarnate I made the prayer stance with my hands and closed my eyes.
After several hours and two very sore knees I found my eyes opened to my shrine of victory. Glorious. The cake had been devoured by the gods, who can only travel through water, and crumbs were laying there in the flicker of candlelight. The roadkill (leftovers) were properly maimed and my hopes were looking up. With a prayer going this well who knew what the gods would dispel or refurbish.
My hopes were slightly dashed when I noticed a very small turd in the water. Usually the gods took no notice of such things, being above judgement and all, but this turd looked particularly pernicious with it's cream-colored sharpness and nefarious stench.
I took out my thinker from the medicine cabinet and thought real hard. It took a while and many quarters but the thinker came through. I knew what to do next. I put on my strapless camel-toe shoes and danced a jig. I felt embarrassed all over and thought it was probably what the gods wanted. Those gods, they love foolish acts of incrimination!
I got out the blowtorch and flamethrower and cleaned up any evidence of shrining or praying for if the squirrels found out their union would be knocking on my door very quick. Because of the law against unlawfully using roadkill for a purpose.
It wasn't long before I saw signs of my prayer. The cost of living went down and the praise of artists rose. A sharp decline in barfing after heavy drinking was noted. Climaxes quadrupled and enemy fire became friendly.
So, as you can see, it is inimical and ineluctable that prayer led to good things and you can't prove it didn't no matter how scientific your religion is.

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/5278588/

Sat, 19 Aug 2006 20:00:31 -0700

for people who are able to surrender to visual consciousness, here are some of my drawings:

http://www.phurba.blogspot.com/

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/2382994/

Mon, 24 Oct 2005 11:30:46 -0700

check out my writing here:

http://phurba.blogspot.com/

http://Manjushri.stumbleupon.com/review/1609898/

Fri, 15 Jul 2005 08:26:34 -0700

Another good poem by a good friend:

you are kindness in shirtsleeves
slowly eating black cherries
chewing sweet flesh,
spitting the pits
at the cat,
picking
up the
mess,
how could
anyone
be kinder?
how could
they?