And all I could think while running up the long flight of executive stairs was that administrative urgency, that entrepreneurial now.
When the CEO had spoken that word, the overhead neon lights left the ghost of their greenish seasick glow behind and glistened with grace.
Beige walls left their common flatness in the distance revealing rivulets and mountain ranges, meadows and mesas, canyons and volcanoes.
I heard Walt Whitman on the intercom speaking every word ever uttered then finishing with a curious couplet rhyming in one complete silence.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Talking CEO (tweetagraphs 17-20)
“Stop howling, Alphonse, and say hello, you fool,” the CEO sparkled. I hesitated a moment and then replied, “Hello you fool.” Aren’t we all?
The CEO laughed the laugh of CEOs. It was a self-confident laugh. It was a risk-taking laugh. It began at the core and ended in the spheres.
“You remind me of myself, Alphonse: a spark of innocence about to be fueled by something celestial. I wish to speak to you one on one. Now.”
There was something in the CEO’s “now” that made me drop the phone and run to the stairs without a thought except that executive immediacy.
The CEO laughed the laugh of CEOs. It was a self-confident laugh. It was a risk-taking laugh. It began at the core and ended in the spheres.
“You remind me of myself, Alphonse: a spark of innocence about to be fueled by something celestial. I wish to speak to you one on one. Now.”
There was something in the CEO’s “now” that made me drop the phone and run to the stairs without a thought except that executive immediacy.
Monday, July 6, 2009
About a Howl (tweetagraphs 13-16)
My howl was able. Neither Ginsberg apocalyptic nor Watchtower existential, it was perfectly Coyote in its keening. But I desired anonymity.
My howl was thoughtful. My howl was believable. Even I granted it great verisimilitude. But I’m just the writer. Directors call the shots.
Next thing I knew there was a telephone receiver in my hands and a voice in my ear. It wasn’t exactly a burning bush. But my mind was hot.
“Alphonse Betta,” it crackled. “Alphonse Betta,” it buzzed again as I found myself unable to speak. I howled again, this time with feeling.
My howl was thoughtful. My howl was believable. Even I granted it great verisimilitude. But I’m just the writer. Directors call the shots.
Next thing I knew there was a telephone receiver in my hands and a voice in my ear. It wasn’t exactly a burning bush. But my mind was hot.
“Alphonse Betta,” it crackled. “Alphonse Betta,” it buzzed again as I found myself unable to speak. I howled again, this time with feeling.
"A Betta Story" tweetagraphs 9-12
An endless loop explains a lot. Customer complaints are high, returns approaching 100%. Sales are down. Bad Karma was gripping the company.
The group leader called the supervisor, who called the manager, who called the director, who skipped some useless levels and called the CEO.
That’s when things got strange. Nobody ever met the CEO. Usually, you reached the executive assistant who spoke in riddles with no answers.
The director walked over to me. His face was the color of volcanic ash. “The CEO would like to talk to you,” he whispered. I began to howl.
The group leader called the supervisor, who called the manager, who called the director, who skipped some useless levels and called the CEO.
That’s when things got strange. Nobody ever met the CEO. Usually, you reached the executive assistant who spoke in riddles with no answers.
The director walked over to me. His face was the color of volcanic ash. “The CEO would like to talk to you,” he whispered. I began to howl.
"A Betta Story" Begins
In the beginning there was no beginning. That’s why it’s difficult to write this story. How does one write a story when everything is story?
My name is Alphonse Betta and I wrote that first short paragraph of 140 characters including spaces. There’s a reason for that: Twitter.
Don’t call me Ishmael. Don’t call me a cab. This story takes place neither on water nor on land. Its setting is a place called Thought.
I was born in Thought today, so it’s my natural land. My parents have not been thought of yet. Well, actually I haven’t been analyzed yet.
But first, I think we need some action. I think I’ll play the role of a quality control inspector. My eyes are looking through a microscope.
Underneath the scope is an integrated circuit and I’ve just discovered a defect. It’s enough to create a closed system, an endless loop.
I look up and raise my hand to beckon the group leader. Her eyes create an unsaid question. “I think I’ve discovered a defect,” I answer.
“What is it?” “A short trace.” “How bad?” “An endless loop.” “An endless loop?” “An endless loop.” “An endless loop!” Well you get the gist.
My name is Alphonse Betta and I wrote that first short paragraph of 140 characters including spaces. There’s a reason for that: Twitter.
Don’t call me Ishmael. Don’t call me a cab. This story takes place neither on water nor on land. Its setting is a place called Thought.
I was born in Thought today, so it’s my natural land. My parents have not been thought of yet. Well, actually I haven’t been analyzed yet.
But first, I think we need some action. I think I’ll play the role of a quality control inspector. My eyes are looking through a microscope.
Underneath the scope is an integrated circuit and I’ve just discovered a defect. It’s enough to create a closed system, an endless loop.
I look up and raise my hand to beckon the group leader. Her eyes create an unsaid question. “I think I’ve discovered a defect,” I answer.
“What is it?” “A short trace.” “How bad?” “An endless loop.” “An endless loop?” “An endless loop.” “An endless loop!” Well you get the gist.
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