tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146389932024-03-13T15:22:35.008-02:30Harry, Mark, and John"Now that I'm cool, I'll have to reconsider our relationship."Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-49520785515102268402008-03-23T15:25:00.002-02:302008-03-23T15:44:33.835-02:30How Harry met Mark met John (2.0)<span style="font-style: italic;">A note from the narrator: Just now I realized that an early, yet essential text of this little humble collection needed some serious revising, in terms of style, and even more so, concerning the facts. After all, this is dedicated to the truth. Below you will find the revised version of <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2005/07/one-dark-autumn-night-in-19.html">"One dark night..." (July 21, 2005)</a>.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Note from the author: Don't believe whatever that guy says, he's pretty fucking unreliable. Any narrator could hardly be any less reliable, seriously.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Narrator again: STFU already. You're dead.</span><br /><br /><b style="font-style: italic;"></b><p align="justify">It was one of those nights last century that you hardly remember these days. Maybe because those days, back in the 1900s seem so undistinguishable from another now.<br />The weather was awful. Raining, pouring down. Cats and dogs. Whatever metaphor you like to describe fucking rain.<br />The band ------ was to play at ----- club. Actually Mark used to play the guitar for them. But, you know, that was a lot earlier, before they got into major record deals, big money and stuff. The ----- club was one of those venues which are played either by shitty bands from around the corner <i>or</i> by shitty bands from overseas you never heard about before. However, usually, they were three-piece groups who liked to describe their style by using at least two genres which didn't seem go along <i>at all</i>. Like hiphop-polka, goa punk-rock or <i>avantgarde electro-folk-- </i>regardless of the fact, that usually the music was rock and roll, of the bad variety.<br />Back then ------ actually labeled their style as "avantgarde electro-folk". You might imagine what it sounded like, at least if you know their b-side compilation "----- and the ------ on -----" or the live bootleg recorded last year in Amsterdam. (Dude, those guys were stoned that night, you wouldn't imagine. Harry was there. But that's a completely different story.)</p><p align="justify">Back to our little story: Harry worked at the ----- club, as a bartender. But he never was one of the really cool guys. You knows, those who do tricks with bottles (or boobs, if you liked <span style="font-style: italic;">Coyote Ugly</span>). Like juggling and whatever. He couldn't even mix a real drink. But if you remember the ----- club back then, you know: that wasn't necessary. People usually drank Dutch beer from small green bottles.<br />John and Harry had already met before. They had known each other quite some time actually, but hadn't met for years or so. If you ever asked them you will have noticed that their memories of the 1900s are rather blurry. But whose are not?<br />Didn't somebody once say: "If you remember the 1900s, you weren't really there"?<br />Why don't we stick to the story, for whoeveryoulike's sake!<br />John had been on a trip to... let's just say: "a foreign country". Some folks say he developed his drug habit there. That is, those who say that he does have a drug habit. Well, he just got back to town and thought: "It's been some time since I last started a fight at the ----- club."<br />He really was like that. Liked to pick fights. Always wanted "to beat f*cking hell outa somebody" (as he said, incl. the asterisk!) and usually he ended up beaten, black and blue, butt-kicked.<br />Well, to shorten a story that grew too long already: John picked a fight that night, he tried to beat up the drummer -- during the show. All hell broke loose. Somebody told me that after the fight was over, Harry, Mark, and John were the only ones to be left conscious. They were taken in by the police and spent the rest of the night together. In some cell.<br />Well this is how the story goes. It's what people tell. Nobody knows whether this really is how Harry met Mark met John. Maybe it's true. But most likely... it's not.</p><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-style: italic;">Another note from the author: Please excuse this shameless recycling of old material. It is completely unauthorized.</span><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-90091109000487026092008-03-17T12:44:00.000-02:302008-03-25T11:58:48.211-02:30Flime tiesTime flies when you're not busy almost as much as when you're actually busy. Harry, Mark, and John have been really busy lately, busy doing nothing, that is.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-73207703433784058522008-01-06T00:09:00.000-03:302008-01-05T08:48:35.644-03:30Junkyard Sunday<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Ladies, hold to your seats, we're going through hell"</span><br /><br />It's Sunday, some four or five weeks after <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/08/going-to-funeral.html">the funeral</a>, and the guys are trying to re-create a Sunday ritual. Kinda like a family. Mark's driving and the others are getting drunk, quickly, in a near professional fashion. Actually it is that kind of drinking you engage in to avoid conversation. Mark tries to keep his occasional sips from a bottle to a minimum. Not only because he's in charge of getting everybody safe to their destination and back home, no-- recently he solemnly decided to go easy on the booze for some time (yeah, right).<br />When they finally get there the spirit's all gone. <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2005/08/shooting-rats-at-junkyard.html">Shooting rats at the junkyard</a> will probably never be the same again.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-83286968836044797082007-11-04T10:11:00.000-03:302007-11-04T12:07:29.788-03:30Non-canonical out-take<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">[Notice: this post is not part of the Harry, Mark, and John canon-- anyhow, the careful and attentive reader who's been around since the early days, will know <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2006/04/john-was-gone.html">where to put this</a>.]</span><br /><br />John had been following her for quite some time, when she came really close to spotting him. Following somebody who knows you is quite difficult, especially in broad daylight. But over the past few months John had been practicing this fine art: first with strangers, people he first saw on the train, or on the bus; than he switched to people he knew by sight. After a few days of tracking potential prey John couldn’t really tell, whom he had really known beforehand and the people he got to know by following them. If you follow a stranger repeatedly they will eventually feel familiar. And if you, or as soon as you know somebody, you will be able to predict their patterns of moving through your domain. John had never had a thing for hunting, but following strangers sparked his instincts and he felt like he had been missing out on something, having never spent ours in the forest, trying to spot and kill an animal.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You know, the hardest part is not getting spotted. If you constantly stay in plain sight and do not attempt to hide what your doing it won’t take longer than, say, some twenty minutes and you’re out. That is, if you’re lucky and if your in a crowd. Otherwise, it’ll be probably no longer than twenty seconds. But if you’ve done your homework you know the patterns. And if you know the patterns along which the object moves following them gets a lot easier. You can fall behind or take a short cut or a little detour and still find them again. Anyway, now, John was following her. His prime object. The one, for whom he’d been training. The problem was, he wasn’t too familiar with the territory, not being in his home town. He lost this advantage and thereby it didn’t mean much that he knew her. Actually, that made it a lot harder – you see, she knew him as well.<br />When she came close to spotting him, John had been following her for maybe two hours. That day. Ever since he got of the train two weeks earlier he had spent most of his time to study her behavior, her patterns. That day, he had waited for her to get off work and then started his usual routine. The problem was, she did not stick to her pattern. She broke the rules. Well, she didn’t know that she was part of a game. She didn’t know she was game.<br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-19549467798565204092007-10-01T17:57:00.000-02:302007-10-03T16:42:28.026-02:30Going to a funeral (finale, morendo)<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Please read parts </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/08/going-to-funeral.html">one</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> and </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/09/going-to-funeral-interlude-andante.html">two</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> of this triptych first. Thank you.</span><br /><br />Harry Sr. hadn't been that young, but still his passing away had been somewhat unexpected. Well, it's not like he had been vegitating away for a long time because of some disease. He had died of some heart thing. You know that kind of thing you're born with and never find out about til you suddenly drop dead. Like people sometimes do in movies for dramatic effect. Dying from a genetic heart defect is something that could happen to anyone basically. So, listen up you screen writers! Cheap but effective plot device! The death of a minor or even major character will give your teenage drama or tragicomedy the necessary twist after 75 minutes. I'm sorry, I digress.<br />So, Harry Sr.'s dying at the age of seventy-something in a state of seemingly perfect health was the reason for this very particular gathering. Apart from John, Mark, and obviously: Harry, all the necessary personel for some kind of family drama was there. You know, a weird kind of drama, something <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/08/danish-film.html">Danish</a> maybe.<br />Harry's mother was a weird person. She seemed untouched by her husband's death, treating the guests like the occasion was a birthday or something. Harry's sister seemed less stable, she had obviously cried a lot the passed few days. John could tell, but Mark? Mark couldn't. He was, ...like... 10 miles high or something. Harry's brother, two or three years younger, was actually quite likeable, contrary to the guys' expectations, after all that Harry had told them--<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sorry, but I'm afraid we have to finish this without a proper ending.</span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-90766412543156103032007-09-10T23:59:00.000-02:302007-09-10T20:45:42.718-02:30Going to a funeral (interlude, andante)<div style="text-align: justify;">"Harry. There's someone on the phone for you", Mark said -- <span style="font-style: italic;">Before you read on, you might want to read <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/08/going-to-funeral.html">the first part</a> of this triptych, I mean... if you haven't already.</span> -- Mark stepped back out on the terrace while Harry went inside to talk to whoever had called.<br />---[script]---<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">John </span>[still sitting in his deckchair]<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> </span>"You just saved my life, man, kind of."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mark:</span> "You're welcome." [walks over to old leather armchair, picks up bottle of beer, hesitates seemingly with no reason. His eyes wander around for some time, the silence between the men suits the scenery -- <span style="font-style: italic;">sunset, remember?</span> and eventually sits down. The whole process might take up to a minute, suggested effect: jump cuts.]<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Harry </span>[returns to the terrace; his drug-induced cheerfulness has apparently vanished. He squints repeatedly, leans againgst a wall and begins to speak] "My sister." [pause] "My dad. He is dead."<br />---cut---<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Too bad a few pages are missing here. That would've made some heart-wrenching scene. Imagine Harry finding the right words to express his family problems, which like in 99.9% of everybody's case, are closely entangled with his emotional problems. After hardly more than two or three sentences the guys decide to go to the wake and funeral together. The distant noise of traffic begins to mix some soft strings... the music accelerates to said </span>adante <span style="font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RuVQbQGTuVI/AAAAAAAAAMM/mqYo7m_I1jQ/s1600-h/hmj+ontheroad-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RuVQbQGTuVI/AAAAAAAAAMM/mqYo7m_I1jQ/s200/hmj+ontheroad-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108577781429811538" border="0" /></a>and then there could've been a cut to ...maybe a montage of the guys packing their bags, going down to Mark's car, placing backpacks in the spacious trunk (Remember? You can <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/05/harry-actually-put-this-up-on-fridge.html">possibly</a> fit a body in there... actually <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/08/girl-from-north-country.html">you can, easily</a>...) --- <span style="font-weight: bold;">and bam!</span> Next thing you know, we're on the road. That is... Harry, Mark, and John are.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">To be continued.</span><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-9799651144907067832007-09-08T22:20:00.000-02:302007-09-10T20:34:13.743-02:30Going to a funeral (prelude, adagio)<p align="justify">Harry's dad died. The guys went to the funeral together. Weird? Indeed. After all, in the past few months they hadn't really been close, you know. Actually you might say they never really were that close. Okay, back in 19-- when they moved in together they might have been, or they thought they were -- which is the same most of the time, right? Anyhow, when Harry's old man passed away someone, a brother? his mother? ...well, some family person called. At that time Harry hadn't been too involved family-wise anymore, for a few years already. When you become more or less financially independent, visits boil down to once a year -- and before you know it, you don't even make Christmas. "Sorry, Ma, can't make it this year -- really I'm sorry." That kind of thing. And usually it's not very helpful when, as soon as you show up on the doorstep, your folks moan about how you waste your life away, not working in a decent job and all. <span style="font-style:italic;">"Your younger brother, so successful... he'll be made partner in no time. They love him up there. And he comes over to visit us every other---"</span> Fuck it. Let's just start this story at the beginning.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RuMMyQGTuUI/AAAAAAAAAME/01URRtvxP20/s1600-h/_deckchair2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RuMMyQGTuUI/AAAAAAAAAME/01URRtvxP20/s200/_deckchair2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107940459822692674" /></a><p align="justify">"Yup..?" -- it was Mark who answered the phone. In his usual monosyllabic fashion. The guys were just smoking some weed on the back terrace, watching the sun set on their lovely industrial district, which offered affordable housing with a very bohemian chic to it. In a few years they'd probably have to move, because of all the posh <span style="font-style:italic;">Sex-and-the-City</span>-style bars and restaurants that would open and flood this nice part of the city with, well, women who think they look like Sarah Jessica Parker while it's actually even worse. And what's more, they all behave in a way that silently screams: "Yeah, I'm miserable, but that doesn't mean I can't get wasted and feel free!" or something. <span style="font-style:italic;">Damn! I always get sidetracked by stuff like that...</span> So. The sun was setting, drenching the red brick landscape in some kind of orange (color wise, not as in fruit). Distant traffic provided an atmospheric soundtrack. Sitting in his deckchair, John was rolling a second joint on his copy of the 10th anniversary edition of Stephen Hawking's <span style="font-style:italic;">Short History of Time</span>, in his lap. Harry finished the first one and as he threw it off the roof with the flick of a wrist he said something like, "You know what? You're probably not the first one to roll a joint on that book." John continued his work, without even looking up. Harry rambled on (that's his usual stoned behavior). "And you know what else? I was probably not even the first person to witness somebody rolling a joint on that book and commenting on the fact." Having finished his job, John lit up. He tilted his head only very slightly, turning in Harry's direction. Obviously, he disapproved of Harry's obnoxious dope talk.<br />"Actually, I wonder if..." Harry paused, breathing audibly. "I wonder if the first person to witness somebody doing what you just did, commented on the act just like I did. I mean, saying-- saying it was not the first time, though actually--" Again, he paused, but this time, apparently, for effect: "...it was!" Mark answered the phone which had been ringing. "Gentlemen", Harry concluded, when Mark returned from the living room, "We have a chicken-or-egg situation."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">As the title suggests, <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/09/going-to-funeral-interlude-andante.html">this will be continued</a>.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-64765829052504594942007-08-22T06:17:00.000-02:302007-08-22T07:54:19.203-02:30Danish film<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RswL2l30NtI/AAAAAAAAAI0/Lual0zlfvSY/s1600-h/MadsogSidse+Kopie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RswL2l30NtI/AAAAAAAAAI0/Lual0zlfvSY/s400/MadsogSidse+Kopie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101465510410991314" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It's a night like many nights before (not recently though). Harry, Mark, and John are out, as in: not here. But let's pretend we're with them and can listen to what they have to say. That is, if they have, wait: if anybody actually really has to say something anyway.<br />Was that too much? If so, I'm sorry. So, here's the deal. The boys have just been to a movie, something foreign, subtitled. Not the cool kind, nothing Asian. Something European. <span style="font-style:italic;">Danish!</span><br />The scene: post-movie drinks at a shady, basement kindof place. Illegal activities likely to be going on nearby. One of the guys, could've been Harry... but I don't remember, recommended the place. The other two are somewhat pissed off about the place, but since alcohol is mandatory, its source and environment in which it is consumed are secondary at best.<br />"You guys, you know what?" (stupid question, indeed) Mark asks, while John gulped down what was left of his badly mixed cocktail. He didn't seem to listen and given the circumstances, listening to Mark's forthcoming little speech about ...whatever didn't seem too necessary, or promising, or... anything.<br />Mark: "I think Danish film, in general, all this not-really-funny-still-you're-supposed-to-laugh-stuff-- is awfully overrated." At this point, realizing his not so high expectations fulfilled John puts down his glass to leave for the men's room, without another word. Harry, in need of a refill, is looking around for the barkeeper who is busy at the other end of the bar.<br />"Harry! Come on! You know I'm right. After all, the most famous Danish director is now making American movies... with mixed European casts, but still American movies..."<br />"Dude, I could not care less. What I want now is Dutch beer. Not Danish film."</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-61071631359605148622007-08-17T06:47:00.000-02:302007-09-10T20:47:31.929-02:30Girl from the North Country<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(Notice: this is an alternate and extended, stand-alone version of an <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2007/04/body.html"> earlier entry</a>)</span><br /><br />It was a hot and humid day; the sun was nowhere to be seen, hidden behind thick layers of clouds, heavy with the promise of forthcoming rain, a purging thunderstorm. Mark woke up in a strange way. He did not slip out of sleep, regaining consciousness before even properly opening his eyes (as he usually does, as you probably and I most certainly do, usually); neither did he wake abruptly as you do from a nightmare.<br />When Mark woke up, he found his eyes already open; sweat was slowly running from his receding hairline down his forehead. It might have been sweat burning in his eyes that woke him up. It wasn’t the noise coming from the street, because, strangely enough, he couldn’t hear it until some two or three seconds after waking up.<br />He spent these two deaf seconds wondering why or how sweat could go down his face until he realized that he’d been sleeping in a sitting position his back almost upright, leaning against the headpiece of his bed. Now he could hear the noise, cars jerking downtown, stop and go, like any other morning. Mark’s lower back was in a state of slight but persistent pain. Even worse was his right arm. He couldn’t feel it and for some reason he thought he’d misplaced it, lost it somewhere on his way to bed, earlier this morning. His right hand did not move. Anxious to find it gone he turned his head.<br />Looking back, we might say that only then Mark was really awake. In the twilight of the drawn curtains, that hid the half-open window, he saw that his hand and half of his arm were stuck underneath something or somebody. Well, it was <span style="font-style: italic;">a body</span>, not a person. Not anymore. A fucking corpse. “Fuck!”, Mark thought.<br /> She was a girl. Well, it had been. It was dressed in a somewhat outdated summer dress with some kind of flower pattern. It was probably outdated enough to be fashionable again, but Mark couldn’t really think too much about that. He did not know her, hadn’t known her, that is. At least he did not remember. She still looked kind of good, a bit too much make-up though. Well, and there were those ugly bruises around her neck, which suggested that she’d been strangled.<br /> Mark pulled his arm from under her, which unfortunately caused the body to roll over and drop to the floor, noisily knocking over several empty beer bottles. He got up and carefully climbed over the girl, narrowly avoiding stepping on her, while he was alternately rubbing his sore back and his numb arm. He realized he was still drunk. A slight feeling of dizziness forced him to drag along the wall, and he struggled to make his way through the door and beyond, down the hall, to the bathroom. He could hear music playing in the next room; apparently, one of his roommates was listening to something that sounded vaguely familiar, especially the lyrics. Was that a cover of a Bob Dylan song?<br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> “She once was a true love of mine”</span> – Mark could hear the vocals clearly, regardless of the droning guitars, when he left the bathroom. The door to John’s room was open and his roommate was standing in the hallway. John turned to Mark, his arms were crossed and his facial expression suggested he had seen what Mark had woken up to. “I heard something and figured you were up. You left your door open”, he said. He didn’t seem shocked, just amused in a very weird and somewhat inappropriate way. But which behavior is best, when you find a corpse next to your roommate’s bed?<br /> It took some time to evaluate the situation. John recalled Mark bringing the girl the night before. Both of them had been drunk, just like John. How could anyone get away with a corpse in their bed and without an alibi, or any kind of explanation? You couldn’t possibly just say, “I don’t know her, I found her like this, I didn’t do it.” Given the situation, they decided to get rid of the evidence. This involved using an eight-piece knife set which one of them had bought after seeing one of these infomercials. The presenter had said, “Unbelievable! This cleaver cuts through bone like butter!” It actually did. John put the pieces in two black garbage bags, while Mark was cleaning the bathtub. He didn’t really question why his roommate had had several pairs of surgical gloves and a gallon of bleach ready, as though he did stuff like this on a regular basis. Together they carried the bags to the elevator and down to Mark’s car. They carefully placed them in the trunk.<br />“Dude”, Mark said, when he started the engine, “Thank you so much for helping me. I have no idea where I’d be without you.”<br />“What do you mean? You are helping me”, John replied, smiling. Distant thunder was rolling nearer behind the dark skyline and few drops of rain fell on Mark’s windshield.<br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 35.4pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-61659983405462219742007-06-13T15:55:00.000-02:302007-07-20T08:13:20.190-02:30How Mark broke his watch (pt. I)<p align="justify">The night descended like an airborne predator embracing the city with wings of twilight. Thinking something probably a little less poetic Mark sat at the bar of the ----------- Club staring into a half-empty, not half-full glass of beer. It was still quite early at night and the place wasn't really crowded yet. Actually apart from barkeeper Jerry and Mark there were only two more persons present: A girl was sitting near the door, observing it, probably waiting for somebody. The other one was a guy in a white shirt, a wearing a tux vest, and on top of that: a bow-tie. He was playing pool by himself. Weird.<br />Mark looked at his watch: 9.20 PM. Little did he know that it would soon be broken by a sudden unexpected blow.<br />A cheesy piano-driven song by Meat Loaf was playing on the jukebox and when it stopped the pool player went up to it, put in another coin and another song came on. A slow reverb-laden drum beat started the whole thing, somewhat 80ish. Indeed: Phil Collins started singing and Mark decided to switch drinks and ordered gin and tonic. Unlike Collins, Mark didn't really see anything coming, not in the air that night and basically nowhere else either.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-42015178308188992802007-05-20T10:03:00.000-02:302007-05-20T10:08:10.157-02:30Harry actually put this up on the fridge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RlBBK4hjivI/AAAAAAAAAEY/kBq3KPBg0LA/s1600-h/paperclppng.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_65cCNLq1TdE/RlBBK4hjivI/AAAAAAAAAEY/kBq3KPBg0LA/s400/paperclppng.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066621236019432178" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-26055829608404620902007-05-06T10:55:00.000-02:302007-06-30T07:45:08.826-02:30Body<p align="justify">It was a hot and humid day, when Mark woke up in a strange way. He did not slip out of sleep, regaining consciousness before even properly opening his eyes (as he usually does, as you probably and I most certainly do, usually); neither did he wake abruptly like you do from a nightmare. No, it seemed like he opened his eyes before he was actually awake. I can't really compare because I'm not a sleepwalker and neither is Mark (nor Harry, nor John by the way), but: it wasn't like sleepwalking. And not only because he wasn't walking.<br /><p align="justify">Anyway, when Mark woke up he found his eyes already open; sweat was slowly running from his receding hairline down his forehead. It might have been sweat burning in his eyes that woke him. It wasn't the noise coming from the street, because, strangely enough, he couldn't hear it until some two or three seconds after waking up with his eyes open.<br />He spent these deaf two seconds wondering why or how sweat could go <span style="font-style:italic;">down </span>his face until he realized that he'd been sleeping in a sitting position his back almost upright, leaning against the headpiece of his bed. Now he could hear the noise coming up from street: cars jerking down -------- Ave, like any other morning.<br />Mark's lower back was in a state in between numbness and slight but persistent pain. Even worse was his right arm. He couldn't feel it and for some reason he thought he'd misplaced it, lost it somewhere on his way to bed, earlier this morning. He probably hadn't slept much longer than three hours. Still, long enough to have no memories of the night before. While his left arm was fine, a glance down revealed that his watch was not. The glass was broken and the hands had stopped. (At 5.34.) He wanted to take it off and examine it more closely, but he couldn't. He couldn't move his right hand. Second attempt. No. His right hand did not move. Anxious to find it gone he turned his head.</p><p align="justify">No, looking back we might say that only then Mark was <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> awake. In the shade of the drawn curtains, that hid the half-open window, he saw that his hand and half of his arm were stuck underneath something. It was a body.* BAM! He was awake.<br />________________<br />*This explanation would've fucked up the tension and the proper ending -- that's why it's here:<br />It was not a person. Not anymore. It was a dead body. A corpse. Yes, indeed. "Fuck." That was exactly what Mark thought.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-31854708721898313012007-04-28T19:02:00.000-02:302007-04-28T19:12:39.480-02:30We're not through yet.<p align="justify">The end is not necessarily the end. Not here, nowhere actually. Not concerning Harry, Mark, and John. Even if we accept <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2006/11/end.html">"The End"</a> to be the end of Harry, Mark, and John where exactly was the beginning? And what <span style="font-style:italic;">happened</span> in between?<br />Even if we've been here and on the other side, are we through yet? No-- of course we'e not. Harry, Mark, and John are here to stay. There are Harrys, Marks, and Johns all over the place. You might be one of 'em. Or you live with one 'em. Wait, that guy you met last night... what was his name again...? Exactly.<br />So, let's hear it for them, all of them. Give a big hand for Harry, for Mark, and of course for----------<br />...so, they're sitting on that kitchen floor, talking <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2005/07/are-sitting-on-kitchen-floor.html">...</a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1159570693885668412006-11-11T20:23:00.000-03:302006-11-11T17:35:54.130-03:30The End<p align=justify>Don't pretend-- you're not surprised. It's coming to an end. Not any end. It's <i>the</i> end. (<i>The End</i>, actually, but who cares? Exactly.) The End has been at hand from the very beginning. You could've seen it coming, really. It was always right around the corner (hmm. maybe not, since how could you have seen it then?).<br><br />Either way, this it how it goes:<br><br><br /><br />For now it's over<br />But please --fear not, <br />ends will be tied,<br />gaps'll be filled.<br /><br />Soon we'll return<br />for another look upon <br />the stories of <br />Harry, Mark and John.<br /><br /><br><br><br />The End. <span style="font-style:italic;">(for now)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1159555473856482402006-07-19T20:12:00.000-02:302006-09-29T20:32:38.640-02:30Back on some kitchen floorrrrrrr<p align="justify">...probably around the corner from your house there's this great thing going on. Something which is more than just a party, something that might be called a "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Happening">Happening</a>". On the other hand it might just be something that's happening. And after all, everything is, at least once. So, what's a happening, pardon capital H: Happening, then, anyway?<br />Whatever, something's going on and you're missing it. John, Mark, Harry: they're in the middle of it. <i>It</i> basically revolves around them. Actually everything revolves around Harry, Mark, and John. Which is kind of weird since they haven't been around that much lately. Kind of like back earlier this year, <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2006/02/just-note.html">remember</a>? (Much longer this time, though.)</p> Anyway-- Mark's like: "You know, there's hardly a thing I hate, but if there is anything I hate more than faggots, it's homophobics" --wait a <a href="http://harrymarkandjohn.blogspot.com/2005/07/are-sitting-on-kitchen-floor.html">minute</a>...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1148027572766419462006-05-19T06:02:00.000-02:302006-05-19T06:06:56.706-02:30Goddamn--it's Friday<i>for J.G.B. & A.C.</i><br /><p align=justify>Harry, Mark, and John are at some pary, some of these weird places in the space time continuum where things happen, people cop in and make out. Now, everybody is waiting for Worl War III to start. "It's about time for a sequel," someone says. "Yeah," Mark agrees, "given how successful number two was."<br>Another five minutes (or maybe two hours) pass and still: no World War. Change of subject then."Hey, John--Why don't you tell us about that time when you went backpacking through ... what was it? Wonderland?" Alice asks. That girl is an obnoxious bitch. Nobody really remembers who brought her along in the first place. (It was Harry, but he'd deny it thrice before dawn, if necessary.) Rumor has it she never really got over being molested as a child. Still, even her therapists hate her (all of them).<br>This moment a machinery starts its procedure, wheels start turning, levers click in place and vault release steaming pressure, but not a sound is heard. Mark's features freeze and he turns on the spot, it seems, without moving his legs (without actually walking that is) and disappears <i>off screen</i>. <br />Cast for this scene: Alice - Scarlet Johanson, John - Jim Carrey. The movement might need to be done with CGI in PP or some camera trick. Gondry is not available, unfortunately. Other negotiations are still pending.<br><br />Some awful hiphop track is playing on the stereo at that moment --that needs to be changed to something emo or so that implies meaning. (Too bad that in "real life" meaning is not even implied, most of the time at least.) The camera zooms out, we see the crowd without any familar face, every<i>wahn</i> talking in their accents foreign, local, and non-descript. Whiteout (-> 6'u.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1146328279526878922006-05-11T21:35:00.000-02:302006-05-12T06:31:59.866-02:30...for long, but not for good (for no good?)The door slams shut. John loudly ascend the metal stairwell, puts his coat on the railing at the upper landing and drops his baggage next to it. He enters the <s>enters the</s> kitchen to walk straight to the fridge. On the door, as if untouched, there's still his note that he left a virtually unmeasurably long time ago.<br><br />He takes out the plastic bottle of OJ, drinks, realizes that he actually bought it weeks (months?) ago before his departure -- runs to the sink, spits, drinks a lot of water and finally: allows the sentence to end.<br><br />On the way to the bathroom he passes Mark's dinner party who are playing Chinese Checkers now (Chinese Checkers of all things!), but with some twist to the game, so that it involves drinking. Mark's friends can't help noticing that John's shirt is heavily stained with blood, as though the fabric had been soaked, sprinkled with it, and now dry-- it had turned into an ugly brown. His hands are dirty too --"but that's not necessarily blood too," sombeone thinks.<br />John: "I'm back." (pause) "Am I the only one to ever buy groceries in this place?"<br />Nobody answers. John plods on towards the bathroom.<br />"I didn't even notice he'd been gone."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1143833987083184542006-04-25T16:05:00.000-02:302006-04-30T11:10:47.066-02:30--John was gone<p align="justify">When Harry came in, late at night, drunk -- he failed to notice the small piece of paper on the fridge. He went to the kitchen, looking for aspirin... which he wanted to take as a precaution for the night's aftermath. He opened one cupboard after another, but he couldn't find the small brown bottle filled with white pills. He didn't know that John had taken it along for some reason.<br /><br />It was only the next morning (approx. 1.30 PM) that he realized that something was ... well, not exactly wrong, but definitely different. He fixed himself some coffee, cursing about the lack of aspirin --and finally saw John's note. It read something like this:<br /><br />"hey mark, harry, there are some things I need to take care of, might take some time. I'll be back -- J."</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1140874444066741772006-03-08T23:59:00.000-03:302006-03-09T04:04:36.783-03:30And then--<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/1600/johnleaves.jpg"><img style="center; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/400/johnleaves.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><P align="justify"><br />When John got on the train, the station seemed completely deserted, with not a single person in sight. Nobody saw him leave. He didn't carry any luggage except a guitar case and a small backpack.<br />He got off the train in another place far, but not that far away. It was early in the morning. The sky was veiled in a thick cover of clouds, but the air was clear and refreshingly cold. He hadn't slept on the train and felt tired. Tired and drunk. John decided to have breakfast (well, at least coffee) and entered one of these stylish coffee chain places.<br />He ordered on the counter, paid, and was given his hot beverage. Putting his bags next to him, he sat down on one of these benches with a high leather backrest which look nice, but is useless. From his backpack he took a newspaper from the day before, unfolded it-- but he didn't even look at it.<br />The windows started fogging up while the place was getting more and more crowded. A young girls short jacket and low pants exposed a sight on him didn't really enjoy. Pale white flesh and black-lace underwear. He averted his eyes and started stirring his whatever-you-call-it-fair-trade-low-fat something with the wooden this-is-not-a-spoon device.<br> This is not a spoon.<br />No. It's. Not.<br> Ceci n'est pas une cuillère.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1130255176117223782006-02-14T13:11:00.000-03:302006-03-09T08:28:24.946-03:30just a note<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/1600/musicdiffven1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/400/musicdiffven.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><P align=justify><br /><s>Harrymarkandjohn havebeenprettybusylately we<br />ll actuallytheywerenotbecauseiftheyhadbeen t<br />here werestoriestotellsee?howevermostofthe t<br />ime theydontreallyknowwhattheredoinganyway c<br />onfused? wellthatswhatharrymarkandjohnfeel l<br />ike mostofthetimesodontcomplainanddont compl<br />ain aboutthepicturenothavinganyrelationto th<br />is texteitherifyouactuallywouldthis</s> a text.</P>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1137258903546958122006-01-14T13:03:00.000-03:302006-03-18T09:40:32.836-03:30"...and a happy new year, for fucksakes"<p align=justify><i>Ow.</i> <br><br /><B>January 1st, 4.15 pm</b> Mark was violently woken up by a single piercing beam of sunlight, penetrating the window of his room and the little gap between the curtains. Instead of getting up and getting rid of his artificial darkness by pulling the curtains aside he turned on the light.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/1600/lightbulb_sw.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/320/lightbulb_sw.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <br />He could reach the switch just by extending his right hand. A very low buzzing noise caught Mark's attention-- and he saw the flickering lightbulb slowly fade to black.<br />Maybe he said something or maybe he just fell asleep instantly thereafter. If he said something, it might have been: "It'll take weeks to recover."<br><br /><br />Another New Year's -- and not a single speck of memory left.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1135270462938965142005-12-22T13:20:00.000-03:302005-12-22T13:24:22.956-03:30A merry fucking Christmas from...A merry fucking Christmas from Harry, Mark, and John -- who will soon return with new adventures. For real, man, for real.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1130871926237256902005-11-02T14:58:00.000-03:302005-11-02T11:06:55.533-03:30oooohhh --- spoooooooky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/1600/halloween.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/320/halloween.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Look at them! Harry and John, all dressed up for Halloween. Definitely frightning.<br><br />Mark, by the way, went as some other guy in Guns n Roses nobody remembers. Exactly. That one.<br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1130098727586613942005-10-24T10:45:00.000-02:302005-10-27T07:42:06.616-02:30Contemplation of a ceiling fan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/1600/fan-on-ceiling.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/200/fan-on-ceiling.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <P align="justify">The ringing in John's ears is almost as loud as the whirring and clicking of the fan above, whirling on the ceiling. Thinking of helicopters and Nam he feels just like Martin Sheen in <i>Apocalypse Now</i> -- but he feels like the world is ending without even bothering to get up. Or going all the way Laos. Was it Laos? Cambodia? Somewhere in the jungle, definitely. Yeah, and down some river. But right now there is no Doors playing. There isn't even a stereo of any kind. The sun light reluctantly runs through the blinds in a futile attempt to rinse the artificial dark of the room. A fly, buzzing lazily, finds its way to John's face and lands. Trying hard to stay awake (but why?), he raises his arm to wipe the insect away, knowing perfectly well that it will eventually return. <br />With eye lids as heavy as lead it is so hard just not to fall asleep. John concentrates on the mechanical movement above him. Whose bed is this? Where is he? Did he sleep here? How did he get here at all? It's definitely not my room, he thinks. There is no fan in my room.<br />His last ties to consciousness are torn and he drifts off ...off ... into this weird world of dreams, that's you pass on your way to real sleep. When you're neither asleep and dream nor wide awake-- when you think you somewhere else, even if only for one second. And then you "wake up" again - -<br />So does John. What the...? For one second he was in some jungle, there flies, mosquitos and stuff. Humidity was even worse than now. He wore some kind of uniform, carrying a backpack horribly heavy. His heard is beating hard right now. Not really fast, just with so much intesity, that it might hurt. Maybe I should see a doctor, some time. First thing tomorrow. By the way, what time is it? Damn it. John rolls over, just then: the door is flung open. There is Mark.<br />"Dude... have you ever in a war, man?"<br />"...just returned," John manages to answer, mumblig. Then he is gone again.<br />Fucking movies, fucking Coppola.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14638993.post-1129758997585222962005-10-18T17:23:00.000-02:302005-10-20T12:52:32.646-02:30...get wasted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/1600/getwasted1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3302/1331/200/getwasted1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <P align="justify">The boys are really busy at the moment, unfortunately. Most of the time they're getting wasted. Whatever time is left is needed for recovery ...to get wasted again afterwards.<br />On the fabulous snapshot on the right you can see the guys the other night at the last meeting of the debating club. Even though you might get another impression, they're just discussing the impact of the Russian Nihilist Movement on Czech literature of the early 20th century. A discussion which lends itself to getting wasted, as you might guess.<br /></P>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1