Get Amkreutz!

Into Oily Blackness

2011-02-10T02:57:00.000-08:00

Flamingo Hunters of the mid-Atlantic

2010-12-15T00:39:00.000-08:00

The tramp steamer lay anchored in the lee of the many islands that dotted this briny estuary. It was night and the stars were faint against the rising steam of dusk that the forest beyond exhaled. Gideon Klimm stood on the deck besooted, his limbs lined by the strident light streaming from the gas lamp. He fluidly walked to the lamp, and then awkwardly examined the life congregating ‘round the lamp, then strode back to the binnacle. Flamingos, a dirty business, a perversity of trade, an anachronism from a bygone age. Tomorrow they would go up the river. Brian would be waiting, that is, if he hadn’t subsumed to his monomania.

In the kitchen below deck, ‘Pretty’ Olle was putting the finishing touches on the tuna soufflé that was to be the entree for the evening. Olle was pretty nervous, execution of his recipes was wearing thin, like his coulis.

In the hold, the party was starting up, the tinsel and the lights were on, the punch was ready. Imelda Macgillicuddy was getting all her favourite songs played right now, before the hoi polloi came in with their dreadful requests. In the dim mini-disco ball light she weaved and did that side step, snapping her fingers. Olle came in, slinking in the shadows, bearing the amuse-bouches that would be the solace of Macgillicuddy when the evening turned proletarian. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, Olle could tell with his practised eye that by the way that she moved that she was ignoring him. He traipsed to the tables that lined the hold, set the plates down. Olle looked up to the dj, to the turn tables, to the mini-disco ball. His hand went out to the cooler of beer, and pulled out at bottle. The fish dying in that cooler the other day wrapped their dying revenge around that bottle, clinging to the glue that held the labels to hard glass. Indifferent, he flicked off the cap with empty plastic lighter, marked by the teeth from many different crowns. He looked at Macgillicuddy, his arm stiff, the elbow out, pulling the bottle from his face, the left leg easy across the stiff right, the edge of the table supporting the back. He looked at and thought Christ this woman.

Olle set the bottle rocket on a trajectory to his face again, the HMS Cooking Lager righted itself to avoid jettisoning its payload, Olle wangled over the dance floor and shouted above 80s Norwegian pop hits

‘You wanna play a drinking game? It’ssa lot of fun, and he turned to see that hold had filled with dancing mates and scientists, he pulled Imelda to a table were the kitchen staff were sitting, their black-white check trousers under a red check table cloth.

‘Tell the lie, it’s called.’ He said over his shoulder as he inched his chair over tothe tabel

The evening blurred into the grey morning.

All that was left of the night was the slowing falling snow against the decklight. The money and the beer.

The grey morning was enveloped in mist, and the snow caught everyone by surprise. Gideon switched on the motor, and the ship nudged itself into the flurry. Wafts of fitful steam came from the galley, and carried the whiff of breakfast, a mix of eggs and smoked mackerel. The tramp steamer looked for the river.

—Easy as getting into a fight with the missus.—thought Gideon Klimm

Fallow

2010-11-20T10:23:00.000-08:00

Still fallow, the shades were recuperating when three wolves charged across the salty slate plain; the heralds of the day job.

Meanwhile...

2008-03-07T10:43:00.000-08:00

...the day job lay slumbering: dreams of apostasy goaded orbs behind open lids to feverish REM, rectangular pupils dilated and contracted unseeing. Awaking with a start, the day job stretched its corpulence, the fleshy wattles quivering in waves from cranium to coccyx. It licked its lips over worn, blunted teeth: poking the tongue between generous diastems it uffished, and recalled the absence in its mental well-being. The obeisances of the shades were like the field of Carthage post Punic: fallow.

A different point of view

2007-12-27T07:25:00.000-08:00

the actual situation of the villa in animals is as incomprehensible from this perspective as can be expected, or even more. It is only by touching the screen on the appropriate roof that a distinct sensation will signify the pressant on the correctness his or her choice.

In Animals...

2007-06-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

...the most popoular villa name by far is 'Nicely Situated'.

Illiteracy IS terrifying...

2007-06-08T00:42:00.000-07:00

and I think I'm not alone in this, or is the sign at the orchard end of Animals a....clue? Does the owner's name start with the second letter of the Alphabet in its traditional order?

In Animals...

2007-06-08T00:32:00.000-07:00

...people only have the one lock on the bicycles, to a man and to a cycle. I checked.

What's he doing in there?

2007-06-05T15:23:00.000-07:00

And there is one particular neighbour (who lives at the green end of Animals, amid damp grass and the ruins of past industry) whose villa no one has ever seen, for he wards off all potential snoops, voyeurs and correspondents (even h.n.?) with a terrifying sign blazoned across a daunting wooden fence.

In Animals: sometime messages from correspondent h.n.

2007-05-17T08:41:00.001-07:00

In the small village of Animals there are several villas with a view of the river Icing, dedicated with inscriptions. They have such names as 'Well-adjusted', 'Pretty Face', and 'Keep Gate Free', and others that are more pedestrian, such as 'the family Miller'.

She sees...

2006-08-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

that mushrooms grow to monstrous proportions in this postmodern age, providing shade and spray. Structures expressing internal homologies look on making bets.

Friday night all right.

Does she see him?

2006-07-18T01:51:00.000-07:00

And if so, what is he doing?

Lurking in the shadows behind my back?

2006-07-18T00:56:00.000-07:00

Close to Rotterdam Centraal one night

Where in the world is Amkreutz? The possibilities

2006-07-17T13:16:00.000-07:00

An abandoned YWCA

Interlude pursued: o brother where art thou?

2006-07-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

Volcano picture challenge accepted! While waiting for Hoehleaffen

2006-07-15T05:51:00.000-07:00

Having not been on vacation yet in 2006, Hylknikkop can't compete yet in Holiday Snaps '06. But he (foolishly I'm sure) believes he can compete in pictures of volcanoes. Here Iztaccihuatl, as seen from Amecameca, just down the road from the bus stop. The rest of the pictures from this particular excursion were left behind on a computer (Mac) in Mexico. One can see here the Moon touching the lips of the supposed reposing woman seen in the profile of the mountain. A sentiment and scene completely ruined by Don Paco's taqueria and pedicurista. Hylknikkop thinks they were under joint ownership, but he could be wrong. Anyway, he took the picture, making him the culpable one. I'm sorry, but he probably isn't.

Caribbright's best holiday picture 2006

2006-07-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

Reaching the top of the Soufrière volcano on St. Vincent, we stood on the crater's rim and looked down into the depths. The view was astounding when clouds were not enveloping us or drifting across the crater: the green terraces along the volcanic slopes are a phenomenal sight, as is the lake and stream on the crater floor. In the middle of the crater, the geologically relatively young volcanic dome forms a reminder that this particular giant is merely dormant, not extinct. There was a way down, involving an old rope and sheer drops, but we scaredy-cats opted out. Incidentally, we neither saw nor smelled the Bob Marley fields (in the words of a likewise disappointed Dutch tourist): the marijuana plots allegedly cultivated by the ganja-farmers high up in the mountains, away from prying eyes and pesticide spraying Americans.

Interlude continued: Waiting for Lucky Amkreutz

2006-07-11T04:40:00.000-07:00

'We're looking for Amkreutz.' the visitors declaimed, not knowing they were six years too late, or Amkreutz was delayed.

Interlude, or: Waiting for Amkreutz

2006-07-11T03:02:00.000-07:00

Reminiscences

2006-06-26T05:53:00.000-07:00

As Hoehleaffen maniacally sketched out his ideas (for he had been rendered speechless by the Shades’ – pardon me, Hoehleaffens’ - unprotesting devotion), the Hoehleaffen collected their thoughts, as the dying strains of Silver Fox rang in their ears, amplified by the cavernous acoustics they had just left behind. What they had SEEN down there had not surprised them, just the usual prehistoric cave drawings juxtaposed with more recent artistic exploits they had come to expect from earlier forays into the earth…

Picture by Karl Eklund

“Nurture the craft of concrete visionaries / Cave painters screaming "Loosen the cuffs!" / Cave paintings get the natural history feather dust / Pick a lust.”

…and an almighty mess of paper cut-outs, spraycans, paintbrushes, red ochre and ash, indicating that a master of many media had vacated the spot just before them.

The Hoehleaffen were starting to suspect that they were hot on the heels of Brian, he of the sinister sneer, he of the receding hairline, he of the explosive, Rooneyan temper, he who had initially twisted the thumbscrews on their shaky souls, but now the tables were turned! On the floor lay, as if disposed of with casual disdain, but more likely with deliberate callousness, a strangely coloured image.

The Hand of the Master? Picture by Daan Isendoorn

But despite all this, the Hoehleaffen were overwhelmed not visually, but olfactorily, as an indescribable smell – the smell of decay in recesses or progress in clearings? - brought tears to their eyes. A stable after all then, of an artist on the run, riding the winds, clutching his nefarious pictures under his armpits, en route to a new studio.

¡Mira companeros! exclaimed Hoehleaffen, and with a flourish lifted his pyjama / cassock over his head and spread it over the table. The Hoehleaffen gazed and were amazed… this bordered on sheer lunacy, or did it?

Away to the rodeo

2006-06-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

Amkreutz took the shades underneath his trenchcoat, and skipped over the landscape, taking only the necessary detours.

They looked through the window at the voided danger, with pangs in their spleens, at the tremendous loss of Arthropoda that had been swept from Amkreutz' mustachioed lip.

Resolving to take the name of Hoehleaffen for this chapter in life, Amkreutz refused to be called by any other name except that. Or call any other being that, until honour had been avenged at the rodeo. The Hoehleaffen protested obdurately, then sweetly, then not at all, retreating from Amkreutz' (Hoehleaffen) glare. He took up a pencil, with an ease that betrayed years of experience, and sketched his intentions on the collar of his crisply starched pajamas.

Brian?

2006-06-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

Pausing awhile, the shades looked outside, and saw that the sky was darkening. Was this Brian?

Past the ivy...

2006-06-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

...a paved floor and a serpant awaited them. Was this a stable or not?

entoptic cycloptics

2006-04-16T15:24:00.000-07:00

The shades regained spirit and flopping gently in the breeze and on the tails of Amkreutz's worn out trench coat followed him into the fray...down south. Frantically putting more mileage on his genuine but caked General Von Raschheimer boots, Amkreutz quickly decimated the distance between their starting point and soon to be destination. His right eye finally having popped out as well established some last corrections on their computed course.
Finally the shades felt useful again after having spent so many years in oblivion. They were definitely pulling a Vashti Bunyan here and aimed for succes. After several days Amkreutz lifted the left tip of his moustache, which now also harboured an interesting array of insects, stared of into the western sunset and mumbled.... we're close...
The shades full of joy and anticipation quickly gathered wood for the fire and in a joint effort pulled at the Von Raschheimers. The night was spent rejoicing, singing, clapping hands and saying yeah! Some of the shades even made use of a tree!
In the morning they broke camp and poured the last of the coffee over the fire. Around noon things were really drawing to a close...
Would they find the images...would Amkreutz be able to lead them down the abysmal depths of what they faced...why weren't they looking at a stable...and most of all why WEREN't they looking at a stable?

Turn up the Scoville!

2006-04-14T10:49:00.000-07:00

Recalling Brian, who had written his 'Teratology of Apis nonmellifera melancholia' at the age of six, who had been so disappointed in the shades for not accomplishing anything, his diabolical construction of the day-job, the sometime nemesis of Amkreutz, at others bosom comrade, Brian, whose very movement meant danger, had the shades rightly gloomily revering the afternoon sun.

Once the temperature had gone up several Scoville, Amkreutz, his mustasche waxing brightly to the rays of the sun (cf. above), came out of his hibernation. His cheery 'Vaht Up chap-ss?' gave the shades start, which was very unlike them, as I remember thinking at the time. Hurridly, the shades explained all, Amkreutz sometimes attentive, othertimes pulling faces, sympathetic and rebuking at once, the jocular hilarity never leaving his left eye, the right having not come out yet. They showed him the images, which which he inspected with the rigour for which he was well known.
'Brats, we must find this stable of images', was his conclusion.

Also, can you guess?

Yes, it's Good Friday. Minus ten points for thinking it's Amkreutz night all right. Very disappointing, we shall follow your careers with great interest.

i don't know why we have to get a GetAmkreutz silkscreened fan when we could have a mechanical fan with getamkreutz on the blades whirling around like a dervish or a fan and top combined, spinning on the floor while cooling the place down cheer cheers cheers (apologies to messers G. Willan and R. Searle)

Street dreams

2006-04-10T14:37:00.000-07:00

As they piled out into the street, it seemed they had momentarily left behind the madness in which Shades regularly find themselves caught up. But they were fooling themselves, for, turning the corner (the left I believe), they suddenly found themselves facing a billboard of a seductive temptress carrying the seemingly innocuous message 'getamkreutz!'.

The Shades scratched their heads. There had to be more to it than that. What was the lady whose only claim to fame was modeling for KingsOak real estate trying to tell them? It was only when one of the Shades, impatient to get on (he, unlike his acquaintances, had Things To Do), pushed his way past the others and the billboard, and turned to remonstrate his fellows, and the words froze in the back of his throat, that the full, sinister implications of the billboard started to reveal themselves. The Shades rushed to the immobile, muted one and found themselves staring at the back of the billboard, which carried another image from the same stable.

The Shades shuddered in alarm and dismay, words failing them at that instant, sunken as they were in gloomy revery.
It was a sunny afternoon and the time was five-and-twenty to four.

But the day-job wouldn't give them up.

2006-04-07T06:05:00.000-07:00

The day-job, seen here terriyfingly both behind and in front of a Venetian blind, caused the shades to affect a quick retreat to the stairs, though staying in their place. Flight was the call of the day. As it, in many ways, continues to be; the birth of a tradition.

But speculations on punning modern troubadours, and the stronger (hence better) beer had given the shades wings and tails of bitter lead (Pb). Weakly they charged, one behind the other, dragging into the sawdust the worrying signs of terminus post quem and terminus ante quem, but in the wrong order.

On another note, also remember to party tonight as it is...

Amkreutz night! All right!

Convening shades

2006-04-04T14:22:00.000-07:00

A number of Shades convened around a heavy oak table, to discuss a variety of topics such as "Is stronger beer always better beer?", "Was Robinson Crusoe a woman or just an avant-garde metrosexual?" and "How long will the new fad last of giving bands short, funky, wink-wink nudge-nudge, we are being so ironic, look at us with our raised right eyebrow names like Thunderbirds Are Now! (obviously a GetAmkreutz! rip-off), Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and The Boy least Likely To (to what, they pondered)?".

With such important musings to bandy around, who can blame them for giving up their day-job?

casting shadows

2006-04-02T01:49:00.000-08:00

Since sustaining is not in his vocabulary, former Russian tank commander Yuri Amkreutzkovski will definitely change contemporary social order! (Every odd week also on weekends). Ye will be like tiny particles of loess, fighting to be in his shadow.

Amkreutz Night

2006-03-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

Friday Night is to Party Night

Is he here to change or sustain the contemporary social order? Please. Let us know.

Attention:

2006-03-21T11:15:00.000-08:00

Get Amkreutz! Or Amkreutz (pictured above wearing his typical Friday night outfit) will get you!

SENSE THE NONS

2006-03-01T08:00:00.000-08:00

Who is guilty of Post-Althusserian obscurantianist dehistoricisation?

Bentley, R. A. 2006: Academic copying, archaeology and the English language, Antiquity 80 (307), 196-201.

I propose a game: (will be welcoming suggestions for a fitting title, the one here under is a work in progress)
SENSE THE NONS

1 for an MA
2 for a PhD
3: Post-Doc
4: junior lecturer
5: senior do.
6: reader
7: extra-ordinary professor
8: ordinary professor
9: rector
10: master
11: professor emeritus

What do you think?

Show your self Amkreutz!

2006-02-21T07:02:00.000-08:00

We have these fries and Grolsches if you can tell a story in which Childe didn't object to carbon dating per se, but to the associations the half-life of carbon-13 called up. A sad tale in numbers.