Monday, November 22, 2004

city photography

False Creek
© Masalla Galleries 2004

Friday, November 19, 2004

Cloning - the future ...

So quit badmouthing cloning and look on the bright side. Do you really believe it’s going to stop anyway? Those laboratorys were doing it secretly in the first place, and they’re not about to curtail their erotic excitement because of world opinion or morality. They get off on it. Expect a public relations onslaught on the same scale as Why War is Good For You.
So what’s good about cloning? Lots. Everyone can have wool sweaters instead of that sticky polyester. Dolly’s legacy. Maybe your dog is getting old, can’t control himself, you take him down to Clones-R-Us and get a brand new puppy, and he IS your dog all over again!
But it’s human cloning you’re thinking about, right? Okay, imagine this if you will; two hockey teams made up of only Wayne Gretskys. What a game! How about George Foreman against George Foreman in the ring? Imagine his kids at ringside! And the Jolly Giant will smile and cook you a steak between rounds on his grill. The downside to human cloning of course is how many Britney Spears can we stand?
Hollywood will embrace cloning, they’d be able to remake all those old movies with original clones. ‘It Happened One Night’ with Clark Gable 2 and ‘High Noon’ with Gary Cooper 'A version', except someone wouldn’t be able to resist making all the bad guys Cooper too. They’ll have the technology to go back for the REAL Ben-Hur’s DNA and have the chariot race against Charlton Heston 'B'. And imagine listening to the Barbara Streisand Choir.
And you know how your kids’ll do everything for you as six-year-olds but won’t do anything at seven? You’d be able to have perpetual six-year-olds forever getting you things, the remote, a beer. The excitement never ends! Never ends ...... never ends

But wait ... it’s inevitable that we’ll clone AND genetically engineer what we need. One of them new Aardvark vacuum cleaners. Perhaps a brand new Jaguar with leather seats. I mean a brand new JAGUAR! Genetically adapted to be docile of course. Perhaps a running dog fetching a perpetual bouncing ball. Maybe a tap dancing pink elephant? Or a green blob thingy that was once a frog?
And ... er, other things we don’t really NEED but what we’ll think are fun to have. Right? It isn’t too unimaginable that we’ll OWN creatures like these ...

Clone your kids now before they're too old - only $2995.00

CloneRunningDog#359a This week only - $49.50

TapDancing pinkelephant Model #123x Sold out, rain checks available.

GreenBouncingBlobC6 Our most popular seller, volume discount.

Little genetic clones who will run their hearts out for you ... until they die ... but they have no brains, only a program, no thoughts, only an impulse to run, or to dance for our amusement, or to plop endlessly on the floor. They have no idea what they are doing. It's all right, we'll be told .... because they have no idea. They're only 'manufactured beings'. They have no feelings. They don't know anything at all.
Do we?
Look at them. Are you sad too?

Thursday, November 11, 2004

my artwork - the YOYO

#1 in the Clown Series.
The origins of clowns can be traced back to the Circus Maximus of Rome. Clowns started as Greek and Roman mimes and were usually bald-headed, padded stupid fools.
The modern circus began around 1768 and the first circus clowns appeared at Phillip Astley's. Some early clowns were Arlecchino, Pierrot and Harlequin. Joey Grimaldi originated the white-faced tradition and the baggy dress, large shoes and sloppy manners were made popular by Auguste in the 1860s. The sad-faced Emmett Kelly is perhaps the most well known modern day clown.
Since their beginnings centuries ago, clowns, through their buffoonery and ridiculously exaggerated antics have always brought joy into our hearts.

published by Masalla Galleries Graphics - Vancouver, BC

Posted by Hello

© Masalla Galleries Graphics 1995

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

city photography

Maybe tomorrow

© Masalla Galleries 2004

Download the Firefox Web Browser

I have been using the beta Firefox .9.2 for about 6 months now and like the interface and simplicity, plus you can add other buttons on the personal tool bar for Google search, your blog etc. I think Netscape has suffered since AOL took them over and changed codes within the structure. And Microsoft Internet Explorer is just way too slow for me. Try Firefox, you don't have to just use one browser at a time if you have the RAM.
Go here for the finished version 1.0 - - -

Firefox - Rediscover the web

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

exerpt from my novel - Deadly Nightshade

1st book in the trilogy - Trephining

Cynthia was warming to some arcane idea. Said, "Do you know the theory that many criminals SEEK death? They climb toward it all their lives, perhaps because of something in their pasts. They actually want to be caught and punished. They want to be set free from the demons in their minds. They need death, Mr. Dexter."
She was preoccupied with death.
"I have heard that one but I leave the definitions to the psychologists."
"A poet I know penned these lines;
'I have a rendezvous with Death
which no one can deny,
I mustn't keep the gateman waiting,
I must be there on time.'
It is exactly about death wish."
"Your friend has a death wish?"
"Sadly, I believe that may be so." Her mouth turned down.

Who was this morbid friend? Was she going to try to convince me that Darlene Parkinson had a death wish?
She continued, "It may be what compels a criminal to remain in the bank long enough for the police to arrive. You see, subconsciously, he KNOWs there'll be a shootout, knows he must die. He waits too long on purpose."
"Death by cop? Incredible, not in that situation," I scoffed, "he wants to get away and spend the money. Buy drugs."
"No, that's what WE think he wants to do, down deep he has to face death. He doesn't know why himself but he has to do it."
"Because he's too chicken to face life?"
"Are you familiar with Shakespeare? Listen to this quote from Caesar; ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once.’"
"So bank robbers are valiant now?"
"Courage takes many forms, Mr. Dexter. A definition for every mind."
"I'm just trying to solve what I think has been a terrible crime. And your best friend Darlene is dead."
"I hope you have the courage to solve it, Mr. Dexter, when the time comes. If there was a crime."
"I know I do. And I know there was."
She arose to leave, "I hope you're not disappointed, I wouldn't want to see you miss getting your just rewards. There comes a time of crisis in everyone’s life when you need to ask of yourself, at that inscribed moment when you are cut; Which is more? This stream of my own blood? Or the waters of the four oceans?"
She laughed lightly and I realized what had changed so drastically about her in the last few seconds. Her eyes had faded from the blue to a very pale green, a cloudy celadon gray-green. They were beautiful. As she left the restaurant I thought maybe, just maybe, they
were telling me something after all.

© RC Westerholm

city photography

refections ...

click picture to enlarge Posted by Hello

© Masalla Galleries 2003

excerpt from my novel - Riding Pegasus

2nd book in the trilogy - Trephining

Cinny said, "Is Doc on the way? Did Michael call him?"
Jack Murphy turned his attention to Cinny and his look softened. "He's comin'. Why you doin' this for this guy?"
"He needs help, Jack. I'd do it for you too."
"How much is the room?" I said.
Murphy took this as a smartass remark. Growled, "I could bust the other arm for you." He folded the Popeye forearms across his chest, they expanded to resemble the legs of a Clydesdale. Most of the tattoos were blue but there were dabs of red and green as well. The word Death somehow stood clear of the circuitous designs. I had no doubt he could break arms, knew he'd done it before.
"Jack, don't, he's badly hurt ..."
Murphy looked at her, gentleness in his expression. I was involved in a triangle whether I wanted it or not.
"You said you wouldn' be back. Your stuff's in that box there."
There was a cardboard apple box near the door, filled with Cinny's personal hygiene products.
"I know what I said and it's true, but ... we needed Doc Morse, you can see that."
"Why you even mixed up with this prick?"
"Hey ... " I started to rise dizzily from the bed.
Murphy stepped forward. Cinny jumped between us.
"Look, I need some help here," I said, "you wouldn't be happy with yourself if you broke my other arm anyway, not picking on a poor little shit like me when I can't ... "
"You can't awright," he said quickly.
"Can you say, Oy yam what oy yam'?" I muttered, mimicking Popeye.
"Maybe you should call Doc again?" Cinny asked, trying to defuse the situation.
Jack Murphy never took his stare off me. Never once glanced at my bleeding arm. He was built like a water buffalo. "Michael called 'im awready."
"Want to make a deal, Murph'?" I asked.
Suspicion narrowed his snake eyes. "What kinda deal would I make with you, Sport?"
"We'll have a truce, I'll get the bullet out of my arm, we wait a couple of weeks and then I kick the shit out of you."
Murphy leaped at me. Cinny screamed. I rolled off the other side of the bed, crushing my bloody arm as I did but he was flat on his face as I struck him with a left-handed shuto. My focus was gone and I hit the side of his neck and shoulder. The mattress absorbed more of the blow than he did. I fell back to the wall, waiting for his onslaught, hoping my legs would work. There was a hard knock at the door. Cinny quickly opened it and a huge black-haired man stood there with the diminutive Doc Morse cowering behind him, little black bag in hand. I knew Michael Houlihan right away. Murphy was coming at me, rubbing the side of his neck where I had got him.
Houlihan roared, "Murphy! Fuck off!" They barged into the room, slammed the door. This guy looked like a REAL fighter, huge, bony and cat-quick.
Popeye Forearms stopped, snarled, "You got lucky there, Sport. You got a deal, don't wait too long though or I'll come lookin'."
He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, kept repeating the action until I did.
"Deal," I said with false bravery, "see you soon. Keep training. Eat your spinach."
Murphy glanced at Houlihan, back at me with his best rattlesnake glare and left.
Cinny said, "Thanks, Michael. Thanks a ton."
Michael said, ignoring me, "Cinny. You're stayin' outa street work for sure now. Are ya not? That is what ya told us. Can we take it as the gospel?" A tinge of Irish brogue.
"For sure."
"This lad mean somethin' to ya, does he?"
The little bald doctor made his first comment, "He's not exactly a lad." I immediately disliked him.

© RC Westerholm

city photography

The subtle richness of Autumn

click picture to enlarge
© Masalla Galleries 2004

excerpt from my novel - A Place in the Sky

3rd book in the trilogy - Trephining

We listened, trying to hear a footfall beneath the mutter of the wind. Stood still, expecting something to happen. Dry tree branches rattled and fern fronds flailed at the edge of the clearing where a capricious wisp flashed through. Scattered petals from a yellow blossoming bush swirled to the ground like lemon snowflakes. I could hear a crow somewhere, its scolding voice carrying on the hot air.
We started along the narrower trail, gently pushing branches aside. There were several more homemade wind chimes, each with an individual harmonious sound.
I had just glimpsed a piece of rusted tin through the trees when I heard the movement behind me.
“Don’t you motherfuckers move or you die!”
He had Zac gripped with his left arm under Zac’s and his left hand behind his head, a half nelson. In the browned skin of his right hand was a long bladed commando knife, pressed hard against Zac’s throat.
Zac was staring at me. And I was staring into stainless steel eyes.
"We won’t do anything stupid. Are you Nathan Browne?”
He pressed the honed edge of the blade tighter into Zac’s throat. His features were hard to recognize because they were colored with black and green irregular spots, jungle make-up, but even then I knew right away who he was. The man I was facing was Zac’s brother. Cynthia’s brother. The resemblance was striking even though Nathan appeared much older. He wore a baggy camouflage jacket.
The steel eyes shone with hostility. “Who the fuck are you? Why you lookin’ for me?”
“We have a mission to find you,” Zac said. He was hanging limp in Nathan’s arms but twisted his head trying to look at him.
“Fuck you asshole! The mission’s over.” He batted Zac’s hat off with the long blade. There was a dark blue tattoo on the back of his right hand, the head of a fire-breathing dragon and the word ‘Khesanh.’
I said, “We have some very good news for you. Please let him go. We mean no harm.”
He only readjusted the knife. Zac’s skin was white along the crease and the edge of the blade glinted where it had been often sharpened.
Zac tried to straighten his body, raised his voice, a different Zac spoke, “It is destiny which leads me to arrive here. A destiny which commands you as well. You must carry out your own mission. Time has converged upon us, now there is none left, do it! You must slice through the softness of the man you clasp. It is preordained. This IS your purpose.”
It had to be the other Zac talking. He began pulling against Nathan’s grip.
“I’m gonna slice your fuckin’ throat in another minute.”
“Yes! Yes! You must. There can be no hesitation. Commit the act which sets us all free!”
Nathan was having a hard time controlling Zac. His eyes went wild and his hand tightened on the knife.
“You’re dead, man! I’ll slice your head off! I done it before.” Zac was trying to lurch away.
“If you do,” I yelled, “you’ll be killing your own brother!”
The steel eyes landed on me, darkened into a slate gray. His hand grabbed at Zac’s hair and pulled his head back violently. He tried to see Zac’s face without taking his eyes from mine. I raised my hands to keep them in his sight.
Zac’s eyes flashed a laser green, as though I had betrayed a family secret. I had. His incredulous look was because I knew. He was breathing in huge gasps. “You must do it! Draw the sacred blade along the devil’s skin. It must be done. I as Michael, command it!”
Nathan flung Zac to the ground in one movement, cutting the front of his throat slightly as he withdrew the blade and at the same time drawing an Army issue Colt .45, aimed it with a shaky hand.

© RC Westerholm

city photography

elegant passageway

click picture to enlargePosted by Hello
© Masalla Galleries 2004

excerpt from The Magic Bus

Terrence climbed onto the bus, hung his umbrella over his arm and withdrew his wallet. Paid his fare. Ten thousand dollars. The driver didn't smile - he never did at Terrence - just pressed a big red button and the windows fogged as they accelerated away.
Terrence glanced over the singular passengers who looked expectantly at him. Hopeful faces.
He chose an empty seat beside a rugged looking Army man with a scar across his lip and thick dark hair, wearing a khaki shirt and trousers.
"So you sit with me," the Army man said in a gravelly voice. He pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and lit one by flicking his thumbnail over the red and blue head of a wooden match. Didn't offer a cigarette to Terrence. His hands were like freshly dug potatoes.
"It'll be rough ya know. Autumn ‘44 ain't no country picnic, even if the war is leavin' Italy. They're still tryin' to hang on wherever they can. Mussolini's up there somewhere in them hills. Montecatini maybe, who knows? But we'll find him, don't worry, we'll find him." Smoke drifted out of his nose as though his lungs might be permanently smoldering.
"But, um, wasn't Rome already liberated in the Spring of 1944?" Terrence remarked.
"Yeah, but that kinda shit's easy. Artillery, whole friggin' divisions rollin' along. Tanks. That's velvet pie. Ya could use one of them new flame throwers if ya wanted. Fry the friggin' Krauts right in their burrows."
"F-fry them in their b-burrows?"
"Bunker Barbeque."
"Um, provided you can get close enough to use the thing."
"Who said it wouldn't be dangerous? That's the whole ticket. It's why yer here, ain't it? To go one on one?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"The game is diggin' 'em out one at a time, Buddy ... You'll love it, there's fun if ya get off at my stop with me, better than a table grade woman ... and no one'll beat ya up this time." The virile offer was tempting.
"I hope not, I abhor violence."
"So ya got punched in the head and the mugger took yer wallet, that's why ya want to face it now, ain't it? Believe me, them new flamers are the cat's ass. The Nazi's howl is like a Wagner opera." He pronounced the composer’s name WAGner.
Terrence gulped, corrected, "VAHGner."
The soldier took a deep drag from the cigarette. Smoke clouded his voice. "Get off with me ... Ya don't ever live better than when yer so close ta dyin'."
Terrence shuddered with a chill and looked around, opted to move near the little blond woman.
As he sat beside her he realized she was only a young girl. Soft, supple looking. She could have been sixteen, had fine yellowy hair and a light fragrance like wild roses.
"Hello," she said, her voice musical, her eyes possessing a kind of blue sheen. "Are you getting off when I do?"

© RC Westerholm

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