Since I’ve basically finished the work on batch 3 of Project B (the 100 word stories), I have published batch 2 on deviant art.
100 words for Rachelle, Quinn, Frances, Michael, and Gareth.
Go have look then and tell me what you think.
In the course of my work, I make use of the South African Agricultural Geo-Referenced System dynamic map service.
Today the service was down. It told me this:
Stay the patient course
of little worth is your ire,
the map service, is down.Please try again later.
I hope they randomise it so that you don’t get the same message over and over. Otherwise, staying the patient course may rapidly become troublesome.
Much like the case with Cell C. They’ve recently redone their webpage, and appear to have contracted possums for the job. Whenever I log in and try to access my account info, I get this message:
here i am scratching my head
wondering what happened. . . .
but never fear sometimes life is random. one thousand grovelling pardons for any inconvenience caused.
They issue 1000 pardons because it’s happened about that many times.
Guys, it’s not random if it happens every time!
Okay, so things aren’t exactly looking optimal.
I laugh in the face of unattainable word counts!
Fear not fans! Writing continues steadily, if not at the blistering pace required to meet certain self-imposed deadlines. There will be a silly novel. It’ll just take a while longer.
In other news, Angie celebrated her birthday yesterday in style — pics should be forthcoming. Complain if there aren’t any before the end of the week.
1667 words a day is tough.
I’ve already fallen behind a little — but according to the graphy thing I’ve posted in the sidebar, it appears that the words grow exponentially. If that is the case, then I’m just ahead of the curve 
I want one.
I may even have to get over my dislike of the Sony corporate types, and acknowledge the comments that the music guys aren’t the hardware guys.
Ah well.
I went for a walk and look what I found at the bus-stop.
In case you can’t read the text, in the picture, it is transcribed below. The question marks are for the text that I can’t make out, but I think you’ll get the idea:
Easter, brings, us, joy, &, happiness
All, people, love, Easter, because, they, enjoy, ???
So, many, children, love, the, Easter, bunny
Tell, the, people, to, cellebrate, this, Easter
Every, time, Easter, comes, everybody, ???
Rise, shine, it’s, EASTER!!!!
Brad Meyer
Thanks Brad. You made my day! 
I spooned sugar into my cappuccino, stirred it, and placed the teaspoon on the saucer. Half way through my coffee, I picked up the spoon and licked off the foam that was sticking to it.
It tasted salty.
How could that be?
My favourite writer for homeless talk has to be Luke Jentile. He writes the opinion column “Burning Point.”
I agree with the burning bit. Possibly his writing desk is on fire, so he needs to write the article in quite a hurry.
Though, so far I haven’t been able to figure out the point.
Here’s a little extract from his latest offering:
“Then there is this rotation and revolving of the planet, which makes us count the time, but we can’t be accurate because we found this universe already existing for billions of years.”
Another superlative scribe is Dr Lebeko Lebenya with his “Afrikan Wizdom” column. Did you know that Tim and Buktu established the University of Tim-Buktu in Mali, Western Afrika (sic)?
And were you aware that the Roman Army was also known as The Crusaders?
Or that one can “give out” wisdom?
Thank god for the good Doctor Lebenya.
I see a lot of pipes these days. Pipes and my fair share of teapots. The teapots are always random, but the pipes are not necessarily so. While some pipes lead somewhere, others just twist around each other, and then break up into squares and disappear.
And the noise. Always a rattling noise. I would put my earplugs in, but they're tied to my hard-hat, so I'd have to wear the hat indoors, which would look silly. I suppose I could leave the hard-hat on the desk, with the string from the earplugs stretching up to my ears, but that would be worse.
I get up from the desk to escape the rattle and the randomised pipes on the monitor to go outside where the other pipes of the gold-plant can afflict me. I have to wear my hard-hat now in any case. At least the rattle of the faulty PC fan is no more – replaced by the drone of heavy machinery.
Still pipes and noise, but no teapots. I long for the surprise of the teapot amongst the pipes, but surprises are not so fantastical on a gold-plant. Perhaps the security officers have some teapots. They do have metal detectors – so why not teapots?
I make my way along the path to the security check-point. No teapots yet, but i keep my spirits up
I press the buzzer and look balefully up at the security camera. I imagine the security guards looking down at me from their CCTV monitors, my body elongated out of proportion. A curious side-effect of the corner mounted camera lens. But perhaps they don't see me. Perhaps they are also hoping for a teapot to appear on the screen.
I’m grieving.
But no-one has died
I’m hurting.
But I find no wound
I’m angry.
But there’s no-one to blame
I’m vengeful.
Who deserves my wrath?
She’s drugged.
Abandoned in the club
Her drink has betrayed her
She’s raped?
The tests do not say so
No clear way to tell though
She’s ill.
Feels weary all day now
Curse the pill that AIDS her
And so
I grieve I ache I rage
I avenge?
Do you deserve my wrath?
