notes on a sequel to “The Blog That Would Destroy the World.” Maybe i should fix the cliff-hanger or do a sequel or let the world die or giggle out

Notes on the Sequel

[I have some ideas on the sequel or completion of “The Blog That Would Destroy the World.” I started a little of it. I’m not sure if I’m going to go with it.]

Chapter 25
Naztko Does The Blog


This final battle seems impossible now. Each of the elites in turn have been corrupted and betrayed. Now it appears that I am no different. I have not faithfully followed the letter or spirit of the writings of the Ofuye, nor have I fully assimilated the spiritual elements of the Utd’mbts picture history transmitted through generations. The pcapdyntpa exception was to be a rare thing. But I have gone back to the Forbidden Zone too many times now to retrieve special weapons. And now I have committed the ultimate sypmauiyig using the hyxfacacda device. Worse, because of this I have kept a secret painful for Zawmb’yee. But what can I do? She hasn’t yet mastered Brmegr, and if I told her the secret, someone could retrieve the secret from her mind. The prohibition to use the hyxfacacda up-top is specified with the most severe caveat. It is said that to enable its proliferation by even one use can cause total chaos. But I felt it necessary to save a life.

There is not enough time to teach Zawmb’yee the slow and careful way. To do it quickly, I would have to ask her permission to intrude into her mind, and she for a moment would have to give up her autonomy so I could insert the knowledge. This is extremely dangerous, and in the past has been used to create slaves.


This has been a day of catastrophe. I went to see Zawmb’yee in the palace, but she was not there. She had gone back to her old quarters along the sacred corridor.

“Zawmb’yee, what are you doing here,” I said.

“I’m remembering Doug. I’m a fool — Utcoozhoo must have been right that Doug is dead.” She grabbed pictures off the wall and threw them across the room. A vase was smashed into tiny pieces on the floor. “These tiny pieces of dust — this is what you did to Doug.”

“Stop! You must wait for…”

“Wait for what? The world has ended for me. I am pieces of dust.”

Zawmb’yee sank into a chair next to a desk. She opened a draw part way.

I said, “I have a secret to tell you.”

She screamed, “I have no need for intrigue anymore. I am dust, only dust, and this will make me vapor.” She lifted an Acacizg from the draw and pointed it at her head.

“For gods’ sake…”

“Which god would that be? The god of betrayal. The god that takes my only love. I will join the annihilation now that I deserve no more life. Tell me goodbye if you must and then…”

“Wait please, you must give me more that one word…”

“For what?’

“For the sake of me. I have never betrayed you. Please give me a few more moments to love you, to savor you, to ingrain a memory of you in my thoughts…”

“What would a grain of time do for you now? There is oblivion and endless pain. Do not torture me with philosophy. I don’t believe in a grainy vision. It hurts so much to be alone with a grain of me. I’m not even a pebble to toss in the lake, not a ripple of laughter we made once. I’m drowning and must reach for my annihilation. This forbidden Acacizg will make me my dust like Doug.”

“Please. I have a secret I can not give you until you are prepared to hide it.”

“Why would I hide anything now that I am about to leave forever…”

“Please, please… it is a secret of happiness.”

“That is no longer possible.”

“It is, and when you know it you will be happy.”

“I’ve already indulged your speech longer than a goodbye…”

“Please give me a last favor. I know you can endure me for just a few more days and we can remember happy times — we can forget and relive and for a moment pretend. Please pretend with me — let’s play like children. Little Z, come play with me.”

Zawmb’yee laughed. “You are a lovely person Naztko. Yes, then alright, teach me one last lesson.”


— Douglas Gilbert


Year of the Rooster (Draft 2)

Year of the Rooster

Born in 1921 with pluck,
her dawn broke hearts. She
knew raw emotions and cries,
grew like a lion of the family
stalking the fields, a temper hot
like a firecracker, though raised
by a calmer farmer with luck

Still working on the farm,
her favorite rooster, a
darling of pets, surprised Mary
when it was

cooked to death by a firecracker
and the Lady of Fire is also dead
losing her confidence to crow
on Chinese New Year
like a Dragon fired up.

— Douglas Gilbert

Nouvel An Chinois 新年

Nouvel An Chinois

Marie était le lion de la famille,
chaud en fureur comme un pétard,
né en 1921*.

Travaillant encore la ferme,
le meilleur coq chinois du poulet
chérie d’animaux de compagnie, a surpris Marie
quand c’était

cuit à mort par un pétard
et la Dame du feu est morte aussi
parce qu’elle a perdu confiance pour se vanter
comme une corneille devenu fou

*”…pour les gens nés dans une année de coq – 1921, 1933 … – il est défini pour être un moment malchanceux parce que la tradition indique que l’année de votre naissance fait pour un mauvais 12 mois…” — UK mirror
Mary was the lion of the family,
Hot in rage like a firecracker,
Born in 1921.

Working again on the farm,
The best Chinese cock chicken
Darling of pets, surprised Marie
when it was

cooked to death by a firecracker
and the Lady of Fire is also dead
because she has lost confidence to boast
like a crazy crow

“For people born in a rooster year – 1921, 1933 … – it is defined to be an unlucky moment because tradition indicates that the year of your birth makes for a bad 12 months.”
    Chinese New Year 2017 traditions — UK Mirror
— Douglas Gilbert

La Pluie Absurde

La Pluie Absurde

Quand la pluie absurde tombe, elle tombe sur du béton comme
des gouttes distinct de larmes isolées et d’éclaboussures,
pas discrète dans sa irraisonné crépitement et pleurs.
When the absurd rain falls, it falls on concrete like
separate drops of isolated tears and splashes,
not discreet in his unreasoning crackling and crying.

— Douglas Gilbert

When Cats Chat

An article of faith

I put aside my marinated artichoke hearts,
not even noticing my elegant tart on a dish,
went to the computer, made in type the
nuanced language of kisses delayed, an art:
“My sweetheart, my love, can we have a chat?”

“… hard to love and independent,
like you, and I know I meant
tu as un cœur d’artichaut”

“I’m not in the mood for artichokes.
I’d rather have a chat and joke.”

“I don’t think so. You’d
sooner have un chien.”

“No. Dogs don’t talk to you.”

“Oui, mais ils sont loyaux, et
tu as un cœur d’artichaut.”

“I’ll throw it away
just for you, and
je t’aime.”

“You’ll throw your heart away
and be un chat?

“A UN chat? Yes, then
let’s meet at the UN.”

*tu as un cœur d’artichaut — you fall in love too easily
(You have an artichoke’s heart)
    un chat — a cat

— Douglas Gilbert