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Story for Paindancer

Story for Paindancer

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Published by Ken Myers
I have a feeling this is not what you had in mind. Forgive the typos. "Bear" should be "bare." And there's probably stuff I haven't found.
I have a feeling this is not what you had in mind. Forgive the typos. "Bear" should be "bare." And there's probably stuff I haven't found.

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Published by: Ken Myers on Jul 17, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Kenneth was never good at the endgame. He'd brokered a strong opening. Pawns tothe front like conscripted Irish brigades. Battles pitched to be lost. The whole leftrank of pawns went happy to their gallows, just to change the gravity of the board,to get "out of book", to escape the dead liturgy of anything resembling any gamethat had already been played.Game was about story, and there was once a time that story ruled game, Kennethmused, precociously deploying his queen and trading all manner of material forinertia.Check.Game was about story. Everything had once been about story. Before the caliphsbanned the representation of people and animals, the smooth wooden abstractionswe still dare to call kings and pawns had been such. Faces, they had. And whatreligion condemned to facelessness, statistics had soon enough come to condemnto soulless ritual. The conventional opening lines were soon derived. E2-E4. Thewhole god-damned game had come to be a contest about which bespectacledbusinessman could remember the longest algebraic sequence. E2-E4. C7-C6. Aphonebook has more secrets.Revealed check. Knight forks white's rook."Have you ever played before?" Sarques asked. Like a befuddled monk, strugglingto digest the sight of a bare and gleaming savage chest."No." (The plains indians worked up some hilarious shit to tell Ponce de León.)They say that time passes more slowly when you're new at something. The secretto a long life is to approach what you can with raw consciousness. Once you'vefigured out the brakes and the turn signals, the whole drive to Austin will beswallowed up in lost time. Did we already pass through Waco? When?Gautama talked about mindfulness only for neutered archons to make recipes for it.Repeat this phrase one-hundred times. I'd smile, too, at that.bB3-a4. Fuck.Check on the long diagonal.
Queen forked Fuckfuckfuck.Sarques was visibly more comfortable now. Kenneth had never been good atendgame.To live as oneself is a solitary venture. Sarques opened with a Fischer line andfollowed up with variations wrought by Kasparov and Deep Blue. To invent was torail against the whole cultural memory of the thing, all its prior art, every sage andmathematician who'd tried their hand, as oneself alone.Black chessmen now were lifted from the board at every turn. Check. Check . . .Check.
 And I have known the eyes already, known them all--The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?
Check. Queen. Fuck. Checkmate in three.
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipesOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
Pinned and wriggling. King to C8. Awaiting the close of the sequence, Kenneth forthe first time noticed a black square to his diagonal. The bistro table underneath the

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