I know what it's like to be unique. We all do. We all had misled parents that transcoded authenticity and individuality as uniqueness. I was unique in so many ways. I still hold these and many more ways, but through the guise/reality of comparative naturalism. Or natural-ness, which may be more accurate but unconcernably so. The "cult of originality", as it pertains to our domestic lives, our parents' view of us, our lovers' view of us, is as C.S. Lewis would have it: unjudgeable.
Are we all unique? Yeah, of course. But not in matters that weigh. Not in material. We are made of that same molecular shizzat as the next, bound to sameness. As Fight Club would call out, "We are all part of the same compost heap". As religion would have it, we're all made in God's image. As science would provoke convincingly, everything in the known universe is made up of the same molecules just structured differently, obeying different psychotic rules.
Be strong, believe in yourself. You can do anything.
It's a load, for sure. Of bullshit or truth I still can't say, which means it's a bit of both. For sure.
Don't you absolutely despise people you mutter or say in any tone "Yeah, I'm weird."? By whose law are you weird? Society? Society gets a lot more credit than it's due. Evidently you think that women are only beautiful if they're skinny and doctors are innocent, because it's only their standards by which you claim weirdness.
Calm yourself. It's going to be okay. Difference is comparative similarity, not exclusion of void, mass, or pattern. We are all pathetic-savant. There is only spontaneous combustion, no newness. If you're uneducated in X than you have the pleasure of acknowledging originality, but only psychocentrically so. If you are educated in X you have to deny originality and promote the presence of, at its best, uncommon sense/point of interest.
This is what people call innocent: uneducated, inexperienced, ignorant. Three things no one looks for appreciably in another human. If we are made in an image, it is an image of contrast and semblance, not similarity. We are most often judged by our distance from villainy, not our closeness to truth. The reason is because of our unacknowledged ignorance of truth and our familiarity with villainy. As common terms would have it, we work from the ground up.
In romantic comedies and such there is sometimes a point where a female lead asks the male lead what they love or like or admire about them. The male as usual is represented as an idiot and says either something stupidly wrong or stupidly coddling. We would be more accurate to ask what we like about another by contrast. We are experiential. "I know that I like the way you treat me because all the other people that have treated me X have not given to me what you offer." The stupid romantic comedy question isn't, or rather shouldn't be, self-serving, it should be exploratory as to why "I" make a difference vs. the other girls. Women, in the end, have been trained hard to not expect much from men aside from what benefits them. Cheers to the ones I'm not referring to.
While I think there's much more to be said on the subject, in many different avenues, I'd like to go to sleep. Unoriginal, normal, snoring, restful, uneventful sleep.
2.04.2012
1.11.2012
GOING TOPSIDE WATCH YOUR ASS
If you step back far enough from all the fine lines they end up looking like one big fat line, or maybe a complicated stringed instrument - in any case you start to think about other shit or catch a girl's eye or the tail end of a joke.
Self-medication is a label that has become a diagnosis which has become a disease. You could drive yourself crazy thinking about it because it seems like everything you do to make yourself better is some sort of med that will drain you crazy after X period of time. But that could just be a healthy fear of the stagnant, a common hatred of standing water. People don't love of the ocean because of its stillness.
In stories about heroes when they get their realisation and it's like POW, a sudden injection of health and power and clear-headedness, it's a juvenile admittance to the desire for severity and consequence. "If I had to face every possible negative consequence of my actions I would quickly become the most amazing person in the world." I'm sure of it. So sure I almost want to do something bad. Why did I lose interest in vandalism?
Trying to find the pulse of the world and hack it or bite it or break it
The sustaining energy that could be had from corrupting a perfect cycle
I've spent decades figuring out things my dad failed to impart, like car shit
I don't believe that you end up gay because you're daddy treated you weird
I mean everything helps everything along
But man just live the miracle and throw the crutches down
Give victory a MF hug
You made it, asshole
Self-medication is a label that has become a diagnosis which has become a disease. You could drive yourself crazy thinking about it because it seems like everything you do to make yourself better is some sort of med that will drain you crazy after X period of time. But that could just be a healthy fear of the stagnant, a common hatred of standing water. People don't love of the ocean because of its stillness.
In stories about heroes when they get their realisation and it's like POW, a sudden injection of health and power and clear-headedness, it's a juvenile admittance to the desire for severity and consequence. "If I had to face every possible negative consequence of my actions I would quickly become the most amazing person in the world." I'm sure of it. So sure I almost want to do something bad. Why did I lose interest in vandalism?
Trying to find the pulse of the world and hack it or bite it or break it
The sustaining energy that could be had from corrupting a perfect cycle
I've spent decades figuring out things my dad failed to impart, like car shit
I don't believe that you end up gay because you're daddy treated you weird
I mean everything helps everything along
But man just live the miracle and throw the crutches down
Give victory a MF hug
You made it, asshole
12.07.2011
WORK ETHIC slash BOMBS AWAY
I claim a Grade A for keeping track of my own life.
For a relatively lazy person I have a good work ethic. When I am at work the only person who can "waste my time" is my boss. I don't mean that negatively, I mean the only time I perceive myself not working is when I'm shooting the shit with my boss. Today it was, as always, conservative vs liberal BS. BS meaning were both pretty set in our ways, to each his own, and good luck to us both. High five. Back to work.
(Because it doesn't matter.)
I'm not a lazy person, that's just an accurate description. That's what it looks like if you could see it. When I don't do something I do nothing violently. The torrential reign of indifference is not as such the mad pursuit of sloth but the wild disintention of success and the six-ton shoulder-pads of failure threatening to sew themselves into a new coat.
Screw commas, they don't work like I talk. They don't work at all. Commas are lazy.
For as many horrible things I can think of to say about women I like them. All the women in my life right now are pretty awesome.
But my guy friends RULE. I sometimes wake up jealous of myself.
I've already written what I meant to now I find myself trying to be clever, a vain pursuit, so I'm going to admit to myself that I am really, really hellishly tired and am going to sleep.
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE GINS:
Plymouth
Hendricks
Magellan
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE WHISKY/EYs
LAGAVULIN
JAMESON
LAPHROIG
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE BEERS
Carlsberg
High Life
Coor's Banquet
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE ARTISTS
BRUCE NAUMAN
RICHARD PRINCE
??????toohard
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE COLOURS
GREY
BLACK
RED (brown)
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE ANIMALS
Elephants
Tigers
Bears
Dogs&Cats (decategorized for obvious reasons)
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE WOMENS
Redheads
Kate Moss
Hot ones
CIGARETTES
Lucky Strike
Marlboro Red
Navy Cut
ASLEEP
For a relatively lazy person I have a good work ethic. When I am at work the only person who can "waste my time" is my boss. I don't mean that negatively, I mean the only time I perceive myself not working is when I'm shooting the shit with my boss. Today it was, as always, conservative vs liberal BS. BS meaning were both pretty set in our ways, to each his own, and good luck to us both. High five. Back to work.
(Because it doesn't matter.)
I'm not a lazy person, that's just an accurate description. That's what it looks like if you could see it. When I don't do something I do nothing violently. The torrential reign of indifference is not as such the mad pursuit of sloth but the wild disintention of success and the six-ton shoulder-pads of failure threatening to sew themselves into a new coat.
Screw commas, they don't work like I talk. They don't work at all. Commas are lazy.
For as many horrible things I can think of to say about women I like them. All the women in my life right now are pretty awesome.
But my guy friends RULE. I sometimes wake up jealous of myself.
I've already written what I meant to now I find myself trying to be clever, a vain pursuit, so I'm going to admit to myself that I am really, really hellishly tired and am going to sleep.
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE GINS:
Plymouth
Hendricks
Magellan
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE WHISKY/EYs
LAGAVULIN
JAMESON
LAPHROIG
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE BEERS
Carlsberg
High Life
Coor's Banquet
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE ARTISTS
BRUCE NAUMAN
RICHARD PRINCE
??????toohard
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE COLOURS
GREY
BLACK
RED (brown)
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE ANIMALS
Elephants
Tigers
Bears
Dogs&Cats (decategorized for obvious reasons)
MY TOP THREE FAVOURITE WOMENS
Redheads
Kate Moss
Hot ones
CIGARETTES
Lucky Strike
Marlboro Red
Navy Cut
ASLEEP
11.17.2011
WiggidywiggidywiggidyWACK
Raleigh's back.
You realise later, but it's always a decision. Heaving your fat personality up from miserable self-loathing and selfishness to realise that that's not what you given people to expect. I've chosen to tear down a lot of the hoo-ha that separates personal from private. For a shallow example I know people my age who don't let their parents know they smoke cigarettes. I started this journey at the age of 17, telling my mom as a fact "I smoke, but I'm not asking permission [and not confessing]." I don't really believe in confession, but I believe in honesty. Confession provides too much consolation to the confessor, undeserved. People who keep secrets deserve shame and rejection. By secrets I mean things that people deserve to know taking their perspective into full account. "White lies" are usually called such to calm the beating hearts of people who don't want to ruin a good thing they've already fucked up.
All along the way I've attempted different "gives" of personality, of melding the 'who I am with my friends' with the 'who I am at home'/'with parent'/'with sibling'/'with roommate'/'with girl'/'with the elderly'/'with the young'/'with father' (....) and finally 'alone'.
It's a weird road, with definite obstacles and graduation. I made this blog public, my FLICKR public, my Facebook public, maybe one day I'll let people know where the bodies are.
(That's a joke, as much as I like Dexter I refuse to even kill bugs, especially spiders because they're hated on so much by the lesser sex,... or lesser of two evils....whatever.)
Women are like Kryptonite because they think they have power over stupid boyscout idiot super-douches. It's okay because they're 50 years behind the futility of the American Dream.
So I got the ix-nay on a kitten, but it's actually okay because now I have a dog named Dr. Zhivago who follows me around and presents toys for me to play with him with. If I don't play, he comes back with a different toy. He has lots of toys. I eventually give in. Every time.
He's SOOOOO cute.
You realise later, but it's always a decision. Heaving your fat personality up from miserable self-loathing and selfishness to realise that that's not what you given people to expect. I've chosen to tear down a lot of the hoo-ha that separates personal from private. For a shallow example I know people my age who don't let their parents know they smoke cigarettes. I started this journey at the age of 17, telling my mom as a fact "I smoke, but I'm not asking permission [and not confessing]." I don't really believe in confession, but I believe in honesty. Confession provides too much consolation to the confessor, undeserved. People who keep secrets deserve shame and rejection. By secrets I mean things that people deserve to know taking their perspective into full account. "White lies" are usually called such to calm the beating hearts of people who don't want to ruin a good thing they've already fucked up.
All along the way I've attempted different "gives" of personality, of melding the 'who I am with my friends' with the 'who I am at home'/'with parent'/'with sibling'/'with roommate'/'with girl'/'with the elderly'/'with the young'/'with father' (....) and finally 'alone'.
It's a weird road, with definite obstacles and graduation. I made this blog public, my FLICKR public, my Facebook public, maybe one day I'll let people know where the bodies are.
(That's a joke, as much as I like Dexter I refuse to even kill bugs, especially spiders because they're hated on so much by the lesser sex,... or lesser of two evils....whatever.)
Women are like Kryptonite because they think they have power over stupid boyscout idiot super-douches. It's okay because they're 50 years behind the futility of the American Dream.
So I got the ix-nay on a kitten, but it's actually okay because now I have a dog named Dr. Zhivago who follows me around and presents toys for me to play with him with. If I don't play, he comes back with a different toy. He has lots of toys. I eventually give in. Every time.
He's SOOOOO cute.
11.10.2011
The Courts of Ego and Sand
I keep seeing something out of the corner of my eye. It freaks me out every time. These are the demons closing in. They flank and scurry. One of them is named Gerald and is not to be trifled with. He's always off the right eye. He's the one responsible for the daydreams in the asylum.
In 1993, in the "Fatal Attractions" storyline of the X-Men, Wolverine's adamantium skeleton is ripped out of his body (liquified), being separated and torn out through his skin by Magneto leaving only frayed bone. It was drawn by Andy Kubert, an X-Men regular and legend. The memory is visceral.
 |
One day back in 2003 I was living on the North side and was driving down Ball St. I opened my eyes and panicked because in an almost audible snap my brain had reset. I had no idea where I was or who I was. It lasted maybe a split second, but long enough for the genuine feeling of loss and panic to enter my body and leave a lasting impression. I have no idea how this happened, it was like I just popped into existence for the first time in that moment, and then remembered everything shortly afterwards. |
I have an intense imagination, I'm sure many can relate: this isn't special, nothing is. The Cult of Originality can burn in their unique flames. But I get things I call daymares. Yeah, it's that obvious, it's a daytime nightmare. It will sometimes occur at night while falling asleep but definitively before falling asleep, but often during the day too (always alone). I creep up on a thought and suddenly my brain/imagination takes over. I lose control of the thought/story. I lose vision (literally), I don't know where I am, it's just like dreaming and being asleep but I am not. Different phases in my life produce different scenarios. I have limited and sometimes no control. More recently it has been stories of me finding myself in an insane asylum/loony bin. Straight jacketed sometimes. It's usually a visit from someone close to me that urges me back to reality finding myself wide awake. I am watching myself as myself aware of myself. All conscious and all not in control. There is usually a breaking point where my storied self summits an uncontrollable emotion which "wakens" me and I realise I haven't been breathing or moving for the period of daymare. The reality of these daymares is inconceivably real, just like the most realest dream you've ever had, where you wake and have to bring things back in and take back control over your mind. Stupid insane asylum. Anyway, I've had probably 500-1500 daymares in my life, I can't be certain.
I feel pretty good about things. Today I will enter high-activity mode and produce results. It snowed. Rest is coming.
11.08.2011
HAILING SHIPS FROM AFAR
Moving reminds me that we all die alone. When you gather your belongings around you, initiating the displacement, when you perceive the emptiness of space left behind, when you get the bird's eye view, there's just... that immeasurable smallness of substance. What you've just packed is meaningless, they do not carry anything, they just work to support the facade of public and personal character which isn't in any way intrinsically self-defining. In an empty room and I am no more or less than in a full room. People or things. What can I see my reflection in? Boba, Darth, Stan, Roberta, Vishnu... all a harmless but appetite-less reflective bond of abstract ideas of quality. Does that reflection have any relevance or truth stowed away in it? It's annoying like walking up to friends, hearing their conversation and asking "what's a squirfil?" and them saying "If you don't know you wouldn't understand." Irrelevance to not know the answer
A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion. A woman crossing the road means you're on the leaving side. A man crossing the road means nothing.
Comedy is, black or not, exempt. When it is comedy, and people know it's comedy, there are no excuses needed nor explanations necessary. It can be scary, but it's a dare to laugh. You can reflect later. Some truth is hidden in comedy as there is in some art or creativity in general. The same people that say "don't judge a book by it's cover" will turn around and call you a racist for telling a white/black/Mexican/Polish/rabbi/little person/blah blah blah joke. Or a sexist for saying women are crazy. As if that's news. Lighten up. If you know me judge me by what you know, not by what I say, especially on Facebook, blogs, public spheres, impersonal trojans of media... or at the very least consider that I mean it but that it can be taken different ways, and may simply be contrasting or complimenting something else entirely. I understand generalizations and their relevance, therefore I use them often and pointedly.
Women who are passive aggressive should be poached, taxidermied, and sold. This is because they are often both beautiful and useless.
I just realised over the last year that I do not know what to do with my life. This makes me a very undesirable bachelor, but a very desirable bachelor-friend. I have varied interests, but if I have any legacy other than "that guy" I should probably figure something out now. There are motivated 20-somethings out there people, watch your backs. They're just as clever as you thought you were, and that scares you.
Oh, but why does moving remind me that we die alone... because we do. Mark Twain, Mozart, Moses, Michael Jackson, Marilyn Monroe, Mariah Carey, Mussolini, Mickey Mouse... will or have all died alone. It's okay, too. When you die, you'll be the only one dying. The only one leaving Earth. The only one realising that a lot of this shit didn't matter. And a lot of stuff you didn't think mattered did. Watches. Watches don't matter at all. I hate watches. I hate wearing them, I hate it when I see other people's. Especially now when you ask the time and they still check their phone. If the devil was an object he would be a watch. And women that ask why God is a he not a she should be just as defensive about the Devil, our closer relative. We are islands and we die alone. Sometimes our islands are closer to other islands, though.
Besides, who would you be dying with? A warm fuzzy feeling?
A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion. A woman crossing the road means you're on the leaving side. A man crossing the road means nothing.
Comedy is, black or not, exempt. When it is comedy, and people know it's comedy, there are no excuses needed nor explanations necessary. It can be scary, but it's a dare to laugh. You can reflect later. Some truth is hidden in comedy as there is in some art or creativity in general. The same people that say "don't judge a book by it's cover" will turn around and call you a racist for telling a white/black/Mexican/Polish/rabbi/little person/blah blah blah joke. Or a sexist for saying women are crazy. As if that's news. Lighten up. If you know me judge me by what you know, not by what I say, especially on Facebook, blogs, public spheres, impersonal trojans of media... or at the very least consider that I mean it but that it can be taken different ways, and may simply be contrasting or complimenting something else entirely. I understand generalizations and their relevance, therefore I use them often and pointedly.
Women who are passive aggressive should be poached, taxidermied, and sold. This is because they are often both beautiful and useless.
I just realised over the last year that I do not know what to do with my life. This makes me a very undesirable bachelor, but a very desirable bachelor-friend. I have varied interests, but if I have any legacy other than "that guy" I should probably figure something out now. There are motivated 20-somethings out there people, watch your backs. They're just as clever as you thought you were, and that scares you.
Oh, but why does moving remind me that we die alone... because we do. Mark Twain, Mozart, Moses, Michael Jackson, Marilyn Monroe, Mariah Carey, Mussolini, Mickey Mouse... will or have all died alone. It's okay, too. When you die, you'll be the only one dying. The only one leaving Earth. The only one realising that a lot of this shit didn't matter. And a lot of stuff you didn't think mattered did. Watches. Watches don't matter at all. I hate watches. I hate wearing them, I hate it when I see other people's. Especially now when you ask the time and they still check their phone. If the devil was an object he would be a watch. And women that ask why God is a he not a she should be just as defensive about the Devil, our closer relative. We are islands and we die alone. Sometimes our islands are closer to other islands, though.
Besides, who would you be dying with? A warm fuzzy feeling?
10.25.2011
HUMAN BATTLES
Every time I cease to be in a relationship it's like being an animal released from a cage. Sort of like a dumb animal. When a dog hears the word "walk" or "outside" and anxiously rises and stretches its legs while wagging it's tail.
I don't mean dogs are dumb, I mean dumb without negative connotation. Simple, basic, genuine.
Whether this arises from my reaction to hearing of my parents divorce, a jubilant extraordinary moment in time, or from pure good ol' American Psychological Association dysfunction: whatever.
Getting into a relationship is like going on holiday, like seeing old friends, like warm possibility or the intro to an erotic novel. It's like getting a good buzz+ after a good meal and great Scotch. It's like winning at something you really wanted to win at, or getting an awesome compliment you weren't expecting but hits a nail on a head you didn't realise was there. Or how I imagine a battery feels when it's fit snugly into it's charger and is plugged into a strong matronly 110 current. Like starting a painting that you can see so vividly that the physical rules of drying paint impede your genius.
Or "genius".
Other times I lie in bed with every muscle in my body silently taught maybe ripping a little before I can break free from the waking dream of merciless imagination. Last night it was an imaginary conversation between my Ex and her sister. I wasn't even in the story. I thought it would never end. At one point conscious that I wasn't moving or breathing it continued until my brain gave way and admitted angrily that I had run out of dogma.
Ever have a memory of an embarrassing moment so vivid that you turn pink remembering it? Hot even?
Sometimes I look at my Sailor Jerry pin-up calendar on the kitchen wall and sigh and tell myself that it keeps me sane. You just have to have the fantasy of women who have absolutely no affect on you whatsoever. They don't make you hot, sad, sentimental, bold, confused, falsely empowered, good, annoyed. They're sort of dead but still look good. It's okay because it's a fantasy. That's what that is. I hope no one ever fulfills it. I'd run like the wind on fire on Saturday on Tuesday and diarrhea.
I'd like to create a bodysuit of speakers all connected to their own subs but turned inward. And then I'd blast Black Eyed Peas. Runnin runnin and runnin runnin. See if it can shake a little bit of my soul loose so I can grab it by the neck and axe it some serious questions.
One night I had three bottles of white wine and didn't get drunk. Says a lot for white wine. White wine blows. The next night I had a bottle of red and a glass of whiskey and was able to conjure demons with names like George, Whittaker, and Donald. Those are not good names for demons. Uug that was a bad night.
So I've decided a few things, one is to paint more. I'm not sure where my paints are, probably my mom's house. I'll have to buy canvas and masonite. I'll go back to painting women in skirts and formal wear, maybe armed. It's the most innocent life I can breathe into a relationship. When I finish a painting there is a sense of accomplishment, some rogue effort that bullheadedly produced a picture of stuff. It feels good. It's worth staying up late for. I don't feel released from any cage. It was succinct. A start and end. It was temporary, manageable, challenging, learning, awesoming, stimulating, and DONE>
I don't mean dogs are dumb, I mean dumb without negative connotation. Simple, basic, genuine.
Whether this arises from my reaction to hearing of my parents divorce, a jubilant extraordinary moment in time, or from pure good ol' American Psychological Association dysfunction: whatever.
Getting into a relationship is like going on holiday, like seeing old friends, like warm possibility or the intro to an erotic novel. It's like getting a good buzz+ after a good meal and great Scotch. It's like winning at something you really wanted to win at, or getting an awesome compliment you weren't expecting but hits a nail on a head you didn't realise was there. Or how I imagine a battery feels when it's fit snugly into it's charger and is plugged into a strong matronly 110 current. Like starting a painting that you can see so vividly that the physical rules of drying paint impede your genius.
Or "genius".
Other times I lie in bed with every muscle in my body silently taught maybe ripping a little before I can break free from the waking dream of merciless imagination. Last night it was an imaginary conversation between my Ex and her sister. I wasn't even in the story. I thought it would never end. At one point conscious that I wasn't moving or breathing it continued until my brain gave way and admitted angrily that I had run out of dogma.
Ever have a memory of an embarrassing moment so vivid that you turn pink remembering it? Hot even?
Sometimes I look at my Sailor Jerry pin-up calendar on the kitchen wall and sigh and tell myself that it keeps me sane. You just have to have the fantasy of women who have absolutely no affect on you whatsoever. They don't make you hot, sad, sentimental, bold, confused, falsely empowered, good, annoyed. They're sort of dead but still look good. It's okay because it's a fantasy. That's what that is. I hope no one ever fulfills it. I'd run like the wind on fire on Saturday on Tuesday and diarrhea.
I'd like to create a bodysuit of speakers all connected to their own subs but turned inward. And then I'd blast Black Eyed Peas. Runnin runnin and runnin runnin. See if it can shake a little bit of my soul loose so I can grab it by the neck and axe it some serious questions.
One night I had three bottles of white wine and didn't get drunk. Says a lot for white wine. White wine blows. The next night I had a bottle of red and a glass of whiskey and was able to conjure demons with names like George, Whittaker, and Donald. Those are not good names for demons. Uug that was a bad night.
So I've decided a few things, one is to paint more. I'm not sure where my paints are, probably my mom's house. I'll have to buy canvas and masonite. I'll go back to painting women in skirts and formal wear, maybe armed. It's the most innocent life I can breathe into a relationship. When I finish a painting there is a sense of accomplishment, some rogue effort that bullheadedly produced a picture of stuff. It feels good. It's worth staying up late for. I don't feel released from any cage. It was succinct. A start and end. It was temporary, manageable, challenging, learning, awesoming, stimulating, and DONE>
10.04.2011
KILL THE FIRE
It's true, it's not what you think. It never is. Ten times out of nine you think you're right you're only sort of there. Stress is like a weird goblin waiting to find out what you least expect/want/need and then just sorta collapses it like a tent of despair thinking Damn, I got 'im now! Well HA! This tent is breathable and water-resistant and
Being alive is like having a cramp in your groin that sometimes goes away. When Leland decided she wasn't much for work-out videos she started eating less and a lot of good that did her. She lost her ass and made stupid friends. That was a year ago, now she's sitting at the end of Main St. near the water craving intelligent conversation. By intelligent conversation I don't think she means NPR comedy stoicism but just someone listening to her say 'I love Britney Spears and Sinatra' and going "Yeah, I get that."
LEIA is out there right now in the cold brandishing edge and keeping the wolves at bay while I sit in front of the space heater (Dear Space Heater I Have Missed You SO) safely contemplating my return to glory. LEIA while yes, named of famed golden bikini babe, disacknowledges the joke and perseveres against hard rain and selfish women taunts the demons that crawl beyond our spectral vision. Captive in bolted steel her wrath is not contained but measurable. I painted her to keep her safe.
There was a time when I really was invincible. When I was like 5. Before I understood and gained the temporal prowess to re-attach feeling, understanding, anger, and memory. I still remember my brain going feverish relentless at single thoughts, like a cat being held tight for a bath. (Dammit I do NOT want to update Adobe Reader right now. QUIT. Stop popping up and down like you're something sexy or alcoholic.) I wonder if I will have the same backthought when I'm like 60? Well, 60 is pretty assumptuous. 45. I wonder if at 45 and about to be hit by a speeding Vanagon I'll re-re-attach any multitude of educated feeling to the experiences I'm putting myself through now. Best not to tempt Fate, but really, what's Fate going to say? "I told you so?"
These are the lyrics to my favourite Beach Boys song, "Let's Do It Again". The Beach Boys are in my top 5 favourite bands of all time.
IT'S AUTOMATIC WHEN I TALK WITH OLD FRIENDS. THE CONVERSATION TURNS TO GIRLS WE KNEW WHEN THEIR HAIR WAS SOFT AND LONG AND THE BEACH WAS THE PLACE TO GO. SUNTANNED BODIES AND WAVES OF SUNSHINE. THE CALIFORNIA GIRLS AND A BEAUTIFUL COASTLINE, WARMED UP WEATHER. LET'S GET TOGETHER AND DO IT AGAIN. WITH A GIRL THE LONELY SEA LOOKS GOOD IN THE MOONLIGHT, MAKES YOUR NIGHT-TIMES WARM AND OUT OF SIGHT. BEEN SO LONG, HEY NOW HEY NOW. WE'LL I'VE BEEN PLACES WE'VE SURFED AND DANCED AND ALL THE FACES WE'VE MISSED SO LET'S GET BACK TOGETHER AND DO IT AGAIN. Ow!
The beat is great I recommend a full listen at top volume. I mean TOP. VOLUME.
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Being alive is like having a cramp in your groin that sometimes goes away. When Leland decided she wasn't much for work-out videos she started eating less and a lot of good that did her. She lost her ass and made stupid friends. That was a year ago, now she's sitting at the end of Main St. near the water craving intelligent conversation. By intelligent conversation I don't think she means NPR comedy stoicism but just someone listening to her say 'I love Britney Spears and Sinatra' and going "Yeah, I get that."
LEIA is out there right now in the cold brandishing edge and keeping the wolves at bay while I sit in front of the space heater (Dear Space Heater I Have Missed You SO) safely contemplating my return to glory. LEIA while yes, named of famed golden bikini babe, disacknowledges the joke and perseveres against hard rain and selfish women taunts the demons that crawl beyond our spectral vision. Captive in bolted steel her wrath is not contained but measurable. I painted her to keep her safe.
There was a time when I really was invincible. When I was like 5. Before I understood and gained the temporal prowess to re-attach feeling, understanding, anger, and memory. I still remember my brain going feverish relentless at single thoughts, like a cat being held tight for a bath. (Dammit I do NOT want to update Adobe Reader right now. QUIT. Stop popping up and down like you're something sexy or alcoholic.) I wonder if I will have the same backthought when I'm like 60? Well, 60 is pretty assumptuous. 45. I wonder if at 45 and about to be hit by a speeding Vanagon I'll re-re-attach any multitude of educated feeling to the experiences I'm putting myself through now. Best not to tempt Fate, but really, what's Fate going to say? "I told you so?"
These are the lyrics to my favourite Beach Boys song, "Let's Do It Again". The Beach Boys are in my top 5 favourite bands of all time.
IT'S AUTOMATIC WHEN I TALK WITH OLD FRIENDS. THE CONVERSATION TURNS TO GIRLS WE KNEW WHEN THEIR HAIR WAS SOFT AND LONG AND THE BEACH WAS THE PLACE TO GO. SUNTANNED BODIES AND WAVES OF SUNSHINE. THE CALIFORNIA GIRLS AND A BEAUTIFUL COASTLINE, WARMED UP WEATHER. LET'S GET TOGETHER AND DO IT AGAIN. WITH A GIRL THE LONELY SEA LOOKS GOOD IN THE MOONLIGHT, MAKES YOUR NIGHT-TIMES WARM AND OUT OF SIGHT. BEEN SO LONG, HEY NOW HEY NOW. WE'LL I'VE BEEN PLACES WE'VE SURFED AND DANCED AND ALL THE FACES WE'VE MISSED SO LET'S GET BACK TOGETHER AND DO IT AGAIN. Ow!
The beat is great I recommend a full listen at top volume. I mean TOP. VOLUME.
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9.28.2011
Neurotisism, fake tits, and charcoal
Who is no one? Who is nobody? We refer to he shit all the time. Crack the neck, shake the keyboard, blink up and down at the screen and the keys. Those buttons.
Nobody either doesn't exist or is the First primal existence. Who? No one, just some guy I knew. That's not true, that's taking a No One's name in vain. Why do the muscles flinch? At truth? Or simply at looking around the computer desk and finding trail mix, beer cans, two day old coffee, speakers, rum, old mail you thought was important, gin, and a crappy mic you use to turn your voice into Darth Vader just to see if you still ring back through 1's and 0's as the same person... Ellipses, the question mark's bastard son. Bastard is such a word. The RD at the end has such questioning finality and used-ism. Sometimes you want it to stand still for a sec to gather your thoughts but it's like a boat and the water won't stop moving, tilting, encroaching, and you know it's changing your coarse, like being lost in the desert and remembering that your legs aren't even and you can't walk in a straight line no matter how hard you try.
Being creative makes you feel special. People want you to be special. Creative energy is like a magnet of want or freedom that everyone wants, sees in other people, assumes they don't have, and yet manages to promote. Fuck right and left sides of the brain, they don't quantify, they provide a symptom like bullshit psychology naming my uncle as a paranoid schizophrenic chemically and genetically doomed and then him becoming lucid and straight and they move on to the next patient/victim of their pigeonhole revolution. Some of the best artists who ever lived were left-brained engineers, mathematicians, and purveyors of science, biology, chemistry. They all had sex and at one time or another were legit assholes.
So who is nobody? Nobody. We all refer to him/her all the time but no one I know has ever met anyone who is actually no one. It's a parallel justification for our opposite. Or at least of our least desire. Everyone wants to be someone right? How awful would it be to be no one? I can't bring myself to the comfort of saying that no one doesn't exist. Reference seems to make real. So. No One. I acknowledge you.
Bring everything to life. Make everything talk back. Find a reason, even by artist BS means, to surround yourself with a living world that sees and communicates. Everything around you is your conscience, if you let it breathe. Relying on yourself is a highly misunderstood concept. When I rely on myself I have to confer with either imaginary people in my head, Darth, Stan, Roberta, LEIA, the color black, my empty beer can, my full whiskey, or a sky that's so beautiful I could fuck it. Why the hell not...
In other news I watched Willow tonight and it was AWESOME. Mad Martigan ruled. "Wanna breeeed???" "Let's consult the bones!" I also need to buy new work shirts. I've been rotating TWO for SIX months. I was rotating three but I was told the third wasn't cool by a hot Korean. That happens. Sometimes you just gotta be told.
I'd like to start writing my video blog script. It could be awesome. Or lame. I don't care. My problem comes when I realise that I write these in like 15 minutes when I get nervous and so planning something 5-7 minutes is like a giant creative block. For someone without clear linear thought this is overwhelming.
Nobody either doesn't exist or is the First primal existence. Who? No one, just some guy I knew. That's not true, that's taking a No One's name in vain. Why do the muscles flinch? At truth? Or simply at looking around the computer desk and finding trail mix, beer cans, two day old coffee, speakers, rum, old mail you thought was important, gin, and a crappy mic you use to turn your voice into Darth Vader just to see if you still ring back through 1's and 0's as the same person... Ellipses, the question mark's bastard son. Bastard is such a word. The RD at the end has such questioning finality and used-ism. Sometimes you want it to stand still for a sec to gather your thoughts but it's like a boat and the water won't stop moving, tilting, encroaching, and you know it's changing your coarse, like being lost in the desert and remembering that your legs aren't even and you can't walk in a straight line no matter how hard you try.
Being creative makes you feel special. People want you to be special. Creative energy is like a magnet of want or freedom that everyone wants, sees in other people, assumes they don't have, and yet manages to promote. Fuck right and left sides of the brain, they don't quantify, they provide a symptom like bullshit psychology naming my uncle as a paranoid schizophrenic chemically and genetically doomed and then him becoming lucid and straight and they move on to the next patient/victim of their pigeonhole revolution. Some of the best artists who ever lived were left-brained engineers, mathematicians, and purveyors of science, biology, chemistry. They all had sex and at one time or another were legit assholes.
So who is nobody? Nobody. We all refer to him/her all the time but no one I know has ever met anyone who is actually no one. It's a parallel justification for our opposite. Or at least of our least desire. Everyone wants to be someone right? How awful would it be to be no one? I can't bring myself to the comfort of saying that no one doesn't exist. Reference seems to make real. So. No One. I acknowledge you.
Bring everything to life. Make everything talk back. Find a reason, even by artist BS means, to surround yourself with a living world that sees and communicates. Everything around you is your conscience, if you let it breathe. Relying on yourself is a highly misunderstood concept. When I rely on myself I have to confer with either imaginary people in my head, Darth, Stan, Roberta, LEIA, the color black, my empty beer can, my full whiskey, or a sky that's so beautiful I could fuck it. Why the hell not...
In other news I watched Willow tonight and it was AWESOME. Mad Martigan ruled. "Wanna breeeed???" "Let's consult the bones!" I also need to buy new work shirts. I've been rotating TWO for SIX months. I was rotating three but I was told the third wasn't cool by a hot Korean. That happens. Sometimes you just gotta be told.
I'd like to start writing my video blog script. It could be awesome. Or lame. I don't care. My problem comes when I realise that I write these in like 15 minutes when I get nervous and so planning something 5-7 minutes is like a giant creative block. For someone without clear linear thought this is overwhelming.
9.13.2011
THE CATTLE STORMED THE MESS HALL
It wasn't a clear black night. My mind split in eight different ways, like an octopus with tentacles hanging off the edge of a soup bowl. Partly escaping and partly dealing with being undermeasured by womb. There were deaths of thought blowing up and shrinking like explosions underwater, whole ideas left to fend the void of absent thought. It was that focus that was lost or being set free which is trying to become a bed of feather pillows. Comfort is outlaw and circus to the repository of ritual. Is repeating unnecessary under the vail of experience addiction, a pointless step shallowing the gift of understanding? Memory loss and stories highlighting the chant of youth. Disgusting youth, threatening and suspending the animation of drawn horses ready to plunge forward in the dark. Beautiful youth, seducing a hammock held taut by the thieves of weight and posterity.
On a different note, women have ruled long enough. No more concessions. Buck up.
I got new chapstick which rules.
Stan is everything good in the world. He's been neglected by the business of Josh's return. Poor guy, he'll get more recognition soon. He has no idea what's in store for him. His battery is dying. He doesn't have much longer. I need to think about his bucket list.
TENT
AXE
CAMPING CHAIR
MACHETE
AIR MATTRESS
PUMP
POCKET KNIFE
COOLER
WHISKEY
TOOL BOX
MEAT
WATER
VEGETABLES
THREE CAMERAS
BEER
CIGARETTES
FIREWORKS
I'm going camping, bitches!
Oh yeah...
BATMAN UNDERWEAR
On a different note, women have ruled long enough. No more concessions. Buck up.
I got new chapstick which rules.
Stan is everything good in the world. He's been neglected by the business of Josh's return. Poor guy, he'll get more recognition soon. He has no idea what's in store for him. His battery is dying. He doesn't have much longer. I need to think about his bucket list.
TENT
AXE
CAMPING CHAIR
MACHETE
AIR MATTRESS
PUMP
POCKET KNIFE
COOLER
WHISKEY
TOOL BOX
MEAT
WATER
VEGETABLES
THREE CAMERAS
BEER
CIGARETTES
FIREWORKS
I'm going camping, bitches!
Oh yeah...
BATMAN UNDERWEAR
8.15.2011
Cost Experience
When I cook I try to finish plating the meal and kitchen clean-up at the same time. Its an amazing way to eat. Sometimes it looks furious.
When you hear about your friend's mother's death you think immediately what would you feel if your own mother wasn't there. It's an immediate selfish response but brought on also by the need to tap into what your friend is feeling. When he told me last Saturday of the news this thought process caused a spur in my throat to transcend whatever barrier lies between emotional and physical. My throat hurt like you get when impending sadness might break through the walls of Troy. It's like in the esophagus or something. Like where a ninja would straight-finger jab to take you out silently.
Today on the way home from work I kept imagining a dragon chomping on the smoke coming from its mouth, like eating it or chewing it. I was having a cigarette so it could have been that.
People's importance in our lives leave divots where they fill in. Who do you call when something really exciting happens to you? Who's cooking do you love? Who calls you every three days if they haven't heard from you? What happens when that divot isn't filled? Is this where loss plays god with your stable life of inimitable regularity?
I'm a social person not often found in the throws of blunder or speechlessness. The visitation was an open casket. This was my second visitation in my life, but the first open casket. It's an elephant in the room. At first I was a little scared and could not look directly at the body. After a while of looking at pictures and a slideshow I was able to cast glances that brought back nothing. The looks were too quick to resolve the nothingness and soon a full look was required. I didn't want to stare. That seemed rude. I don't know why or who would think it was rude. I was unable to successfully function in conversation like normal. No new thoughts popping up to quip out.
Early I was washing my hands after making and eating two grilled cheese sandwiches. I used sharp cheddar and mayo inside 7-grain bread. I put olive oil and a garlic pepper seasoning mix on the outside. I burned one pretty badly. Washing oil off your hands has a distinct look. It's like someone Rain-X'd your hands, or covered them in white crayon. You have to use Orange or dish soap to get them squeaky clean.
I didn't know her but had heard about her many times. Sounded like a tough cookie. She raised four boys so I'm not sure how tough you can afford not to be. After all the pictures and hearing my friend comment on her past I felt I got at least a glimpse of who she was, but with details that could never be filled in, like what her voice or laugh had been like. "That's when I would have liked to have known her" he said as the slideshow showed pictures from the 50s of her and her friends all laughing and being young and hot and devil-may-care. The next picture all the girls in the photo were showing their knees and laughing.
At the camera store where I work I helped a man buy a camera and had just finished ringing him out and bagging his new goodies. This was three years ago. There were lots of people waiting to be helped and we were busting around trying to provide the best we could to the most we could. I handed him his bag and said I knew he'd like the camera, that it was going to do really well indoors. He took the bag and stood there for a moment as I waited for him to look away before going to the next customer. He just kept looking me in the eyes for a beat too long and finally blurted "I lost my wife. It's only been a week and it's really hard." I relaxed my posture and looked him right back in the eyes and immediately said "I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how you feel." "Thanks, I'll give you a call if I have questions on the camera." He left and I helped the next customer.
I finally got up the nerve to really look at her. I wanted to because I didn't know her and felt like I needed to reach some level of familiarity with her if I was going to be of any support to my friend and genuinely be there. I kept watching to catch her breathing. She was so life-like, which is fucked up because she was alive and it's the same body. But there's nothing in this one anymore. Animation has stopped. "It's weird," he said, "It looks just like her sleeping on the couch, which she did a lot. But it's not her because I know she's not there really. There's nothing inside."
Moms are, especially good ones, big divot fillers. Our fathers may hold us high in victory or crash us on the rocks in punishment or disappointment but it seems the mothers are there to fill the gaps with support on the highs and lows and check-ins and worry and extraneous cares and diet and nature and comfort and many other things better described by wordless people.
When you hear about your friend's mother's death you think immediately what would you feel if your own mother wasn't there. It's an immediate selfish response but brought on also by the need to tap into what your friend is feeling. When he told me last Saturday of the news this thought process caused a spur in my throat to transcend whatever barrier lies between emotional and physical. My throat hurt like you get when impending sadness might break through the walls of Troy. It's like in the esophagus or something. Like where a ninja would straight-finger jab to take you out silently.
Today on the way home from work I kept imagining a dragon chomping on the smoke coming from its mouth, like eating it or chewing it. I was having a cigarette so it could have been that.
People's importance in our lives leave divots where they fill in. Who do you call when something really exciting happens to you? Who's cooking do you love? Who calls you every three days if they haven't heard from you? What happens when that divot isn't filled? Is this where loss plays god with your stable life of inimitable regularity?
I'm a social person not often found in the throws of blunder or speechlessness. The visitation was an open casket. This was my second visitation in my life, but the first open casket. It's an elephant in the room. At first I was a little scared and could not look directly at the body. After a while of looking at pictures and a slideshow I was able to cast glances that brought back nothing. The looks were too quick to resolve the nothingness and soon a full look was required. I didn't want to stare. That seemed rude. I don't know why or who would think it was rude. I was unable to successfully function in conversation like normal. No new thoughts popping up to quip out.
Early I was washing my hands after making and eating two grilled cheese sandwiches. I used sharp cheddar and mayo inside 7-grain bread. I put olive oil and a garlic pepper seasoning mix on the outside. I burned one pretty badly. Washing oil off your hands has a distinct look. It's like someone Rain-X'd your hands, or covered them in white crayon. You have to use Orange or dish soap to get them squeaky clean.
I didn't know her but had heard about her many times. Sounded like a tough cookie. She raised four boys so I'm not sure how tough you can afford not to be. After all the pictures and hearing my friend comment on her past I felt I got at least a glimpse of who she was, but with details that could never be filled in, like what her voice or laugh had been like. "That's when I would have liked to have known her" he said as the slideshow showed pictures from the 50s of her and her friends all laughing and being young and hot and devil-may-care. The next picture all the girls in the photo were showing their knees and laughing.
At the camera store where I work I helped a man buy a camera and had just finished ringing him out and bagging his new goodies. This was three years ago. There were lots of people waiting to be helped and we were busting around trying to provide the best we could to the most we could. I handed him his bag and said I knew he'd like the camera, that it was going to do really well indoors. He took the bag and stood there for a moment as I waited for him to look away before going to the next customer. He just kept looking me in the eyes for a beat too long and finally blurted "I lost my wife. It's only been a week and it's really hard." I relaxed my posture and looked him right back in the eyes and immediately said "I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how you feel." "Thanks, I'll give you a call if I have questions on the camera." He left and I helped the next customer.
I finally got up the nerve to really look at her. I wanted to because I didn't know her and felt like I needed to reach some level of familiarity with her if I was going to be of any support to my friend and genuinely be there. I kept watching to catch her breathing. She was so life-like, which is fucked up because she was alive and it's the same body. But there's nothing in this one anymore. Animation has stopped. "It's weird," he said, "It looks just like her sleeping on the couch, which she did a lot. But it's not her because I know she's not there really. There's nothing inside."
Moms are, especially good ones, big divot fillers. Our fathers may hold us high in victory or crash us on the rocks in punishment or disappointment but it seems the mothers are there to fill the gaps with support on the highs and lows and check-ins and worry and extraneous cares and diet and nature and comfort and many other things better described by wordless people.
7.18.2011
DECEPTICOUGH
I'm only going to tell the story once because it bears repeating.
In an attic in Ireland there's an old chest full of trinkets, three of which could reverse time.
Peace, vulgar peace, peace without compass. Complacent peace, trampled pride peace, peace at cost. Forced peace, and peace which prevents outcome or righteousness. Peace out of reach, peace as unattainable goal, peace as a liberal idealism or conservative toolshed. Peace that's a lie and a farce and a mask and an excuse. Peace that saves lives but mutes souls. Peace that seems talked about a lot for being alien in nature.
War I know. War I understand. War that paints horrible pictures of victory. War that for many motivations devastates and gets results of some kind. War is the option of those at last thread/threat/throat. War is freedom and dominance and romance and brutality. War has rules? War doesn't specifically kill animals which is nice. War spelled backwards is "raw" which doesn't really have any significance. War is a boring card game where the winner is at the mercy of the cards. War is a good band. A very good band.
Balance balance balance! "I feel I have a good balance of..." Define balance as an identified theme.
When she moved she was able to stop motion short and retain the momentum that had been building. At will she learned how to release the momentum by speed and power so accurately she could touch your face softly and in the same instant release the power of a punch so powerful you would be knocked back up to 14 feet. This was a problem if she had a few drinks.
In an attic in Ireland there's an old chest full of trinkets, three of which could reverse time.
Peace, vulgar peace, peace without compass. Complacent peace, trampled pride peace, peace at cost. Forced peace, and peace which prevents outcome or righteousness. Peace out of reach, peace as unattainable goal, peace as a liberal idealism or conservative toolshed. Peace that's a lie and a farce and a mask and an excuse. Peace that saves lives but mutes souls. Peace that seems talked about a lot for being alien in nature.
War I know. War I understand. War that paints horrible pictures of victory. War that for many motivations devastates and gets results of some kind. War is the option of those at last thread/threat/throat. War is freedom and dominance and romance and brutality. War has rules? War doesn't specifically kill animals which is nice. War spelled backwards is "raw" which doesn't really have any significance. War is a boring card game where the winner is at the mercy of the cards. War is a good band. A very good band.
Balance balance balance! "I feel I have a good balance of..." Define balance as an identified theme.
When she moved she was able to stop motion short and retain the momentum that had been building. At will she learned how to release the momentum by speed and power so accurately she could touch your face softly and in the same instant release the power of a punch so powerful you would be knocked back up to 14 feet. This was a problem if she had a few drinks.
7.14.2011
REBORN AND REBOUND
Cotton rolled around in his mouth, snagging on the sharp bit of an old filling. It was excruciating work. The mother's tongue of indecisive daughters is a hateful trap when unguarded by maternal trust. It's rampant disknowledge a curse to the orators of feeling and assumption. The mouthpiece of freedom and honestly seems locked in a distant battle which will never draw near but cause supply shortages when you most feel their need. She felt pity remembering a time when she witnessed a man trampled by a feminine victory, and curious about her feeling victorious and prideful herself. Was there an automatic win within her breast, or was she just climbing around on a monkey gym of stupid standards. When he came home and saw his daughter hurting on the inside he became overwhelmed with disgust at boys and brothers and sons and fathers before they were grown and ultimately himself but couldn't say anything about it also there wasn't anything to say. It was vanity or pride or not being able to tell the difference. She fantasized about being raped as a shy cheerleader in the cab of the quarterback's pickup because it was a fantasy that made it easy to hate men, she had no interest in being raped herself. He flipped out and threw the burnt loaf into the trash but it had nothing to do with the bread or the trash and he burned himself in the meantime which made him angrier but he had nothing else to throw so he activated his voice and cursed the stove but it had nothing to do with the stove either. She felt like someone was in her mind opening doors and slamming them.
7.10.2011
CRACKED ADVENTURE MOUTH
Was going to write something but slowly deciding to eat instead. Otherwise it may be an ANGRY STORY. Roberta is a giraffe.
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I haven't eaten yet, I folded laundry. I put a pork loin in hot water to unthaw. I folded this unassuming Dockers grey T-shirt that fits really well and my Batman underwear which needs no introduction.
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Now I have to go to the store for olive oil, because I've forgotten to get some between 4 and 6 times and now I really need it. Doug is the mountain, Stan is the truck. (Doug talks more than Stan.)
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Veggie Hash: broccoli, collard greens, brussel sprouts, sage, olive oil, black pepper, salt. Foil and grill.
Capsicums: yellow and red capsicums soaked in balsamic vinegar. Foil and grill.
Bread: Vienna loaf wrapped in foil, grilled. Butter later.
Pork loin: deep cuts end to end, fill and rub with steak rub, garlic herb seasoning, basil. Foil and grill.
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Check phone, she has not contacted me. Language is like swimming with words and sharks and spectators. Focus is longitude and a peach smell.
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I've said some awful things in my life, and have apologized to myself accordingly.
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Cornered, Linda did not like the feeling - like eels morphing into birds and the taste of an orange going bitter; Linda crept back into the house and shut the door.
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Saul stared at a finite expanse of blue paper and couldn't think of any other colour to apply than white crayon. He worried this was birthed in him by the illustrated Bible from Sunday School as a child, which used the same blue and white in nearly every frame that included sky. No cloudy days in that Bible.
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Rosa crashed back into bed, it had been a long night. She felt ten times heavier as she fell backwards and landed with a thump into the comforter and pillows. The bedding was cool from central air but she was still hot from dancing and the warm summer night and a boy. She was late the next day to work and decided not to call the boy back.
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I'm really excited about the pork loin I'm about to cook. It's seasoned with all my favourite vices.
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The past is like an I.V. filled with water, like were amphibious or have been cross-bred with Mer people. The present is draining like your soul peeing and never being able to stop, or diving into the water but never reaching it.
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Daniel laid out all the Pez dispensers he'd collected since middle school.
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I haven't eaten yet, I folded laundry. I put a pork loin in hot water to unthaw. I folded this unassuming Dockers grey T-shirt that fits really well and my Batman underwear which needs no introduction.
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Now I have to go to the store for olive oil, because I've forgotten to get some between 4 and 6 times and now I really need it. Doug is the mountain, Stan is the truck. (Doug talks more than Stan.)
+
Veggie Hash: broccoli, collard greens, brussel sprouts, sage, olive oil, black pepper, salt. Foil and grill.
Capsicums: yellow and red capsicums soaked in balsamic vinegar. Foil and grill.
Bread: Vienna loaf wrapped in foil, grilled. Butter later.
Pork loin: deep cuts end to end, fill and rub with steak rub, garlic herb seasoning, basil. Foil and grill.
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Check phone, she has not contacted me. Language is like swimming with words and sharks and spectators. Focus is longitude and a peach smell.
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I've said some awful things in my life, and have apologized to myself accordingly.
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Cornered, Linda did not like the feeling - like eels morphing into birds and the taste of an orange going bitter; Linda crept back into the house and shut the door.
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Saul stared at a finite expanse of blue paper and couldn't think of any other colour to apply than white crayon. He worried this was birthed in him by the illustrated Bible from Sunday School as a child, which used the same blue and white in nearly every frame that included sky. No cloudy days in that Bible.
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Rosa crashed back into bed, it had been a long night. She felt ten times heavier as she fell backwards and landed with a thump into the comforter and pillows. The bedding was cool from central air but she was still hot from dancing and the warm summer night and a boy. She was late the next day to work and decided not to call the boy back.
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I'm really excited about the pork loin I'm about to cook. It's seasoned with all my favourite vices.
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The past is like an I.V. filled with water, like were amphibious or have been cross-bred with Mer people. The present is draining like your soul peeing and never being able to stop, or diving into the water but never reaching it.
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Daniel laid out all the Pez dispensers he'd collected since middle school.
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6.21.2011
6.12.2011
Tonic River Blues, Chapter Two
Madeline had a long history. She looked normal, beautiful. She had those big brown cow eyes, a figure not too boney and heavy and not too corn-fattened. Mostly creamy white she had brown spots gracefully placed around her body. Her hooves were dark and strong, she was young in almost every way. She had been born on Earth, split-parented by a renegade Armourian bull and an oblivious, scared domestic.
Their arrival had many consequences but changed little. The stableships had come to land on American soil almost accidentally. From space it seemed the most cow-looking landmass. They were immediately fascinated by the humans and their abilities. Humans were however petty, handsy people. Their undeveloped frontal cortex was made up for by the utility of their two free hands. They were slow, though. Their first landing was tainted. Armourian cows are shaded differently. Their communal ranks are listed by colour, "red" being the most influential. The hotter their hue the more preconception played part in their telekinetic abilities. In most cases this would lead to a more violent wolf-pack hierarchy however like Bonobo moneys their natures tended to fall towards voracious love every time conflict arose. This is one thing that changed from their experiences on Earth.
4000 arrived on Earth, there are now a mere 1200 living in a secret utopia in the Rocky's. Infighting and crossbreeding were the two primary catalysts for the downsurge in population. The bickering began after the first month when the clan finally agreed to telekinetically reduce their auraish hues to blend in with the local population. Not only did a new visual concept of power enter their minds but the idea of secrecy did too. Their eager disappointment with the cognitive abilities of their distant cousins was making a mess of their intentions. When they spoke telepathically to the domestics the fear and distrust played out with panic and fleeism. They reacted to the Armourians in a similar way as to their human owners. There were a few performance bulls on the rodeo circuit which didn't panic when contacted, but their responsive signatures tended to err on the side of damaged soliel cells. They often only heard back FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT RED BLACK BLACK or similar uncourse.
Their disappointment settled in throughout the clan and they realised that there was little hope of building any larger community than the one they arrived with. The elders of hotter hue (disguised in plaincoats) had decided to try different methods of resolving the issue, feeling the need to provide hope while watching their seniority dwindle into a monochrome sunset.
They decided it wasn't rape because they were exactly imitating the courtship and mating methods of the domestics. A few disagreed, calling on the philosophy of knowledge and awareness as the demonizing or demoralising factor in the forced relationship, but they were overcome by popular opinion; something had to happen.
It was nighttime. They woke a particularly friendly domestic cow. They made sure to quiet their thoughts and not talk to each other lest she overhear and panic. They didn't corner, and tried to reflect the movements of the bulls they had spent time watching. There came the point finally when a senior Armourian bull made the mount and inserted himself, holding the panicky domestic tightly to ensure good contact and a fruitful take. The others watched in cast horror. The Armourians who witnessed the event became changed; they could feel their hidden hues flutter in temperature. The recognition of violence became mental cyanide, their ability to perform logic an emotional snare.
Over the course of a few years this event came to pass many times, and young half-Armourian calves were being born. The matrial cows developed selective telepathy languages to ensure the growth of the proper parts of the new breed's frontal cortexes. There was a mild scent of relief amongst the Armourian population; their continuance was finally an option here on Earth. There was some benefit to their stay. This was a feeling deeply cut with factionism and spurry quarrel. 19 murders were accounted for in all. There were rebels in the group supporting their traditional attitudes of peaceful resolve. There was mild terrorism and overall a sense of loss of control. Their concept of colours and rank and preconception were fading fast. There was a fear that they were degenerating. The more adventurous thinkers in the group suspected the domestics to be long forgotten ancestors who may have come to Earth and degenerated to the point of being enslaved by humans. There was so little truth and known substance to their thoughts that suspecting insanity was made a useful tool in weeding out those of disagreeing opinion.
The event that was responsible for the great separation of the clan involved the humans. Their relationship with humanity had been a mute point until now. They avoided them, the looked normal like the domestics, so the humans left them alone. They blended in, but were able to avoid slaughter. They also generated their own food telekinetically, making the Armourians one of the most successful colonizers in the universe. (Their food looks like enormous purple (purple being the closest colour in our spectrum for description but is also strongly affected by shifts in Kelvin temperature) strawberries.)
Their method of avoiding slaughter was a creative use of their telepathic ability to "direct traffic". Without fail they were communally able to either re-herd the domestics or in cases of emergency telekinetically co-conceptrate on a vulnerable member using the simple colour spectrum of the Earth's sun and taking advantage of the human's limited scope to present stealth invisibility. It was during a situation requiring the stealthing technique that the distracted members of The Umber Resistance failed to concentrate fully on the vulnerable Armourian cow named Tchilda. Their fractured effort caused Tchilda to panic as she could see her body appearing and reappearing in the chrome of the gate. She wouldn't have known but for the reflection. Like the quasi-opposite of a vampire, their vision became entirely human in reflections. She went crazy causing a ruckus. The cowboys tried to force her onto the truck but were terrified by the visually kaleidoscoping cow. The leader finally took the lead and produced a pistol. Before the other Armourians could comprehend the consequences (the precon leaders were not present) the shot rang out and Tchilda fell.
Anger and resentment spread fast through the clan. Those on the fence easily fell with the majority, finding solace in the idea of developing more forced and protective (violent if need be) methods of survival. The Umber Resistance lost members and were rounded and exiled. This happened over the course of 3 1/2 months, time enough for the leaders of the Resistance to make a game plan. Upon their exile they took a smaller stableship and flew from sight, leaving the rest to act as they saw fit. Their goal was to find a place for themselves. Someplace where they could simply be Armourians in peace. They did find it. A few members had known about it for sometime. They had secretly been developing distance tele-vision, and had developed about a 1500 mile range of sight. They headed for the Rocky's.
In the 1970's Rhawn Joseph, Ph.D had led a secret experiment in the Rocky's. It was wiped from most maps and was in a very uneventful area. It was called Heat Bubble No. 4. It was abandoned during the late 80's with uncompromising failure and out of laziness never added back into the maps. Impatience was their real downfall, though. Late in 2003 changes began to take place in that locale.
The small stableship soared over the cliffy white caps of the Rocky's for about 12 hours before finding it's destination. It was a night and day difference from one peak and around an almost-circular turn right and downward. They landed and hoofed out into the soft green grass and humid climate of old Heat Bubble No. 4. Fruit trees and bushes, berries, tropical vegetation, fresh water and a basic ecosystem of tiny animals and bugs lay before them. They hoped they would never be found. Their mistake was of course underestimating their integration of secrecy.
Three months after their arrival they were able to start shedding their disguise and regain their natural hues. The concentration it took to keep a domestic visual presence had taken on such an autonomic character that they actually had to relearn their original chromatic state. By seven months it was safe to say they were all back to normal. All except one. One very special and very beautiful Madeline.
Their arrival had many consequences but changed little. The stableships had come to land on American soil almost accidentally. From space it seemed the most cow-looking landmass. They were immediately fascinated by the humans and their abilities. Humans were however petty, handsy people. Their undeveloped frontal cortex was made up for by the utility of their two free hands. They were slow, though. Their first landing was tainted. Armourian cows are shaded differently. Their communal ranks are listed by colour, "red" being the most influential. The hotter their hue the more preconception played part in their telekinetic abilities. In most cases this would lead to a more violent wolf-pack hierarchy however like Bonobo moneys their natures tended to fall towards voracious love every time conflict arose. This is one thing that changed from their experiences on Earth.
4000 arrived on Earth, there are now a mere 1200 living in a secret utopia in the Rocky's. Infighting and crossbreeding were the two primary catalysts for the downsurge in population. The bickering began after the first month when the clan finally agreed to telekinetically reduce their auraish hues to blend in with the local population. Not only did a new visual concept of power enter their minds but the idea of secrecy did too. Their eager disappointment with the cognitive abilities of their distant cousins was making a mess of their intentions. When they spoke telepathically to the domestics the fear and distrust played out with panic and fleeism. They reacted to the Armourians in a similar way as to their human owners. There were a few performance bulls on the rodeo circuit which didn't panic when contacted, but their responsive signatures tended to err on the side of damaged soliel cells. They often only heard back FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT RED BLACK BLACK or similar uncourse.
Their disappointment settled in throughout the clan and they realised that there was little hope of building any larger community than the one they arrived with. The elders of hotter hue (disguised in plaincoats) had decided to try different methods of resolving the issue, feeling the need to provide hope while watching their seniority dwindle into a monochrome sunset.
They decided it wasn't rape because they were exactly imitating the courtship and mating methods of the domestics. A few disagreed, calling on the philosophy of knowledge and awareness as the demonizing or demoralising factor in the forced relationship, but they were overcome by popular opinion; something had to happen.
It was nighttime. They woke a particularly friendly domestic cow. They made sure to quiet their thoughts and not talk to each other lest she overhear and panic. They didn't corner, and tried to reflect the movements of the bulls they had spent time watching. There came the point finally when a senior Armourian bull made the mount and inserted himself, holding the panicky domestic tightly to ensure good contact and a fruitful take. The others watched in cast horror. The Armourians who witnessed the event became changed; they could feel their hidden hues flutter in temperature. The recognition of violence became mental cyanide, their ability to perform logic an emotional snare.
Over the course of a few years this event came to pass many times, and young half-Armourian calves were being born. The matrial cows developed selective telepathy languages to ensure the growth of the proper parts of the new breed's frontal cortexes. There was a mild scent of relief amongst the Armourian population; their continuance was finally an option here on Earth. There was some benefit to their stay. This was a feeling deeply cut with factionism and spurry quarrel. 19 murders were accounted for in all. There were rebels in the group supporting their traditional attitudes of peaceful resolve. There was mild terrorism and overall a sense of loss of control. Their concept of colours and rank and preconception were fading fast. There was a fear that they were degenerating. The more adventurous thinkers in the group suspected the domestics to be long forgotten ancestors who may have come to Earth and degenerated to the point of being enslaved by humans. There was so little truth and known substance to their thoughts that suspecting insanity was made a useful tool in weeding out those of disagreeing opinion.
The event that was responsible for the great separation of the clan involved the humans. Their relationship with humanity had been a mute point until now. They avoided them, the looked normal like the domestics, so the humans left them alone. They blended in, but were able to avoid slaughter. They also generated their own food telekinetically, making the Armourians one of the most successful colonizers in the universe. (Their food looks like enormous purple (purple being the closest colour in our spectrum for description but is also strongly affected by shifts in Kelvin temperature) strawberries.)
Their method of avoiding slaughter was a creative use of their telepathic ability to "direct traffic". Without fail they were communally able to either re-herd the domestics or in cases of emergency telekinetically co-conceptrate on a vulnerable member using the simple colour spectrum of the Earth's sun and taking advantage of the human's limited scope to present stealth invisibility. It was during a situation requiring the stealthing technique that the distracted members of The Umber Resistance failed to concentrate fully on the vulnerable Armourian cow named Tchilda. Their fractured effort caused Tchilda to panic as she could see her body appearing and reappearing in the chrome of the gate. She wouldn't have known but for the reflection. Like the quasi-opposite of a vampire, their vision became entirely human in reflections. She went crazy causing a ruckus. The cowboys tried to force her onto the truck but were terrified by the visually kaleidoscoping cow. The leader finally took the lead and produced a pistol. Before the other Armourians could comprehend the consequences (the precon leaders were not present) the shot rang out and Tchilda fell.
Anger and resentment spread fast through the clan. Those on the fence easily fell with the majority, finding solace in the idea of developing more forced and protective (violent if need be) methods of survival. The Umber Resistance lost members and were rounded and exiled. This happened over the course of 3 1/2 months, time enough for the leaders of the Resistance to make a game plan. Upon their exile they took a smaller stableship and flew from sight, leaving the rest to act as they saw fit. Their goal was to find a place for themselves. Someplace where they could simply be Armourians in peace. They did find it. A few members had known about it for sometime. They had secretly been developing distance tele-vision, and had developed about a 1500 mile range of sight. They headed for the Rocky's.
In the 1970's Rhawn Joseph, Ph.D had led a secret experiment in the Rocky's. It was wiped from most maps and was in a very uneventful area. It was called Heat Bubble No. 4. It was abandoned during the late 80's with uncompromising failure and out of laziness never added back into the maps. Impatience was their real downfall, though. Late in 2003 changes began to take place in that locale.
The small stableship soared over the cliffy white caps of the Rocky's for about 12 hours before finding it's destination. It was a night and day difference from one peak and around an almost-circular turn right and downward. They landed and hoofed out into the soft green grass and humid climate of old Heat Bubble No. 4. Fruit trees and bushes, berries, tropical vegetation, fresh water and a basic ecosystem of tiny animals and bugs lay before them. They hoped they would never be found. Their mistake was of course underestimating their integration of secrecy.
Three months after their arrival they were able to start shedding their disguise and regain their natural hues. The concentration it took to keep a domestic visual presence had taken on such an autonomic character that they actually had to relearn their original chromatic state. By seven months it was safe to say they were all back to normal. All except one. One very special and very beautiful Madeline.
5.22.2011
Tonic River Blues
Shantuk was old, around 60. Wasn't fat and wasn't thin, just a little bigger in the middle. His hair was white, turned instantly when he was about 40 'cause he was a carrot top. Smoked a lot and did his fair share of drinkin'. Had a yellowed part of his beard crawling up the south side of his face from holding his cigarette in his mouth while it burnt down and he worked on something.
He lived in the Rocky's somewhere, he forgot where; it had been a while and he never planned on a trip back to the wasteland. His cabin had a million-dollar vista that cost him nothing. Mountain peaks stabbed at the sky with every blink and shift. The amount of snow never seemed to alter, time was oblivious and he threw away all the clocks years ago. He was low enough to still get the seasons a bit. He could wear just a T-shirt if he was going to get sweaty working on something.
He had been a teacher a long time ago, taught at an all-girls school in Nevada. It ended horribly and it was only his fifth year teaching. He was accused of being sexually inappropriate with his students. This was, of course, a complete lie and the administrators mostly knew it, however couldn't defend him or take his side. He had bent some rules and broken others, been a little closer or more "equal" with his students on some occasions, but not out of anything more than trying to help them be more friendly as a teaching tool. His theory was that a stoic teacher would decrease information retention by more than half of what a "cool" "friend" teacher could accomplish. He had an extensive library at home of art books, and made it open to any of his students that wanted to do research. Twice a group of three to four girls had stopped in to peruse and borrow half a dozen books that related to points of interest. The third time they came over they didn't call and he was in his wallows, a wretch drunk grasping for reason for reasons long past due. Just a bad time. He tried to "sober up" and let them in to do what he had offered in class, however the drink took hold and he became angry and kicked them out yearning for the solace of his own mind on whiskey. That was all. But the reaction was bad. It turned into "advances" and "suggestion".
Realising quickly that he held no hope of reinstitution to the respected persons of community club, he went to a board meeting to negotiate. He laid down the exact truth of what happened that day. He acknowledged and absolved the board for their situation and whatever decision they made, but then said the following:
"My colleagues, this next proposition is unbecoming of me and yourselves, however in my position I'm left few choices in the matter of self-preseration. What I propose is that I leave with a ridiculous sum of your money. That money buys my disgrace and disappearance. It pays for your ability to reprimand and protect. It actually pays to protect your money and your institution. I am made out to be a villain, and I will leave as a quiet, guilty villain for your benefit, for a certain price. The opposite side of this evil coin is that if I'm forced to leave a guilty villain I will not do so quietly. Their is no legal substance to these claims against me and this had already been discovered by the authorities, however I will, if not compensated for my sacrifice, lay claim to horrible acts which will incriminate your ability to provide a safe environment for your students, and alarm the community not just here but beyond."
They wrote a check and it cleared. He was run out of town like a Frankenstein of misconceptions.
Shantuk liked the cool seasons of the mountains. He was well prepared. He felt he knew exactly when he was going to die, and that his sustenance was to be mostly concerned with just getting there. When he left for the mountains he researched a great deal. He purchased solar panels and advanced battery systems and learned how to fix and replace parts and solenoids and convection units so that he was able to provide himself with not just emergency heat or electricity, but was able to calculate that he would be able to run a computer (for music and writing primarily) for more years than he could hope to have on Earth.
When he left he wanted to really leave. He didn't want a trail. The check he got from the school he cashed. He operated on cash for quite some time. He kept a few credit cards and a bank account and updated his addresses with the Draft Board, but only enough to show up on the Social Security radar. The night that he was fully prepared, after buying a helicopter, learning to fly it, building his cabin to a rough start, trucking supplies, he burned his house. He put a cadaver in it and hoped they didn't run dentals. They didn't, they assumed, and he was dead.
He flew the helicopter to the cabin and in the security of over-thinking torched the helicopter minus a few may-be-valuable parts. There were no roads from his cabin, no trails, no panic-walkable distance. There was running water within 500 feet, and he made sure he would retain access to it in the winter months. He built his cabin such that it didn't call much attention to itself against the forest. He was on government land and never OK'd his stay or build. He had brought a good deal of dried meats, seeds, baking supplies (though field mice got into the yeast so his bread for the rest of his life was flat and dense), canned foods, SPAM, but also hunting and fishing gear. He made a conscious decision not to bring pornography or anything that looked or smelled like women. Not because of any dislike, but he figured it just didn't matter.
Shantuk wasn't depressed, and wasn't really just waiting to die though it looked an awful lot like it. He was energized and excited about this final adventure. He wasn't worried that he'd had any oversights or mistakes because they were part of the fun. He had dedicated the rest of his life to this life, if his life left early because of something he forgot it was no less natural or proud or unwitnessed. He was the tree falling with no one to hear it.
Everything actually seemed in place really. It went exactly as expected. He got up in the mornings, he went to bed at night. The freedom was unimaginable. The relentless will and untapped aggressions he discovered were more than the best adrenaline rush. Not every day, of course, but generally on a day to day basis he was happier and felt more free than ever before. He found himself on the cusp of originality. He felt things unfelt and thought things unthought. Contemplated structures of humanity that were free from the confines of community logic and was able to either confuse away previous preconceptions or discover new continents of reason and belief. What wasn't possible without the confines of known science to prove otherwise?
This was all before Madeline.
Shantuk had his encounters big and small with critters and wolves and bears and rabbits. He even had a few scars and a few pet-names to show for it. He couldn't, however, ever account for the encounter with Madeline.
It was, at best guess, early Spring. He was chopping firewood since the winter at least felt longer and he had burned up most of his supply. It was hard work because most of the wood was hard and cold and he had forgotten to sharpen his axe. (He took great ceremony when sharpening the axe, it took him days, so naturally when he suddenly had the opportunity to cut wood a quick sharpening was out of the question. He had to pay for his forgetfulness with extra effort.) That was when he first spotted her. He stopped chopping for a minute to take a drag from his cigarette and catch his breath. The pounding in his ears ceased a little and the familiar quiet of nature came back. He looked around and tried to guess when a real thaw would settle in. To his left, a double-take. If he wasn't mistaken there was a cow standing half in the tree line. He squinted a little to confirm. Yes, it was a cow. It was looking dead at him, obviously thinking. It was almost menacing, but it certainly wasn't. He stared right back. In his mind he tossed and turned with the possibilities. Was he not alone? Was there a cow owner? Was this a wild cow? A wild cow? Were wild cows aggressive?
He decided to take a walk to the other side of the small clearing to get a better or different look. He didn't move closer, just over. The cow's head turned slowly and smoothly with him, watching his intently.
Still more questions. It was creepy. But not bad creepy, just unknown creepy, alien creepy. After a while he decided to call out. He hadn't spoken in probably seven months, and that was just a yelp when he hit his leg with hammer accidentally. "Come 'ere cow!" He said loudly. He felt instantly stupid.
TO BE CONTINUED.....
He lived in the Rocky's somewhere, he forgot where; it had been a while and he never planned on a trip back to the wasteland. His cabin had a million-dollar vista that cost him nothing. Mountain peaks stabbed at the sky with every blink and shift. The amount of snow never seemed to alter, time was oblivious and he threw away all the clocks years ago. He was low enough to still get the seasons a bit. He could wear just a T-shirt if he was going to get sweaty working on something.
He had been a teacher a long time ago, taught at an all-girls school in Nevada. It ended horribly and it was only his fifth year teaching. He was accused of being sexually inappropriate with his students. This was, of course, a complete lie and the administrators mostly knew it, however couldn't defend him or take his side. He had bent some rules and broken others, been a little closer or more "equal" with his students on some occasions, but not out of anything more than trying to help them be more friendly as a teaching tool. His theory was that a stoic teacher would decrease information retention by more than half of what a "cool" "friend" teacher could accomplish. He had an extensive library at home of art books, and made it open to any of his students that wanted to do research. Twice a group of three to four girls had stopped in to peruse and borrow half a dozen books that related to points of interest. The third time they came over they didn't call and he was in his wallows, a wretch drunk grasping for reason for reasons long past due. Just a bad time. He tried to "sober up" and let them in to do what he had offered in class, however the drink took hold and he became angry and kicked them out yearning for the solace of his own mind on whiskey. That was all. But the reaction was bad. It turned into "advances" and "suggestion".
Realising quickly that he held no hope of reinstitution to the respected persons of community club, he went to a board meeting to negotiate. He laid down the exact truth of what happened that day. He acknowledged and absolved the board for their situation and whatever decision they made, but then said the following:
"My colleagues, this next proposition is unbecoming of me and yourselves, however in my position I'm left few choices in the matter of self-preseration. What I propose is that I leave with a ridiculous sum of your money. That money buys my disgrace and disappearance. It pays for your ability to reprimand and protect. It actually pays to protect your money and your institution. I am made out to be a villain, and I will leave as a quiet, guilty villain for your benefit, for a certain price. The opposite side of this evil coin is that if I'm forced to leave a guilty villain I will not do so quietly. Their is no legal substance to these claims against me and this had already been discovered by the authorities, however I will, if not compensated for my sacrifice, lay claim to horrible acts which will incriminate your ability to provide a safe environment for your students, and alarm the community not just here but beyond."
They wrote a check and it cleared. He was run out of town like a Frankenstein of misconceptions.
Shantuk liked the cool seasons of the mountains. He was well prepared. He felt he knew exactly when he was going to die, and that his sustenance was to be mostly concerned with just getting there. When he left for the mountains he researched a great deal. He purchased solar panels and advanced battery systems and learned how to fix and replace parts and solenoids and convection units so that he was able to provide himself with not just emergency heat or electricity, but was able to calculate that he would be able to run a computer (for music and writing primarily) for more years than he could hope to have on Earth.
When he left he wanted to really leave. He didn't want a trail. The check he got from the school he cashed. He operated on cash for quite some time. He kept a few credit cards and a bank account and updated his addresses with the Draft Board, but only enough to show up on the Social Security radar. The night that he was fully prepared, after buying a helicopter, learning to fly it, building his cabin to a rough start, trucking supplies, he burned his house. He put a cadaver in it and hoped they didn't run dentals. They didn't, they assumed, and he was dead.
He flew the helicopter to the cabin and in the security of over-thinking torched the helicopter minus a few may-be-valuable parts. There were no roads from his cabin, no trails, no panic-walkable distance. There was running water within 500 feet, and he made sure he would retain access to it in the winter months. He built his cabin such that it didn't call much attention to itself against the forest. He was on government land and never OK'd his stay or build. He had brought a good deal of dried meats, seeds, baking supplies (though field mice got into the yeast so his bread for the rest of his life was flat and dense), canned foods, SPAM, but also hunting and fishing gear. He made a conscious decision not to bring pornography or anything that looked or smelled like women. Not because of any dislike, but he figured it just didn't matter.
Shantuk wasn't depressed, and wasn't really just waiting to die though it looked an awful lot like it. He was energized and excited about this final adventure. He wasn't worried that he'd had any oversights or mistakes because they were part of the fun. He had dedicated the rest of his life to this life, if his life left early because of something he forgot it was no less natural or proud or unwitnessed. He was the tree falling with no one to hear it.
Everything actually seemed in place really. It went exactly as expected. He got up in the mornings, he went to bed at night. The freedom was unimaginable. The relentless will and untapped aggressions he discovered were more than the best adrenaline rush. Not every day, of course, but generally on a day to day basis he was happier and felt more free than ever before. He found himself on the cusp of originality. He felt things unfelt and thought things unthought. Contemplated structures of humanity that were free from the confines of community logic and was able to either confuse away previous preconceptions or discover new continents of reason and belief. What wasn't possible without the confines of known science to prove otherwise?
This was all before Madeline.
Shantuk had his encounters big and small with critters and wolves and bears and rabbits. He even had a few scars and a few pet-names to show for it. He couldn't, however, ever account for the encounter with Madeline.
It was, at best guess, early Spring. He was chopping firewood since the winter at least felt longer and he had burned up most of his supply. It was hard work because most of the wood was hard and cold and he had forgotten to sharpen his axe. (He took great ceremony when sharpening the axe, it took him days, so naturally when he suddenly had the opportunity to cut wood a quick sharpening was out of the question. He had to pay for his forgetfulness with extra effort.) That was when he first spotted her. He stopped chopping for a minute to take a drag from his cigarette and catch his breath. The pounding in his ears ceased a little and the familiar quiet of nature came back. He looked around and tried to guess when a real thaw would settle in. To his left, a double-take. If he wasn't mistaken there was a cow standing half in the tree line. He squinted a little to confirm. Yes, it was a cow. It was looking dead at him, obviously thinking. It was almost menacing, but it certainly wasn't. He stared right back. In his mind he tossed and turned with the possibilities. Was he not alone? Was there a cow owner? Was this a wild cow? A wild cow? Were wild cows aggressive?
He decided to take a walk to the other side of the small clearing to get a better or different look. He didn't move closer, just over. The cow's head turned slowly and smoothly with him, watching his intently.
Still more questions. It was creepy. But not bad creepy, just unknown creepy, alien creepy. After a while he decided to call out. He hadn't spoken in probably seven months, and that was just a yelp when he hit his leg with hammer accidentally. "Come 'ere cow!" He said loudly. He felt instantly stupid.
TO BE CONTINUED.....
5.19.2011
Eagle/Hawk Dolphin/Shark
Sandra was pretty plain. Pretty and plain. Her hair was brown and took on a dull grey in the sun. Her body was flattish and unassuming. He face was pretty and got a lot of second looks, but no feature stood out enough to recommend stayed interest.
To her friends she was loyal and they loved her, but to new acquaintances well, they didn't really make an effort to get to the Real Sandra. She drank little and when she did it was a Rusty Nail, which no one liked but reminded her of Christmas. Christmas's growing up were quietish and unrevealing. No one drank Rusty Nails. She always got one thing she wanted and five things they wanted for her. She entertained the idea of being jealous of families that drank on holidays, like Greeks or Irish people, but not really because she didn't know what their holiday foods tasted like and that was the measure of a good holiday for her. Like cranberry sauce existed to no one except in Sandra's household three times a year.
It's easy to sympathize with Sandra but it's useless. She's oblivious to feeling down about not being exciting, so empathy just sits there across the room wondering why it's there, bored out of it's mind. She had one great hobby which was probably the worst hobby to have. It was not fixing things. Well it was fixing things, but they never got fixed. Two Saturdays previous there came a leak in the trapway of her toilet, on the water side of the weir, so it started letting water loose all in the shag toilet-carpet thing that's shaped like a U. She readied herself with many a tool, epoxy, watertight cement, tape, and a file. She flushed the toilet and it stopped, so she started knocking away of the trapway to get a hole big enough to fill with substance, understanding that you can't simply "fill" a crack that small. TAP TAP FWOOOSH. Clean toilet water flooded the floor. It didn't occur to her to turn off the water at the ballcock before flushing. Regardless of this not being the way to handle the situation at all she had to call the landlord and not use the toilet for a day and a half. The landlord informed her she would not be receiving her security deposit if and when she moved.
Two days ago a light burnt out. It was in the kitchen and was on a dimmer. She replaced the bulb but it blinked like crazy. She decided it was the bulb, not understanding how filaments work, and replaced it again. This one didn't turn on. She re-replaced the previous one and it didn't work. Her powers of deduction ended here, but her fearless resolve did not. She decided there must be a problem with the ground at the switch. She got a phillips head and took off the switch cover. She wasn't afraid of wires. She used the screwdriver again on the light switch and loosened it from the box. She stuck her finger in behind and gave a tug to pull it out to get a better view. A good jolt of 110 scoured her body for a split second and she forgot where she was. She bought a lot of candles yesterday and duct taped the entire light switch.
These are two of many situations in which Sandra had tried her hand and been bitten. She never gave up though. Her attitude was that if someone else could figure it out, she could. Not untrue, but not at all accurate either. Her self-esteem remained untainted by failure. She was resilient, but rather boring.
She went on a date two months ago and they ate in near silence the entire night. They talked more during the movie than dinner. She had no idea "how it went" but never heard from the male again. It crossed her mind that he might have been a prude or didn't understand her advances. Her advances consisted of 2 1/2 smiles at dinner, and using the armrest between them in the movie.
It was next Tuesday night when she remembered her dream from the previous Monday, tomorrow. (Oh, she has a cat the same colour as her hair, named John.) It was one of those falling dreams where you wake upon fall. Not impact, just fall. The moment your fingers give out gripping the ledge, the loose gravel that resists your foothold, the catch-line that snaps in two just as you lean out to enjoy the view 1/2 mile up a rock face. She had never had these dreams before and wondered why now. That Wednesday night she had another such dream. They just seemed so real. She would awake perspiring, catching her breath. She almost made an appointment with a doctor but realised how stupid it sounded.
The dreams became more frequent. She read on the internet about myclonic jerks and the idea of insecurities or instability in life playing out in the dream world in this manner, but couldn't really connect the dots. The Freudian idea of wanting to give in to a sexual urge seemed stupid. She never felt urged to do anything except fix things. She masturbated on a regular basis once a month, usually to Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting where he was real dirty English hot, or Scottish or something, but disapproved of his addiction in the film.
After three months of uninterrupted falling dreams she decided on a few things. The main thing that bothered her was that she felt her myclonic jerks were more severe than normal. Eight times now she had found a bruise or two on her body, usually an extremity. What was more, she found herself twice on her stomach (she NEVER slept on her stomach) and once with her head where her feet should be. The most serious concern was sleep walking. Why she would sleep walk at all, much less follow it up with a falling dream to wake herself, was a point of major confusion. So the first thing was she was going to record herself during sleep. If she was sleep walking she had planned on a series of bindings to hold her down, but first things first. She went to the local camera store and explained what she needed a camera to record her while she slept. "All night?" "Yeah all night." The salesman didn't argue but did fantasize about her later, about what he wasn't sure. She ended up with a Sony, regardless of her dislike for the brand. It had a patented nightvision mode which was green and sharp and would get the best picture.
That night she set it up on a cheap $30 tripod she bought from the grocery store. The salesman had taught her how to work it. She plugged it into the wall so it wouldn't lose battery. She had bought one with 128GB of memory to hold the night's adventures. She set it to the highest compression as well to take up as little space as possible. She wanted to record ALL night, but knew that most falling dreams occur soon after the chokehold of sleep, while your brain is still reminiscing about the tortures of life.
Three nights in a row she slept like a baby, but felt anxious all day. Nothing on the camera. No jerks, no walking, nothing. She kept filming, though, believing that her body would break down and give in to being found out. Why did her body not want her to know what the hell she was up to at night made her all the more resolute to find the answer.
Two weeks later, not well rested, feeling constant electricity in her body and sort of a dead adrenaline rush every minute of the day, it finally happened. She jerked awake all of the sudden, having felt the loss the gravity and the panic of certain doom. Her heart settled after a minute or two and she worked through the satisfaction of dread.
Her eyes popped open! It had happened. She ran over to the camera and shut it down. She got out the HDMI cable the salesman had sold her and found that she didn't have a connection for it (she didn't have an HD television like she thought). She found the box for the camera and grabbed the A/V cable it came with. Everything plugged in, she rewound and pressed play. The sight that blipped to life on the screen stole her breath. She was watching herself levitating above her bed about four feet. The covers were off. She never realised that before, that she always woke with no covers on. She was just up there, right above her bed, no panic, just asleep. She moved a little on the screen. She decided that she wasn't levitating, she was floating. She had a definite sense of control over movement, but unconscious. Her recorded self then made a movement which made her real self jump a little. In the picture she wrapped her arms back and folded them behind her head, calmly, like it was comfortable. It was a strange sight, just black underwear and a black bra on her flattish body floating above the bed. She started to spin her body a little, slowly. She moved up and down. She stretched out which looked like it felt really good, specially because while watching she was extremely tensed. This made her aware of her body all of the sudden. In a very new way, too. Her body, the one she was wearing right then, was apparently capable of flight. Or float. What really freaked her out was that she realised she was floating at that very moment.
It all made sense in a way, that once her conscious knew about her midnight renegade flying parties her physical body would in turn reveal the ability. She dropped suddenly to the chair, only an inch but it felt like gravity times ten. She almost lost her breath. In the video five second later she lowered to the bed, and at the last 10 inches or so dropped onto the bed. She watched herself pop suddenly awake and have her feeling of panic.
She couldn't sleep the rest of the night. She watched the video 7 times in awe until she realised there were no more clues and the same thing happened every time. She was almost afraid to go to sleep, like an idea of her sleeping self being different from her awake self was a threat. She did actually doze off a number of times, but not enough to tempt fate or flight or whatever.
The next morning she went to open her bedroom door to go take a shower and the handle fell off in her hand. She stood there puzzled. What to do. The door was shut. She had heard the other side of the handle fall to the floor on the outside. She didn't have windows in this room. No other entrances. No tools. She went to the bedside to get her phone to call the landlord but realised she must have brought it into the living room the night before and left it there. She sat for a while, wondering about being late to work but more importantly how long she could go without food and water. Her body began to float. She held her breath in fear for a long while. She just floated. She thought about concentrating on a certain direction and her body followed suit and went in that direction. That was cool. She concentrated on turning over in mid-air. Her body did so. She was fascinated with this for a good four hours and then finally realised that she still couldn't get out of her room. She concentrated on landing. She lowered herself successfully and readied for the drop onto the bed.
Nothing.
No drop. She thought and thought and tried and tried but couldn't release weightlessness. She couldn't retrieve gravity no matter what she did. Every bit of her body, including her hair, was weightless. Nothing she could do could change her position. She could get against the bed, the floor, a chair, but she could land, couldn't release into or onto these things. This was a bigger problem. It lasted, too.
Four days later she finally fell to the ground. She wasn't ready. She died four seconds earlier. It was a heart attack, panic. Her consciousness of flight had filled her body and refused to let go. Sandra's hair looked brown in the lack of sunlight, her face still pretty. Her flattish body deflated against lack of nourishment, gravity, and finally death. I don't think this was what she wanted, but it was probably still some relief.
To her friends she was loyal and they loved her, but to new acquaintances well, they didn't really make an effort to get to the Real Sandra. She drank little and when she did it was a Rusty Nail, which no one liked but reminded her of Christmas. Christmas's growing up were quietish and unrevealing. No one drank Rusty Nails. She always got one thing she wanted and five things they wanted for her. She entertained the idea of being jealous of families that drank on holidays, like Greeks or Irish people, but not really because she didn't know what their holiday foods tasted like and that was the measure of a good holiday for her. Like cranberry sauce existed to no one except in Sandra's household three times a year.
It's easy to sympathize with Sandra but it's useless. She's oblivious to feeling down about not being exciting, so empathy just sits there across the room wondering why it's there, bored out of it's mind. She had one great hobby which was probably the worst hobby to have. It was not fixing things. Well it was fixing things, but they never got fixed. Two Saturdays previous there came a leak in the trapway of her toilet, on the water side of the weir, so it started letting water loose all in the shag toilet-carpet thing that's shaped like a U. She readied herself with many a tool, epoxy, watertight cement, tape, and a file. She flushed the toilet and it stopped, so she started knocking away of the trapway to get a hole big enough to fill with substance, understanding that you can't simply "fill" a crack that small. TAP TAP FWOOOSH. Clean toilet water flooded the floor. It didn't occur to her to turn off the water at the ballcock before flushing. Regardless of this not being the way to handle the situation at all she had to call the landlord and not use the toilet for a day and a half. The landlord informed her she would not be receiving her security deposit if and when she moved.
Two days ago a light burnt out. It was in the kitchen and was on a dimmer. She replaced the bulb but it blinked like crazy. She decided it was the bulb, not understanding how filaments work, and replaced it again. This one didn't turn on. She re-replaced the previous one and it didn't work. Her powers of deduction ended here, but her fearless resolve did not. She decided there must be a problem with the ground at the switch. She got a phillips head and took off the switch cover. She wasn't afraid of wires. She used the screwdriver again on the light switch and loosened it from the box. She stuck her finger in behind and gave a tug to pull it out to get a better view. A good jolt of 110 scoured her body for a split second and she forgot where she was. She bought a lot of candles yesterday and duct taped the entire light switch.
These are two of many situations in which Sandra had tried her hand and been bitten. She never gave up though. Her attitude was that if someone else could figure it out, she could. Not untrue, but not at all accurate either. Her self-esteem remained untainted by failure. She was resilient, but rather boring.
She went on a date two months ago and they ate in near silence the entire night. They talked more during the movie than dinner. She had no idea "how it went" but never heard from the male again. It crossed her mind that he might have been a prude or didn't understand her advances. Her advances consisted of 2 1/2 smiles at dinner, and using the armrest between them in the movie.
It was next Tuesday night when she remembered her dream from the previous Monday, tomorrow. (Oh, she has a cat the same colour as her hair, named John.) It was one of those falling dreams where you wake upon fall. Not impact, just fall. The moment your fingers give out gripping the ledge, the loose gravel that resists your foothold, the catch-line that snaps in two just as you lean out to enjoy the view 1/2 mile up a rock face. She had never had these dreams before and wondered why now. That Wednesday night she had another such dream. They just seemed so real. She would awake perspiring, catching her breath. She almost made an appointment with a doctor but realised how stupid it sounded.
The dreams became more frequent. She read on the internet about myclonic jerks and the idea of insecurities or instability in life playing out in the dream world in this manner, but couldn't really connect the dots. The Freudian idea of wanting to give in to a sexual urge seemed stupid. She never felt urged to do anything except fix things. She masturbated on a regular basis once a month, usually to Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting where he was real dirty English hot, or Scottish or something, but disapproved of his addiction in the film.
After three months of uninterrupted falling dreams she decided on a few things. The main thing that bothered her was that she felt her myclonic jerks were more severe than normal. Eight times now she had found a bruise or two on her body, usually an extremity. What was more, she found herself twice on her stomach (she NEVER slept on her stomach) and once with her head where her feet should be. The most serious concern was sleep walking. Why she would sleep walk at all, much less follow it up with a falling dream to wake herself, was a point of major confusion. So the first thing was she was going to record herself during sleep. If she was sleep walking she had planned on a series of bindings to hold her down, but first things first. She went to the local camera store and explained what she needed a camera to record her while she slept. "All night?" "Yeah all night." The salesman didn't argue but did fantasize about her later, about what he wasn't sure. She ended up with a Sony, regardless of her dislike for the brand. It had a patented nightvision mode which was green and sharp and would get the best picture.
That night she set it up on a cheap $30 tripod she bought from the grocery store. The salesman had taught her how to work it. She plugged it into the wall so it wouldn't lose battery. She had bought one with 128GB of memory to hold the night's adventures. She set it to the highest compression as well to take up as little space as possible. She wanted to record ALL night, but knew that most falling dreams occur soon after the chokehold of sleep, while your brain is still reminiscing about the tortures of life.
Three nights in a row she slept like a baby, but felt anxious all day. Nothing on the camera. No jerks, no walking, nothing. She kept filming, though, believing that her body would break down and give in to being found out. Why did her body not want her to know what the hell she was up to at night made her all the more resolute to find the answer.
Two weeks later, not well rested, feeling constant electricity in her body and sort of a dead adrenaline rush every minute of the day, it finally happened. She jerked awake all of the sudden, having felt the loss the gravity and the panic of certain doom. Her heart settled after a minute or two and she worked through the satisfaction of dread.
Her eyes popped open! It had happened. She ran over to the camera and shut it down. She got out the HDMI cable the salesman had sold her and found that she didn't have a connection for it (she didn't have an HD television like she thought). She found the box for the camera and grabbed the A/V cable it came with. Everything plugged in, she rewound and pressed play. The sight that blipped to life on the screen stole her breath. She was watching herself levitating above her bed about four feet. The covers were off. She never realised that before, that she always woke with no covers on. She was just up there, right above her bed, no panic, just asleep. She moved a little on the screen. She decided that she wasn't levitating, she was floating. She had a definite sense of control over movement, but unconscious. Her recorded self then made a movement which made her real self jump a little. In the picture she wrapped her arms back and folded them behind her head, calmly, like it was comfortable. It was a strange sight, just black underwear and a black bra on her flattish body floating above the bed. She started to spin her body a little, slowly. She moved up and down. She stretched out which looked like it felt really good, specially because while watching she was extremely tensed. This made her aware of her body all of the sudden. In a very new way, too. Her body, the one she was wearing right then, was apparently capable of flight. Or float. What really freaked her out was that she realised she was floating at that very moment.
It all made sense in a way, that once her conscious knew about her midnight renegade flying parties her physical body would in turn reveal the ability. She dropped suddenly to the chair, only an inch but it felt like gravity times ten. She almost lost her breath. In the video five second later she lowered to the bed, and at the last 10 inches or so dropped onto the bed. She watched herself pop suddenly awake and have her feeling of panic.
She couldn't sleep the rest of the night. She watched the video 7 times in awe until she realised there were no more clues and the same thing happened every time. She was almost afraid to go to sleep, like an idea of her sleeping self being different from her awake self was a threat. She did actually doze off a number of times, but not enough to tempt fate or flight or whatever.
The next morning she went to open her bedroom door to go take a shower and the handle fell off in her hand. She stood there puzzled. What to do. The door was shut. She had heard the other side of the handle fall to the floor on the outside. She didn't have windows in this room. No other entrances. No tools. She went to the bedside to get her phone to call the landlord but realised she must have brought it into the living room the night before and left it there. She sat for a while, wondering about being late to work but more importantly how long she could go without food and water. Her body began to float. She held her breath in fear for a long while. She just floated. She thought about concentrating on a certain direction and her body followed suit and went in that direction. That was cool. She concentrated on turning over in mid-air. Her body did so. She was fascinated with this for a good four hours and then finally realised that she still couldn't get out of her room. She concentrated on landing. She lowered herself successfully and readied for the drop onto the bed.
Nothing.
No drop. She thought and thought and tried and tried but couldn't release weightlessness. She couldn't retrieve gravity no matter what she did. Every bit of her body, including her hair, was weightless. Nothing she could do could change her position. She could get against the bed, the floor, a chair, but she could land, couldn't release into or onto these things. This was a bigger problem. It lasted, too.
Four days later she finally fell to the ground. She wasn't ready. She died four seconds earlier. It was a heart attack, panic. Her consciousness of flight had filled her body and refused to let go. Sandra's hair looked brown in the lack of sunlight, her face still pretty. Her flattish body deflated against lack of nourishment, gravity, and finally death. I don't think this was what she wanted, but it was probably still some relief.
5.17.2011
Sunshine & Ass
It's a parallel universe, except only one thing is different: hearing gets better with age rather than worse. Baby's are partially deaf right out of the womb, so they're a little calmer. Children yell and scream and don't really notice the pitch of their voices. Parents are even more annoyed, being more sensitive to the sound. They tell their children "You won't understand until you're older..." The teenager storms off in disgust, blaring their rock music even louder. There's a whole market around sound dampening devices of variable control, devices for different ages, different occupations, different situations. They're sold in malls like sunglasses. Secrets are harder to keep.
Sam was a normal kid but got into an unusual amount of trouble. Not real bad trouble, not like hurting animals or ending lives or taking sexual pleasure at another's cost. He was actually very nice, but he always ended up thinking that stealing a truck filled with cases of beer was an awesome idea (and did it), or that smuggling the best weed ever from Canada by the shoebox-ful was the best way to go (it wasn't). He did a lot of community service. He was actually known as a real volunteer, kind of a "perfect son" (to a mother) sort of helper. He made the best of paying his dues and did it smiling (genuinely).
He was in good shape, whether from running from the law or regular exercise was never asked. Good enough shape that he didn't feel guilty ordering the Big Buford Combo large size with bacon and a Coke at Checker's, which was at the end of his block. He lived in an apartment building that was full of single moms and bad boyfriends. His life was a sort of perfection-by-contrast. He got along great with, and was often seen with, the "baser" characters of society. He defended them when they weren't around commenting on their intellect or loyalty or sympathizing with a bad family situation. Why get down on dealers, pimps, and runners? He asked. Eradicate them? Let's just all be buds!
It was mid-July, and he had an idea. It was the same idea as before, about smuggling weed from Canada, but this time decided that he would be smarter about it. When packing the those sweet buds he put them in little plastic baggies. 400 little plastic baggies. Then he bought 400 bars of good-sized soap and carefully unwrapped them with flatiron set to low. With a sharpened knife he cut them open, and with a hot spoon scooped out their middles. Each bar got a baggy inside of it, and was re-sealed and shaped and wrapped back up in it's packaging. Then he got blank boxes and stacked them all neatly with packing supplies.
So he got arrested at the border for trying to evade import tax on copious amounts of soap. When they confronted him and he realized they had no idea there were 400 baggies of weed in each one he started laughing. Hard. This pissed them off, and if you know border guards, this is the absolute last thing you would ever want to do. They put him in holding for 12 hours.
After 12 hours, most of which he slept soundly, an officer came in, said little (mumbling) and handed him some paperwork. The officer left, leaving him a pen designed very awkwardly, I think so as not to be used as a weapon. It was sort of bulbous. He read the papers. It was all the usual jargon but at the end it gave him three options:
[_] $2,500.00 Fine
[_] 3 Months Prison
[_] Permanent Exile from Canada (Seriously? No way! Strippers are waaaay better here!)
[_] 6 Months Community Service in the Yukon
[_] Eternal Life
Well it was that last one that seemed like the odd one out. He stared at it for a while, and wondered if the copywriter would get in trouble when he outed him or her. Then he decided that they all probably thought it was an awesome joke. Or was Canada witnessing to him? Were they really trying to force Christianity as a federal punishment? It really was the most plausible idea. He decided not to sign or check any boxes until this was figured out.
7 1/2 hours later the door latch clacked open and in walked the mumbling officer. He grabbed the papers from Sam's hands and looked for a Hancock. Nothing. He stone-eyed Sam for a while then winked. Sam couldn't recall if he had been staring back or hanging his head or what. The officer handed it back to him and said "Choose and sign or I'll leave you in here for 20 more hours. With water though, I'll bring you a giant bucket of warm bathwater." It wasn't the solitude or the time, but the thought of being parched with only warm bathwater moved him to make a sudden decision. "What if I choose Eternal Life?" Sam asked. "What the hell, find out." The officer answered. Sam checked it and signed it and handed it back.
The guard left and suddenly the lights went out. He felt dizzy and went into a dreamy state where he remembered a beautiful, vein woman in a black dress with a doc's coat on over it. She was talking, stuff about a first patient, a human experiment, first of his kind, may as well be an American, soap? really... soap? well at least he's not dangerous...
A car drove by inches from Sam's head and he woke with a start. Actually he woke screaming, he was terrified. He was laying next to a road just a block from his own house. He stumbled home.
He never could decide if it was a dream, really. He remembered back but it was fuzzy. His car was at home like normal, but it smelled like soap. He hadn't told anyone he was going to Canada so had no precious alibi. He had no idea if he went or just got really wasted and mixed something up.
7 years later Sam was "volunteering" at the Salvation Army. Every time he walked in the door he couldn't help but think about his option for Eternal Life which he had in a dream or something years before.
4 years later his friends started to show their age and compliment his genetics, his skin, his youthful nature. Didn't seem like he had their crow's feet, undeflatable guts, cankles, or inability to recover from hangovers.
At age 40 he started to get suspicious of himself. He looked the same in pictures as 10 years earlier. Not a single grey hair. He made younger and younger friends and his old ones got married, had kids, moved on. He was a big social guy, night owl.
Finally at age 50 he started to begin a long slow road of panic. He looked the exact fucking same. Still not a single grey hair. His old friends avoided him in public should their paths cross. He started lying about his age to his new friends a few years before, getting sick of their reactions to his age. One thing he started to hate though, was the sound of his friend's voices. They just kind of screeched. He knew his hearing was getting more and more sensitive, but he found his temper had a short wick. He never blew up at anyone, he was too nice. So he complained of headaches and would shop for more sever sound-dampening devices. The market wasn't fast with it's technology, though. The older people got they eventually had to just bear with it and avoid noise as much as possible. There were special parts of town that were quieter, with noise restrictions, special sound walls to reduce the amount of noise bouncing around. The only problem with all this was that every time he went to these spots he was told to leave. He was made to feel uncomfortable. He looked too young to deserve quiet. He ended up fairly driven out of every bearable atmosphere.
10 years later his friends just started dying. They went, one by one, into their graves. They found eternal quietness 6 feet under. He envied them. He really did have headaches now constantly. He took all kinds of medication for it, even though he didn't like to. He couldn't sleep. He didn't have any friends now. The younger ones "his age" he wanted to murder even when they whispered. His other friends were dead. He felt like a vampire with no special skill set. If he could've turned into a bat he thought he would, then he'd fly so high he couldn't hear anything. Then it occurred to him that he wouldn't ever be able to out-fly the batting of his own wings. What a wretched idea.
Sam died at age 103 in his apartment, which was boarded up with sound-proofing walls. He had ran out of food and starved. He had no way to mail his bills so the water was turned off and he suffocated from thirst. He had no one he knew and died of loneliness. His ears and head hurt so much that every morning he woke with large blood-stains from his ears; he died of blood loss. The electricity was out too and in the colder months died of frostbite. But he couldn't die. Or who knows if he ever did. He was never able to explain it.
Sam was a normal kid but got into an unusual amount of trouble. Not real bad trouble, not like hurting animals or ending lives or taking sexual pleasure at another's cost. He was actually very nice, but he always ended up thinking that stealing a truck filled with cases of beer was an awesome idea (and did it), or that smuggling the best weed ever from Canada by the shoebox-ful was the best way to go (it wasn't). He did a lot of community service. He was actually known as a real volunteer, kind of a "perfect son" (to a mother) sort of helper. He made the best of paying his dues and did it smiling (genuinely).
He was in good shape, whether from running from the law or regular exercise was never asked. Good enough shape that he didn't feel guilty ordering the Big Buford Combo large size with bacon and a Coke at Checker's, which was at the end of his block. He lived in an apartment building that was full of single moms and bad boyfriends. His life was a sort of perfection-by-contrast. He got along great with, and was often seen with, the "baser" characters of society. He defended them when they weren't around commenting on their intellect or loyalty or sympathizing with a bad family situation. Why get down on dealers, pimps, and runners? He asked. Eradicate them? Let's just all be buds!
It was mid-July, and he had an idea. It was the same idea as before, about smuggling weed from Canada, but this time decided that he would be smarter about it. When packing the those sweet buds he put them in little plastic baggies. 400 little plastic baggies. Then he bought 400 bars of good-sized soap and carefully unwrapped them with flatiron set to low. With a sharpened knife he cut them open, and with a hot spoon scooped out their middles. Each bar got a baggy inside of it, and was re-sealed and shaped and wrapped back up in it's packaging. Then he got blank boxes and stacked them all neatly with packing supplies.
So he got arrested at the border for trying to evade import tax on copious amounts of soap. When they confronted him and he realized they had no idea there were 400 baggies of weed in each one he started laughing. Hard. This pissed them off, and if you know border guards, this is the absolute last thing you would ever want to do. They put him in holding for 12 hours.
After 12 hours, most of which he slept soundly, an officer came in, said little (mumbling) and handed him some paperwork. The officer left, leaving him a pen designed very awkwardly, I think so as not to be used as a weapon. It was sort of bulbous. He read the papers. It was all the usual jargon but at the end it gave him three options:
[_] $2,500.00 Fine
[_] 3 Months Prison
[_] Permanent Exile from Canada (Seriously? No way! Strippers are waaaay better here!)
[_] 6 Months Community Service in the Yukon
[_] Eternal Life
Well it was that last one that seemed like the odd one out. He stared at it for a while, and wondered if the copywriter would get in trouble when he outed him or her. Then he decided that they all probably thought it was an awesome joke. Or was Canada witnessing to him? Were they really trying to force Christianity as a federal punishment? It really was the most plausible idea. He decided not to sign or check any boxes until this was figured out.
7 1/2 hours later the door latch clacked open and in walked the mumbling officer. He grabbed the papers from Sam's hands and looked for a Hancock. Nothing. He stone-eyed Sam for a while then winked. Sam couldn't recall if he had been staring back or hanging his head or what. The officer handed it back to him and said "Choose and sign or I'll leave you in here for 20 more hours. With water though, I'll bring you a giant bucket of warm bathwater." It wasn't the solitude or the time, but the thought of being parched with only warm bathwater moved him to make a sudden decision. "What if I choose Eternal Life?" Sam asked. "What the hell, find out." The officer answered. Sam checked it and signed it and handed it back.
The guard left and suddenly the lights went out. He felt dizzy and went into a dreamy state where he remembered a beautiful, vein woman in a black dress with a doc's coat on over it. She was talking, stuff about a first patient, a human experiment, first of his kind, may as well be an American, soap? really... soap? well at least he's not dangerous...
A car drove by inches from Sam's head and he woke with a start. Actually he woke screaming, he was terrified. He was laying next to a road just a block from his own house. He stumbled home.
He never could decide if it was a dream, really. He remembered back but it was fuzzy. His car was at home like normal, but it smelled like soap. He hadn't told anyone he was going to Canada so had no precious alibi. He had no idea if he went or just got really wasted and mixed something up.
7 years later Sam was "volunteering" at the Salvation Army. Every time he walked in the door he couldn't help but think about his option for Eternal Life which he had in a dream or something years before.
4 years later his friends started to show their age and compliment his genetics, his skin, his youthful nature. Didn't seem like he had their crow's feet, undeflatable guts, cankles, or inability to recover from hangovers.
At age 40 he started to get suspicious of himself. He looked the same in pictures as 10 years earlier. Not a single grey hair. He made younger and younger friends and his old ones got married, had kids, moved on. He was a big social guy, night owl.
Finally at age 50 he started to begin a long slow road of panic. He looked the exact fucking same. Still not a single grey hair. His old friends avoided him in public should their paths cross. He started lying about his age to his new friends a few years before, getting sick of their reactions to his age. One thing he started to hate though, was the sound of his friend's voices. They just kind of screeched. He knew his hearing was getting more and more sensitive, but he found his temper had a short wick. He never blew up at anyone, he was too nice. So he complained of headaches and would shop for more sever sound-dampening devices. The market wasn't fast with it's technology, though. The older people got they eventually had to just bear with it and avoid noise as much as possible. There were special parts of town that were quieter, with noise restrictions, special sound walls to reduce the amount of noise bouncing around. The only problem with all this was that every time he went to these spots he was told to leave. He was made to feel uncomfortable. He looked too young to deserve quiet. He ended up fairly driven out of every bearable atmosphere.
10 years later his friends just started dying. They went, one by one, into their graves. They found eternal quietness 6 feet under. He envied them. He really did have headaches now constantly. He took all kinds of medication for it, even though he didn't like to. He couldn't sleep. He didn't have any friends now. The younger ones "his age" he wanted to murder even when they whispered. His other friends were dead. He felt like a vampire with no special skill set. If he could've turned into a bat he thought he would, then he'd fly so high he couldn't hear anything. Then it occurred to him that he wouldn't ever be able to out-fly the batting of his own wings. What a wretched idea.
Sam died at age 103 in his apartment, which was boarded up with sound-proofing walls. He had ran out of food and starved. He had no way to mail his bills so the water was turned off and he suffocated from thirst. He had no one he knew and died of loneliness. His ears and head hurt so much that every morning he woke with large blood-stains from his ears; he died of blood loss. The electricity was out too and in the colder months died of frostbite. But he couldn't die. Or who knows if he ever did. He was never able to explain it.
5.07.2011
PRECISION SCREWDRIVER SET/arid states
I've started work on a manifesto. The next few nights I'll want to re-read the Futurist manifesto. I remember only the feeling of forward movement and a sort of trashing of the past. Ignoring the mountainous egos which presently seek the glory, calling them out on having no vision of what the future is, and is certainly not. Just a good amount of effort in the recent past, but past all the same. In an effort to get in the mood I trimmed my hair down short, my beard a notch longer, cut my fingernails, washed my best jeans. I don't know if the concentration of a manifesto as a "we will" should focus on the future, or how in the future we will deal with the past. It's most definitely reactionary either way. Today my boss-lady said I was really smart. Score.
I also have great love for the De Stijl Manifesto I:
In an exact manner. In an exact manner. That's right.
Of course my manifesto, if ever finished, would suppose a smaller attitude. Instead of a great wink, a muffled giggle. And I'm sure there will be something "sexist" in there, something about handcuffs and unachieved pride.
Waking with a start realised I hadn't spilled the wine in my hand. Good thing. Didn't know I was that tired of it. Credits were rolling, couldn't recall what I was watching. Stumbled out for a smoke, no cars, must be late. Remembered writing a blogpost about something or other, trying to stick to my 15-minutes-or-less rule. Must have been a hard five minute nap or something, caught me off guard. Guard, what guard. I've got a fortress. Not drunk, must be exhausted. Turned the heat off, checked the alarm. Didn't remember the order of the days so set it as if I had to work for posterity. In the morning I look at the alarm. 7:40am and a jingle. I have never been able to read the word "snooze" in the morning. It gets all mixed up and other letters are added in, like Steve Jobs is messing with me. Complete habitual singular instances of dyslexia. I can stare, rub my eyes, cough, look again, focus, wait a minute... doesn't matter, I simply can't read it until after I get out of bed. Then there it is: SNOOZE. The first time it freaked me out. This morning I think it looked like this STIHLL
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A manifesto is a communication made to the whole world, whose only pretension is to the discovery of an instant cure for political, astronomical, artistic, parliamentary, agronomical and literary syphilis. It may be pleasant, and good-natured, it's always right, it's strong, vigorous and logical. Apropos of logic, I consider myself very likeable.--Tristan Tzara, Feeble Love and Bitter Love, section II from 12.12.1920
I also have great love for the De Stijl Manifesto I:
In an exact manner. In an exact manner. That's right.
Of course my manifesto, if ever finished, would suppose a smaller attitude. Instead of a great wink, a muffled giggle. And I'm sure there will be something "sexist" in there, something about handcuffs and unachieved pride.
Waking with a start realised I hadn't spilled the wine in my hand. Good thing. Didn't know I was that tired of it. Credits were rolling, couldn't recall what I was watching. Stumbled out for a smoke, no cars, must be late. Remembered writing a blogpost about something or other, trying to stick to my 15-minutes-or-less rule. Must have been a hard five minute nap or something, caught me off guard. Guard, what guard. I've got a fortress. Not drunk, must be exhausted. Turned the heat off, checked the alarm. Didn't remember the order of the days so set it as if I had to work for posterity. In the morning I look at the alarm. 7:40am and a jingle. I have never been able to read the word "snooze" in the morning. It gets all mixed up and other letters are added in, like Steve Jobs is messing with me. Complete habitual singular instances of dyslexia. I can stare, rub my eyes, cough, look again, focus, wait a minute... doesn't matter, I simply can't read it until after I get out of bed. Then there it is: SNOOZE. The first time it freaked me out. This morning I think it looked like this STIHLL
.
.
.
